The Underdogs by Mariano Azuela — Read

The sun had already gone down, and the sad grayness of its old streets and the frightful silence of its still dwellings- closed at a very early hour-were settling over the small town, when Luis Cervantes arrived at Primitivo López's general store and interrupted a party that showed much promise. Demetrio was getting drunk there with his old comrades. The bar was packed to the gunnels. Demetrio, War Paint, and Towhead Margarito had left their horses outside, but the other officers had forced their way in with their mounts and everything. Gallooned hats with colossal concave brims were constantly coming and going; the horses' croups turned this way and that, as the animals ceaselessly adjusted their elegant heads, with their large black eyes, trembling nostrils, and small ears. And the horses' snorting could be heard in the middle of the infernal din of the drunkards, as well as the rough scraping of their hooves on the floor and an occasional short, nervous neighing.

When Luis Cervantes arrived, a trivial story was being recounted. A townsman, with a small, bloody hole in his forehead, was lying face up in the middle of the road. The various opinions, which at first had been quite divided, were now coming together under a very just observation by Towhead Margarito. That poor devil lying very much dead was the sacristan of the church. But the fool! It had all been his fault. Whoever would think, señor, of wearing a pair of trousers, a jacket, and a cap? Pancracio cannot stand seeing a city dandy like that in front of him!