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" On Monday night I dreamt that a silent white dog would run through the dusty streets of Samalayuca at dawn, circling twice around the fountain in the church square and then disappearing north up the Zaragoza road. It happened the next morning almost exactly as I had foreseen, except that in my dream the dog ran counterclockwise around the fountain, while in reality it was the opposite. We were saddling the horses outside the hacienda of Don Ernesto Fernandez. The dog&amp;#039;s pale fur shone like ice in the morning sun. &amp;quot;It is a good sign,&amp;quot; Don Ernesto decided, &amp;quot;an omen of luck for the journey to Tulavosa.&amp;quot; He stood fingering the links of his silver watch for a moment and then bid us a solemn farewell. I told no one of my premonition.  That night I dreamt of the shooting of a horse. The next day Miguel Ignacio&amp;#039;s horse stumbled as we crossed a dry arroyo, breaking its leg. Miguel Ignacio wept as he pulled the trigger, and continued weeping as he climbed onto the back of my mount, wrapping his thick arms around me and grasping the bottoms of my crossed cartridge belts. &amp;quot;That horse was more to me than any woman has ever been,&amp;quot; he said, and we knew he meant it. He was not ashamed that we should see his bitter tears. That night I dreamt that whores would sing to us of love torn apart by violence.  The next day we rode into San Elizario in a rainstorm, a raw wind bringing news of winter from the north. We were cold. Wet clothes clung to our bodies. It was an evening to forget ourselves in drink. In the Agua Dulce saloon local men toasted us out of fear and we drank with our guns on, remembering our comrades who no longer kept the trail in this world. Madame Ibarra got on the tin piano and her girls came down the broad stairway in white nightgowns, raising their sweet young voices in song. They sang of Pancho Villa&amp;#039;s woman, waiting in Ascenci\u00F3n with powdered thighs while her lover bled in the dust at Parral. In the song he dies thinking of her. I do not doubt that it was so. I made a beast of myself atop a girl who could have been no more than twelve. Her skin smelled of cactus milk; she did not have the deep earth aroma of tilled soil. Pancho Villa&amp;#039;s woman would have smelled like the freshly plowed fields. I fell asleep and dreamt that my wife would give birth to a child with two heads.  Of course I had no wife. All day this problem vexed me as we rode north under a frigid sun, and I wondered if perhaps the rigors of a brutal life had at last made off with my reason. Snow in the mountains, drifting over the bones of dead cattle--we would press on through the night to reach Tularosa by sunrise. We would strike with the advantage of surprise. In the evening an icy brook crossed the trail and we stopped there to fill our canteens. Crouching beside Jos\u00E9 Gallardo on the bank, watching the water rush across his powerful hands, I realized of a sudden that the woman in my dream had in fact been his wife. I realized that Jos\u00E9 Gallardo&amp;#039;s dream must have wandered away from him in the night and crawled inside my ear, as sometimes happens, and I tried to picture a second head growing from his shoulder. How wondrous it would look! A smile crossed my wind-chapped lips. I saw that I was not mad, and that if some unfortunate destiny were to befall Jos\u00E9 Gallardo in Tularosa, there would be a wondrous two-headed baby abandoned to the fates, in need of a protector.  The lead weight of my pistols hung heavy on my belt. To know the future is at once both a great and terrible thing. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.esquire.com/entertainment/books/a2310/esq0207wilhelm/>