“I still have the advantage of numbers, boy, and I understand your basajuan have no more gunpowder and five fewer bears.”  The General sat in his command tent, legs crossed casually as he picked at the food on his plate.  He grabbed a goblet of dark wine and took a sip.  “Why should I respect a truce?”

Cachi had known from the moment he met the General negotiations would be difficult, but he’d thought the man might at least listen.  The Teniente had assured him the General was far more open-minded than the late and unlamented Don Diego.  The budding peacemaker and ambassador sighed and sipped the bitter wine, then set the goblet on the little round table.

“General, these basajuan are nothing like those on the island… as you've discovere...

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