Sometimes when he might lean over, one might see down the front of his work shirt, showing a hint of some kind of tattoos on his body; but nothing the... could really understand.He did not wear the traditional bright colors and skull caps of the Cusco Villagers. He dressed in faded military fatigues; jungle camouflage. His trousers were tucked into the top of his black, oiled lumberjack boots that stopped just below his knees. The sides of his head were shaved. The hair along the top of his head. She was walking behind him on the narrow trail, her bare feet making no sounds on the soft ground. The wood was quiet, as if it held its breath. And then, in one quick silent motion, she jumped at him, grabbed the hilt of his sword, tore it out of its sheath, and violently pushed him to the ground. He fell, lying with his face down, stunned, the breath knocked out of him by a tree root under his chest — he fought for air, he fought to prop himself up — and then, over his pain and his own ragged. More

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