The grotto was a fairly nice looking place, the outside covered with vines, and inside was lit with reflections from camp fires.

Juan lumbered out of the grotto, as though in a trance, his mind trying to process what he had just seen. Funny thing about horrific sights. You want to keep looking back at them and burn the image into your mind. You don't want to, that is, but the mind sort of automatically convinces itself that they had not imagined what they had seen.

And this hit poor Juan where it hurt.

He tried to get his head around it. He reminded himself that this was all his fault. He shouldn't have listened to Dr. Villega. Maybe...

He sat in silence, around the corner from where he had seen the destruction.

John stood on the opposite side of the grotto entrance, watching him with pity.

How could it have happened? He... he felt like a piece of him like had been torn out of him. Completely lost and alone.

"All of them", he said, his voice choked. "Six. Never counted them before." He began to take deep, shuddering breaths, as though to keep from crying. Then, with an angry, bloodshot glare up at the heavens, Juan furiously tore the cross from his neck, his face morphing into an ugly gurn. Tight-lipped, his eyes shifted. He thought that God had promised. He had prayed for the safety of his children. Clearly, the good Lord had betrayed him. But why?

John stared with deep, soulful, remorseful eyes at Juan, who was staring forlornly at nothing.

Slowly, Juan got up. Tossing away the crucifix, he pulled himself together, and grabbed a gun that was lying in one of the tents. If his children were dead, then what was the use of living this way any more?

"No, Juan, no", said John. "No, for chrissake, they're waitin' for you out there."

Looking John in the eyes for a moment, Juan marched outside. Even if he died, he was going to kill those sons of bitches, one way or another.

John knew it was too dangerous to try to stop him, because whatever he tried, it could get them both killed. Slowly, he walked towards the grotto. Outside came the sound of Juan's angry gunfire, and the soldiers returning fire at him.

The sight inside the grotto was not one for the faint-hearted. Piles of corpses of revolutionaries lay sprawled all over the inside, in a tangled web of flesh. There they were. Miguel, Antonio, Jose, Jesus ... Manolo, Juanito, Ortega... and the grisly sight that made Juan weep. All six of his children, dead. Napoleon... Benito... Pepe... Juan's father, too, lay dead among them.

John was disturbed by the sight himself. Especially Chulo. John couldn't look away from the dead, dark eyes of Chulo.

Outside, there was indistinct chatter in Spanish. A voice in English shouted, "Hold it! Throw that bastard onto the truck! Let's see he gets to the camp alive!"

Brilliant. All the revolutionaries dead, and Juan captured. Well, he guessed he had to go save him then.


It was raining when John arrived at the execution grounds. Prisoners were lining up one by one to be shot, while officials sheltered themselves in automobiles and watched from a safe distance as the bodies piled up in front of the stone wall. On the wall were marked white stripes, as though the prisoners were being tallied. Soldiers marched in, in their waterproof capes, chanting Uno, dos, uno, dos, uno, dos...

Hiding himself within the crowd, John's eyes darted about urgently, looking for anything Juan-shaped among the dozens of unfortunate souls about to meet death by rifle. He searched their faces, but none of them looked anything like him.

So either Juan hadn't been executed yet, or he was dead and John had been too late.

Diverting his attention to the cars, John saw Col. Reza smirking at the carnage, while manually operating the window wipers. And next to him, in the passenger seat was...

Oh, you have to be fucking kidding me.

It was Dr. Villega. He had given away the Revolutionaries' hiding place to Reza. He had been responsible for the murder of Juan's children. But he had been reluctant to the betrayal. At a closer look, Villega's face was pale, and covered in cuts and bruises. He had been tortured into telling them about the grotto.

Just like Sean.


John remembered the night when he was having a drink at Mitchell's Pub, when the police came in after him. With them was a soldier, and dragging along with him a bruised and bloodied Sean.

Is this the man?, the soldier seemed to say.

Deeply ashamed, Sean had nodded, heavily regretting betraying his friend.

It was a good thing, or perhaps not a good thing at all, that John had come prepared.

It was over in a moment. Blood spurted out of the bodies of the policemen, and oozed out of the hole in Sean Nolan's head. It had hurt John somewhat for him to kill his best friend, but under these circumstances, he had no choice. The man betrayed him, sold him out to the police. It had been the only way he could ever escape.

This had been the full price that John Mallory had to pay for the revolution. This is what it would lead to- friends killing friends. All because they had dared to fight the system. It felt in the end like the joke was on them.


On the execution grounds, John watched with horror as his friends were callously murdered en masse. There was a possibility to him that Villega had been feeling the same shock and sadness as well.

It was too late to do anything now. He was furious at Villega, but he had been forced to betray everyone against his will, and glowered at Reza as he drove by in the automobile. All there was for him was to save Juan, if indeed he had been spared until later.


Col. Reza believed that simply sucking on an egg was essential nutrition, especially for a soldier. He strode out that fine morning, sucking his egg, onto the execution grounds. He had decided to save Juan as the best execution for last. He had been a late arrival anyway. He turned away. He didn't care who Juan was, or what his record was. He was with the revolution, and had fired upon his soldiers.

Juan blinked and squinted at the glaring sun as he stood by one of the white tallies. If this meant that he was going back to his sons again, then he was ready to await his death.

He lowered his hat so he would not see the soldiers' rifles.

And then...

He heard whistling.

Where was that whistling coming from?

The soldiers aimed.

Then came that familiar cry.

"Duck, you sucker!"

This time, Juan didn't hesitate to duck for cover. Once more, he was a sucker. But he was sure as hell glad to hear John again.

The soldiers exploded. Dust and dirt kicked up around Juan. There before him lay the dead executioners.

The wall blew open. Reza came running out to see John speeding in on his motorcycle. Juan leapt up onto the back of it and the two rode off.

Reza's eyes burned with fury as he watched them.


The streets were filled with executions. Soldiers murdered hundreds of civilians in drained and dry canals. To the soldiers, it was a cheap and efficient way of keeping Huerta in rule. To the civilians watching, it was mass genocide.

A train came into town, filling the air with heavy black smoke. Some of the executioners stood on the walls of the makeshift trenches, right next to the train as it arrived, though it was several feet away from them.

The rich sat comfortably inside, the poor clambered into separate, cramped carriages, and soldiers mounted the top of it.

A soldier who had been with the revolution was executed outside one of the buildings.

Juan and John hid in a cargo carriage of the train. Juan peeked out from the shuttered windows at the carnage, the executions, the madness. It was hard to watch, especially after...

He turned away, and plodded to the back of the carriage. He gathered some bundles of cloth for himself, and made a seat for himself beneath a birdcage. John watched him sympathetically, but averted his gaze when Juan looked him straight in the eye, realizing it disrespectful. Looking at him would only make Juan more upset.

Slowly, Juan sat down and took his hat off. Though he made sure John wasn't looking, he turned away. John turned his face towards Juan again.

Tears rolled down Juan's cheeks. Hurriedly, he tried to wipe them away once he realized that John saw, but he couldn't help but sit and sigh heavily. It had seemed better for him to have died, than for him to have lived with the misery of seeing his father and children dead. He had never felt so alone in his life before.

Leaning back, and shaking his head, as though trying to shake away the pain, Juan shut his eyes.

Suddenly, the bird in the cage above Juan defecated on his head. Wiping the mess away, he glanced up at the offender.

"But for the rich, you sing", he said.

John began to laugh. His teeth were huge, and white, and pearly, and seemed to dominate his entire face, if possible.

"Oh, Jesus, Juan!", he exclaimed. "Anyway, I'd say if they ever get this thing underway, we might be able to make the border by, what? Sometime tonight, you think? America. It's America, Juan. Oh Jesus, if it's as great as they say it is, filled with bags stuffed full of dreams. Juan!"

Juan still sat there, staring at nothing. He didn't want gold now. He wanted his family back.

"Oh, Jesus..." muttered John under his breath. There was nothing he was able to do to cheer up the bandit. It was best to leave him alone, until he was finished dwelling on the awful tragedy. However, John wasn't about to give up. Juan couldn't just sit around in a deep depression forever. Besides, this had been Juan's dream. What he'd always wanted. John had wanted to make it up to Juan, for tricking him into becoming a revolutionary hero.

"Jesus, Juan... What was it? Juan and John? Johnny and Johnny?" said John. Juan didn't stir.

"I make the holes and you get in. Fifty-fifty, right?", persisted John.

Just then, the train began to move, and then stopped. John watched the commotion from the window. An automobile pulled up in front of it. Out stepped the Governor, Don Jaime. John watched with a predatory fury as he stepped onto the train.

"What's happening?" said Juan.

"Eh, they're just moving the train around", said John. "Seems we'll be leavin' shortly. Uniforms just finished loadin' on the last o' their shit."