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Authors: Harold Robbins
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head. "More than that. Thousands upon thousands. If they all came here there would not be enough room for us all to lie down to sleep."
"Oh." I tried to imagine what it would be like if what my father said was true. I couldn't picture it. I had another thought. "Are you going with the general because you are his prisoner?"
"No," my father said, "the general and I are friends. We believe that the people must be helped."
"Then you will become a bandolero like him?" I asked.
"The general is not a bandolero."
"But his men are," I pointed out.
"No longer," my father explained. "He has taken all the bandoleros into his army. These men are guerrilleros."
"The army has red and blue uniforms," I said. "They have none. They look like bandoleros to me."
"Someday they will have uniforms," the general interrupted.
"Oh." I looked at him. His face was impassive. "That will make it different. Then they will look like an army."
I heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats, and looked out toward the road. It was my grandfather, Don Rafael. "It's Grandfather!" I cried, jumping down off my father's lap. I ran to the railing and waved. "Hola, Papa Grande! Hola, Abuelo!"
Usually when I stood at the railing and yelled like that my grandfather would wave and send back an answering shout. This time he was silent. As he dismounted I could see that he was angry from the way his lips were pressed together and from the whiteness of his face.
My father got to his feet as the old man came up the steps. "Bienvenido, Don Rafael."
Grandfather didn't answer but glared at my father with cold stony eyes. "I have come for my grandson."
I started to run toward him but something in the tone of his voice stopped me. I looked at him, then at my father.
My father's face was even grayer as he reached out a hand and drew me back toward him. I could feel his fingers trembling as they pressed into my shoulder. "I do not feel it will be safe for my son to stay in this valley after I am gone."
"You have forfeited your right to him," Papa Grande answered in the same cold voice. "By joining with the murderers of his mother, you can no longer be thought of as his father. When one lies down with scum, one becomes scum!"
I could feel the sudden pressure of my father's fingers as they dug into my shoulder. But the evenness of his voice didn't change. "What happened was an accident," he said. "The men who committed the crime have already paid for it."
Papa Grande's voice rose almost to a shout. "Does that bring my daughter, your wife, back? Or your daughter? They are dead, yet the next day you are willing to ride away with their despoilers. You would give your son over into their care?"
My father did not answer.
"You will not be satisfied until you have seen him become as they are! Murderers! Terrorists! Rapists!"
Papa Grande started for me but my father pushed me behind him. "He is my son," he said in that same quiet voice. "I will not let him remain. He will be used as a hostage against me should the army come. It is safer for him in the mountains."
"Sangre negra!" my grandfather spit out at him. "Black blood! The son of the son of slaves! Lowest of the low! I thought you a man or I would not have permitted your marriage to my daughter. Now I see that I was wrong. There is no depth to which you would not sink to abase yourself before your conquerors, just as your parents did to their masters!"
Suddenly the general was out of his chair. "Enough, old man!" he shouted.
Papa Grande looked at him as if he were dirt. "Bandolero!" The way my grandfather said it made it sound like the most obscene word I had ever heard.
The general's face went red with anger. "Basta, viejo! Is it not enough that we spare you and your property? Or are you so old that you seek death to ease the ache in your bones?"
Papa Grande ignored him. He turned to my father as if the general were not even there. "If you have any love for your son give him to me before it is too
"Oh." I tried to imagine what it would be like if what my father said was true. I couldn't picture it. I had another thought. "Are you going with the general because you are his prisoner?"
"No," my father said, "the general and I are friends. We believe that the people must be helped."
"Then you will become a bandolero like him?" I asked.
"The general is not a bandolero."
"But his men are," I pointed out.
"No longer," my father explained. "He has taken all the bandoleros into his army. These men are guerrilleros."
"The army has red and blue uniforms," I said. "They have none. They look like bandoleros to me."
"Someday they will have uniforms," the general interrupted.
"Oh." I looked at him. His face was impassive. "That will make it different. Then they will look like an army."
I heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats, and looked out toward the road. It was my grandfather, Don Rafael. "It's Grandfather!" I cried, jumping down off my father's lap. I ran to the railing and waved. "Hola, Papa Grande! Hola, Abuelo!"
Usually when I stood at the railing and yelled like that my grandfather would wave and send back an answering shout. This time he was silent. As he dismounted I could see that he was angry from the way his lips were pressed together and from the whiteness of his face.
My father got to his feet as the old man came up the steps. "Bienvenido, Don Rafael."
Grandfather didn't answer but glared at my father with cold stony eyes. "I have come for my grandson."
I started to run toward him but something in the tone of his voice stopped me. I looked at him, then at my father.
My father's face was even grayer as he reached out a hand and drew me back toward him. I could feel his fingers trembling as they pressed into my shoulder. "I do not feel it will be safe for my son to stay in this valley after I am gone."
"You have forfeited your right to him," Papa Grande answered in the same cold voice. "By joining with the murderers of his mother, you can no longer be thought of as his father. When one lies down with scum, one becomes scum!"
I could feel the sudden pressure of my father's fingers as they dug into my shoulder. But the evenness of his voice didn't change. "What happened was an accident," he said. "The men who committed the crime have already paid for it."
Papa Grande's voice rose almost to a shout. "Does that bring my daughter, your wife, back? Or your daughter? They are dead, yet the next day you are willing to ride away with their despoilers. You would give your son over into their care?"
My father did not answer.
"You will not be satisfied until you have seen him become as they are! Murderers! Terrorists! Rapists!"
Papa Grande started for me but my father pushed me behind him. "He is my son," he said in that same quiet voice. "I will not let him remain. He will be used as a hostage against me should the army come. It is safer for him in the mountains."
"Sangre negra!" my grandfather spit out at him. "Black blood! The son of the son of slaves! Lowest of the low! I thought you a man or I would not have permitted your marriage to my daughter. Now I see that I was wrong. There is no depth to which you would not sink to abase yourself before your conquerors, just as your parents did to their masters!"
Suddenly the general was out of his chair. "Enough, old man!" he shouted.
Papa Grande looked at him as if he were dirt. "Bandolero!" The way my grandfather said it made it sound like the most obscene word I had ever heard.
The general's face went red with anger. "Basta, viejo! Is it not enough that we spare you and your property? Or are you so old that you seek death to ease the ache in your bones?"
Papa Grande ignored him. He turned to my father as if the general were not even there. "If you have any love for your son give him to me before it is too
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