The cantinero patted Lituma on the shoulder. “Congratulations, Corporal!” Dionisio was the only one who seemed to be in good spirits in the funereal atmosphere of the cantina. It was crowded, but the laborers had the faces of condemned men. They were in small groups, holding their glasses, smoking endlessly, buzzing like wasps. Uncertainty distorted their features, and Lituma could see in their eyes the animal fear that gnawed inside them. After the devastation of the avalanche, nothing could save them from losing their jobs now. Son of a bitch, the serruchos had good reason for being so gloomy. “I was given a new lease on life up there,” the corporal acknowledged. “But I don’t recommend the experience to anyone. I can still hear the awful noise those motherfucking boulders made coming down all around me.” “What about it, boys, a toast to the corporal,” Dionisio proposed, raising his glass. “Our thanks to the apus of Naccos for saving a lawman’s life!” “On top of everything else, that faggot is making fun of me,”
