“It will not take him more than a night and a day. Drink one more cup of mescal, old wolf. Warm up your cold bones. Where is Felipe, the half-wit? Call him. We waste time, and the bridegroom waits.”
They drank another cup of the mescal, holding their cups high above their heads in a leering toast. Torres was getting drunk. Guadalupe flung his cup aside, upset the bottle to see if it contained any more liquor, and started toward the door to call Felipe.
Lopez shuffled in swiftly from the kitchen.
“Gonzales,” he said warningly.
Torres swore feelingly and leaned against the table. He did not want Gonzales to come now—Gonzales, the unprincipled pig of a ruffian, who supplied Guadalupe with the goods which were to be smuggled; Gonzales, whose mustaches reached below his chin, and who wanted
