He drew his sword. The steel blade flashed in the sunlight.
The soldiers opened out and advanced towards the farm at a trot. They held their heads down, and their rifles hung loosely in their hands. As they shambled over the uneven ground they looked like bloodhounds picking up a scent.
The Lieutenant moved forward at a slower pace. He walked gingerly, as if he were treading on egg-shells. Inside his once beautiful uniform, his fat body cringed at the thought of a bullet smashing into him. He took the precaution of keeping the coconut palms between him and the farm. When he could no longer shelter himself behind the slender trunks he broke into a run. The heat waves coiled round him like a rope as he lumbered over the rough ground.
The four soldiers had already reached the farm, and they stood in an uneven circle, waiting for the Lieutenant to come up. They were more animated now. They knew that very soon they would be back in the barracks out of the heat of the afternoon sun.
The farm was a squat dwelling, with a palm-thatched roof and whitewashed walls. As the Lieutenant approached cautiously, the door of the place opened and a tall, poorly dressed Cuban stepped into the sunshine.
The soldiers jerked up their rifles, threatening him with the glittering bayonets. The Cuban stood very still, his hands folded under his armpits, and his face wooden.
The Lieutenant said, “Lopez?”
The Cuban’s eyes flickered round at the soldiers, seeing only the ring of steel before him. He looked at the Lieutenant. “Yes,” he said, a dry rustle in his voice.
The Lieutenant swung his sword. “You may have heard of me,” he said, a wolfish smile pulling at his mouth. “Ricardo de Crespedes.”
Lopez shuffled his feet in the sand. His eyes flinched, but his face remained wooden. “You do me much honour, senor,” he said.