Face to the Sun by Geoffrey Household

Juana than I liked and invent unconvincing lies about my movements and means of support which could well lead
him to cable London for confirmation. I had no intention of mentioning the large part of my two hundred thousand which remained at the bank.
    The room to which I was escorted had at least a comfortable bed and chair, a wash basin and a water closet, all quite adequate for a country inn. I did not expect a visit from Juana or Hector
until the clouds cleared away; they would be afraid of any confrontation when neither they nor I could know what story the other had confessed. Meanwhile, Juana cared only for herself and her
husband, and Hector for both the safety of the Punchao and Carlota’s allowance from her father which allowed him to indulge his hobby as well as to improve his estate. I remembered how he had
cursed the Ministry of Agriculture for not allowing him to terrace his hillsides in the common practice of the Iron Age.
    I passed the day in reviving such memories. Conversation with the gaoler who brought me food and wine at the normal times was not encouraged. He was armed but not against any expected trouble
from me. He gave me the impression of being anxious of some growing disturbance in the city since the arrests of the early morning. I slept peacefully until someone dropped, as I thought, some
heavy piece of furniture not far away. This was followed by shots, running feet and a powerful explosion which left the door of my hospitable cell hanging from one hinge. I helped it the rest of
the way and ran out into the central passage where I was grabbed from behind and hurried along past several corpses including that of my last interrogator.
    We arrived in the courtyard, dismal in the first grey light of dawn, and I was hurled into a police van crammed with other prisoners who, for all I knew, might be bound for the firing-squad or
the freedom of the mountains. When we had raced out through the shattered gates and round a corner where the hail of shots – most of them high – could no longer reach us, I disentangled
myself from the crush on the floor of the van and had a look at my fellow prisoners. That was what they were: a pitiable lot, half-naked, beaten, with faces pulped and yelling with pain when they
tried to move. There was no more doubt that I had been given a lift by a rescue party of Retadores. It occurred to me that when they discovered that I was a known friend of the Presidenta Juana I
might not have long to live.
    The growing light was now enough to reveal a troop carrier a mile behind us and closing. If we had chosen a main road we could have raced away but we were on a track winding between outcrops of
rock into the forested hills. Soon, optimistic shots were kicking up the dust and we were told to tumble out and take cover. I grabbed a rifle belonging to the driver’s mate who had stopped
one of those random shots and dived into a cleft overlooking the track but much too close to it, hoping that the pursuers would continue to grind their way uphill. In fact, I doubt if I had any
coherent plan at all. I took to the nearest hole, obsessed by a terrifying vision of my lonely body running up the track, an unmissable target. The rest of the prisoners, who had the advantage of
knowing where they were, had become invisible. They squatted in cover as naturally as partridges.
    At the same time, the carrier was ditching its load of soldiers who took open order and continued the chase. I watched two of them blow out the brains of three poor devils who could not run.
That was pitiless murder and I returned the compliment. Some Roman said that out of Africa always comes something new. It had. My General had insisted that all his civilian staff should know how to
shoot. I took to the game and earned his personal commendation.
    The officer in command of the party was safely behind his men; only he could have clearly seen where my shots had come from, so I had to teach him to lead his