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“I have my orders.”
He raised his dagger, which I now saw was bloodied, and
stooped to slice the Indian’s throat.
“No!” I lunged and pushed him. “No! You are not killing him.
Why should you?”
“I have orders.”
“Orders that are a sin, Pánfilo! I cannot let you kill him. He’s one
of ours. And even if he were not, let him die in peace.”
Pánfilo repositioned himself to give it another try, resembling
more than ever the monkey I thought him to be. I knelt and hugged
the Indian, covering him with my body.
“You will have to kill me first, Pánfilo. You’ll burn in hell, I
promise you.”
“I’ll tell the Capitán!” he said.
“I’ll tell God.”
Pánfilo grunted. He strode away. I looked into the face of the
Indian. He was very young. Nearly all of them were. Come to think
of it, I had not seen many grown men. Where were their fathers?
After the successful battle against Guacaipuro, we descended the
mountainside for a couple of days and the beauty of the landscape
lifted my spirit, for it reminded me of the love that had created it:
soft green undulations as far as the eye could see, and before us the
confluence of the rivers San Pedro and Guaire.
To the west was the valley of Juan Jorge, named by Francisco
Fajardo, the half-blood conquistador who had founded the first
settlements—the valley of San Francisco and the village of El
Collado on the seaside of the mountain range. To the first we were
bound, although nothing of it—or of the other—remained, for
Guacaipuro, Terepaima and Guaicamacuto had seen to that.
A village appeared before us, with extensive sown fields, and our
men sang praises to God, knelt and gave thanks, crossing
themselves and kissing their crucifixes.
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