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Variable winds carry the stench of burned flesh up to the promontory where I, General Jose Maria Rangel, sit atop my nervous horse. It occurs to me that the smell is not unlike that of an asado I sampled in Buenos Aires some years ago. Meat, after all, is meat, whether animal or human. From time to time the animal beneath me shies and dances when a rolling cloud reaches high enough to engulf us. Below, the village of Tomochic smolders, nearly leveled. The last stronghold was the church. I see smoke billowing out of its windows and around the steeple, signaling the end of the last of them, as...