determined yet, daylight was required for Fargo to decide exactly where the coach would go next.
Fargo led the Ovaro into the stable and refused the elderly Mexican hostler’s offer of assistance as he unsaddled and rubbed down the stallion, then made sure the horse had plenty of grain and water. He returned to the cantina to find Grayson and Belinda sitting at a table in the corner and casting nervous glances around them.
‘‘Mr. Stevens claimed we would be safe in here,’’ Grayson said, ‘‘but I’m not so sure. Some of those men at the bar look like cutthroats.’’
To Fargo the men Grayson referred to looked more like vaqueros from the nearby ranches. He said, ‘‘I don’t think you have anything to worry about. They just want to drink their tequila in peace after a hard day’s work.’’
‘‘Well, if you say so.’’ Grayson didn’t sound convinced, though.
Sandy and Jimmy came in a short time later, having tended to the horses and gotten them fed, watered, and stabled. As the two men joined Fargo, Grayson, and Belinda at the table, Sandy smacked his lips and declared, ‘‘I could do with a jug o’ tequila. Is that allowed now that we’re stopped for the night, Mr. Grayson?’’
‘‘I’d rather you didn’t get a jug,’’ Grayson replied. ‘‘You might be sick in the morning if you drank that much, like you were today. But I suppose it would be all right for you to have a drink or two with supper.’’
‘‘Shoot, that’s better’n nothin’,’’ Sandy said, grinning in anticipation.
A serving girl brought them a platter full of tortillas, along with bowls of beans, strips of spicy beef, and several kinds of peppers. Everyone was hungry and dug in. Belinda was soon gasping and waving a hand in front of her mouth.
‘‘My goodness, this food is hot,’’ she said. She reached for the nearest of what appeared to be cups of water that the girl had placed on the table as well.
‘‘Careful,’’ Fargo warned, but even as he spoke Belinda took a big gulp from the cup. She gasped and choked but managed to swallow. Her face paled and her eyes grew huge.
‘‘What . . . what in heaven’s name was that?’’ she asked when she could talk again.
‘‘Tequila,’’ Fargo told her. ‘‘Take it a little slower. The stuff still packs a kick, but it won’t burn your insides out if you don’t gulp it.’’
‘‘Now if you’re like me,’’ Sandy said, ‘‘you’re lucky and got a cast-iron gullet. That stuff goes down smooth as branch water for me.’’
He proved it by taking a long swallow from his cup, licking his lips, and sighing in satisfaction.
‘‘Eat a tortilla,’’ Fargo told Belinda as he pushed the platter toward her. ‘‘That’ll cut the pepper’s burn a mite.’’
As the meal proceeded, Fargo, Grayson, and Sandy discussed the part of the trail they had covered so far and the ground they would go over the next day. Fargo had ridden the Old Mission Trail before and had an uncanny ability to remember any path he had ever gone over, so he had a good idea what they would be facing. The route was pretty easy here along the coast and wouldn’t grow more rugged for another day or two.
Several men came into the cantina while the group was eating. Fargo eyed them as they went to the bar and ordered drinks. They were white, and while they might have been cowboys from one of the neighboring ranches, they didn’t really have the look of men who worked with cattle.
They looked more like the same sort of hardcases as had been working for Hiram Stoddard in Los Angeles.
The newcomers seemed to pay no attention to the group of pilgrims at the table in the corner. Fargo didn’t trust them, though, and he leaned over to say to Sandy, ‘‘One of us better plan on spending the night in the stable so we can keep an eye on the coach and those horses.’’
Despite the two cups of tequila the jehu had downed, he was clear-eyed and alert. He nodded and said,
Fargo led the Ovaro into the stable and refused the elderly Mexican hostler’s offer of assistance as he unsaddled and rubbed down the stallion, then made sure the horse had plenty of grain and water. He returned to the cantina to find Grayson and Belinda sitting at a table in the corner and casting nervous glances around them.
‘‘Mr. Stevens claimed we would be safe in here,’’ Grayson said, ‘‘but I’m not so sure. Some of those men at the bar look like cutthroats.’’
To Fargo the men Grayson referred to looked more like vaqueros from the nearby ranches. He said, ‘‘I don’t think you have anything to worry about. They just want to drink their tequila in peace after a hard day’s work.’’
‘‘Well, if you say so.’’ Grayson didn’t sound convinced, though.
Sandy and Jimmy came in a short time later, having tended to the horses and gotten them fed, watered, and stabled. As the two men joined Fargo, Grayson, and Belinda at the table, Sandy smacked his lips and declared, ‘‘I could do with a jug o’ tequila. Is that allowed now that we’re stopped for the night, Mr. Grayson?’’
‘‘I’d rather you didn’t get a jug,’’ Grayson replied. ‘‘You might be sick in the morning if you drank that much, like you were today. But I suppose it would be all right for you to have a drink or two with supper.’’
‘‘Shoot, that’s better’n nothin’,’’ Sandy said, grinning in anticipation.
A serving girl brought them a platter full of tortillas, along with bowls of beans, strips of spicy beef, and several kinds of peppers. Everyone was hungry and dug in. Belinda was soon gasping and waving a hand in front of her mouth.
‘‘My goodness, this food is hot,’’ she said. She reached for the nearest of what appeared to be cups of water that the girl had placed on the table as well.
‘‘Careful,’’ Fargo warned, but even as he spoke Belinda took a big gulp from the cup. She gasped and choked but managed to swallow. Her face paled and her eyes grew huge.
‘‘What . . . what in heaven’s name was that?’’ she asked when she could talk again.
‘‘Tequila,’’ Fargo told her. ‘‘Take it a little slower. The stuff still packs a kick, but it won’t burn your insides out if you don’t gulp it.’’
‘‘Now if you’re like me,’’ Sandy said, ‘‘you’re lucky and got a cast-iron gullet. That stuff goes down smooth as branch water for me.’’
He proved it by taking a long swallow from his cup, licking his lips, and sighing in satisfaction.
‘‘Eat a tortilla,’’ Fargo told Belinda as he pushed the platter toward her. ‘‘That’ll cut the pepper’s burn a mite.’’
As the meal proceeded, Fargo, Grayson, and Sandy discussed the part of the trail they had covered so far and the ground they would go over the next day. Fargo had ridden the Old Mission Trail before and had an uncanny ability to remember any path he had ever gone over, so he had a good idea what they would be facing. The route was pretty easy here along the coast and wouldn’t grow more rugged for another day or two.
Several men came into the cantina while the group was eating. Fargo eyed them as they went to the bar and ordered drinks. They were white, and while they might have been cowboys from one of the neighboring ranches, they didn’t really have the look of men who worked with cattle.
They looked more like the same sort of hardcases as had been working for Hiram Stoddard in Los Angeles.
The newcomers seemed to pay no attention to the group of pilgrims at the table in the corner. Fargo didn’t trust them, though, and he leaned over to say to Sandy, ‘‘One of us better plan on spending the night in the stable so we can keep an eye on the coach and those horses.’’
Despite the two cups of tequila the jehu had downed, he was clear-eyed and alert. He nodded and said,
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