Small tents were strewn about the edge of a sparse tree-line forest of stunted pines and scraggly eucalyptus. About fifty men sat in camouflage jungle uniforms, sporting red stars on their helmets and caps. They rubbed their hands together briskly, not clothed for the high-altitude chill.
They busied themselves cleaning weapons, gambling and drinking. A skinned guinea pig roasted on a spit above a small cookfire, tended by a lanky man who looked as if he had no intention of eating the rodent meat, no matter how hungry he got. Others cooked armadillos, iguanas, and even canned Spam as a last resort.
As Yaquita and Smith approached the rebel camp with their weary burros, the men grabbed their weapons and came running. “We’re under attack!”
“It’s the cavalry! Mounted soldiers!” another sen
