have uttered a cry because he turned and looked directly at me. At that same moment a beam of light found him and illuminated a face twisted with madness. I do not know if he saw me, or if the light cut off his vision, but I saw his bitter, contorted grin. As long as I live I will never forget those wild eyes, like the eyes of a trapped, savage animal.
At the same time someone shouted from the bridge. “There!” Then all the lights found the crouched figure. He jumped and I saw him as clear as if it were daylight.
“Ayeeeeee!” He screamed a blood curdling cry that echoed down the river. The men on the bridge didn’t know what to do. They stood transfixed, looking down at the mad man waving the pistol in the air. “Ayeeeeeeee!” He cried again. It was a cry of rage and pain, and it made my soul sick. The cry of a tormented man had come to the peaceful green mystery of my river, and the great presence of the river watched from the shadows and deep recesses, as I watched from where I crouched at the bank.
“Japanese sol’jer, Japanese sol’jer!” he cried, “I am wounded. Come help me—” he called to the men on the bridge. The rising mist of the river swirled in the beams of spotlights. It was like a horrible nightmare.
Suddenly he leaped up and ran splashing through the water towards me. The lights followed him. He grew bigger, I heard his panting, the water his feet kicked up splashed on my face, and I thought he would run over me. Then as quickly as he had sprinted in my direction he turned and disappeared again into the dark clumps of reeds in the river. The lights moved in all directions, but they couldn’t find him. Some of the lights swept over me and I trembled with fear that I would be found out, or worse, that I would be mistaken for Lupito and shot.
“The crazy bastard got away!” someone shouted on the bridge.
“Ayeeeeee!” the scream sounded again. It was a cry that I did not understand, and I am sure the men on the bridge did not either. The man they hunted had slipped away from human understanding; he had become a wild animal, and they were afraid.
“Damn!” I heard them cursing themselves. Then a car with a siren and flashing red light came on the bridge. It was Vigil, the state policeman who patrolled our town.
“Chávez is dead!” I heard him shout. “He never had a chance. His brains blown out—” There was silence.
“We have to kill him!” Jasón’s father shouted. His voice was full of anger, rage and desperation.
“I have to deputize you—” Vigil started to say.
“The hell with deputizing!” Chávez shouted. “He killed my brother! ¡Está loco!” The men agreed with their silence.
“Have you spotted him?” Vigil asked.
“Just now we saw him, but we lost him—”
“He’s down there,” someone added.
“He is an animal! He has to be shot!” Chávez cried out.
“¡Sí!” the men agreed.
“Now wait a moment—” It was my father who spoke. I do not know what he said because of the shouting. In the meantime I searched the dark of the river for Lupito. I finally saw him. He was about forty feet away, crouched in the reeds as before. The muddy waters of the river lapped and gurgled savagely around him. Before the night had been only cool, now it turned cold and I shivered. I was torn between a fear that made my body tremble, and a desire to help the poor man. But I could not move, I could only watch like a chained spectator.
“Márez is right!” I heard a booming voice on the bridge. In the lights I could make out the figure of Narciso. There was only one man that big and with that voice in town. I knew that Narciso was one of the old people from Las Pasturas, and that he was a good friend to my father. I knew they often drank together on Saturdays, and once or twice he had been to our house.
“¡Por Dios, hombres!” he shouted. “Let us act like men! That is not an animal down there, that is a man. Lupito. You all know Lupito. You know that the war made him sick—” But the men would not listen to Narciso. I guess it was because he was the town drunk, and they said he never did anything useful.