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Chapter 11

           Hetookastepacrossthetrailandputhishandonthegirl’sarm.Underhisfingershefeltthesmoothnessofherarminthewornkhaki.Shelookedathimandsmiled.

           "Hello,Maria,"hesaid.

           "Hello,Inglés,"sheansweredandhesawhertawnybrownfaceandtheyellow-grayeyesandthefulllipssmilingandthecroppedsun-burnedhairandsheliftedherfaceathimandsmiledinhiseyes.Itwastrueallright.

           NowtheywereinsightofElSordo’scampinthelastofthepines,wheretherewasaroundedgulch-headshapedlikeanupturnedbasin.Alltheselimestoneupperbasinsmustbefullofcaves,hethought.Therearetwocavesthereahead.Thescrubpinesgrowingintherockhidethemwell.ThisisasgoodorabetterplacethanPablo’s.

           "Howwasthisshootingofthyfamily?"PilarwassayingtoJoaquín.

           "Nothing,woman,"Joaquínsaid."TheywereoftheleftasmanyothersinValladolid.Whenthefascistspurifiedthetowntheyshotfirstthefather.HehadvotedSocialist.Thentheyshotthemother.Shehadvotedthesame.Itwasthefirsttimeshehadevervoted.Afterthattheyshotthehusbandofoneofthesisters.Hewasamemberofthesyndicateoftramwaydrivers.Clearlyhecouldnotdriveatramwithoutbelongingtothesyndicate.Buthewaswithoutpolitics.Iknewhimwell.Hewasevenalittlebitshameless.Idonotthinkhewasevenagoodcomrade.Thenthehusbandoftheothergirl,theothersister,whowasalsointhetrams,hadgonetothehillsasIhad.Theythoughtsheknewwherehewas.Butshedidnot.Sotheyshotherbecauseshewouldnottellthemwherehewas."

           "Whatbarbarians,"saidPilar."WhereisElSordo?Idonotseehim."

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