stubbornly. “I will have ten pesos for you when you put them in my hands.”
The fat man hesitated, wanting the money but not Cordray’s anger. “Tomorrow — ”
“Tonight. I will make it twenty pesos, and twenty more if you can find me a drink.”
“The vino?”
“Whisky or tequila.”
Juanito rubbed his jaw, avarice shining in the slants of his eyes. “For thirty pesos I will try, señor.”
“Okay. Thirty pesos.”
“Thirty pesos and twenty are fifty pesos all told.”
Reno, scowling, commenced to eat. Juanito closed the door. The American was chewing the last mouthful of steak when the Mexican came back and, grinning, handed him a cup.
Reno sniffed and loosed a sigh. Tequila, God bless it. He put back his head and let it run down his throat, feeling it chase the coldness out of his belly. “The money, señor,” Juan said, leaning forward.
“Where are the clothes?”
“I could not find them, señor.”
Reno tossed the empty cup in a corner. “I cannot give you your money until I have my clothes. Look again.”
“But, General — ”
“Enough!” Reno said, and then blinked, his eyes contracting until their pupils grew bright as twin slivers of steel.
“What did you say to me?”
The man drew away from him, cheeks gray, his chins quivering. With a sudden frightened bleat he reached the door and scrambled through it.
Reno caught up the tray and hurled it after him, cursing. “The hat — the goddam hat!” he snarled bitterly. The general’s hat had betrayed him. They thought he was Descardo!
• • •
Opening his eyes in the bright glare of sunlight Reno felt more like himself until he recalled the events of the previous evening. Scowling, he threw back the blanket. With some care he flexed his wrenched shoulder and grimaced. There was no help for it now; he would have to play out the hand fate had dealt him.
Last night, after the fat man had gone, he had thought in desperation to depart through the window, but he had found it nailed shut. After adding up his chances he had gone back to bed. Now, getting up, careful to avoid the broken crockery of the cup, he went around to the hand-rolled glass of a tin framed mirror and considered his distorted reflection for some moments without enthusiasm. He’d lost weight. He’d lost a lot of it. But he could see that to a person who had never met Descardo the resemblance might stand up. Especially with that hat and with the quirt and the general’s pistol.
It was not a role he cared for, but if they were bound to put him in it he intended to play it for all it was worth. At least until he found that shack.
He stood a moment thinking.
Hearing someone coming he snatched the blanket off the bed and covered himself.
It was Linda. She said through the door, “Are you awake? I’m leaving some clothes here. When you’re dressed, if you feel hungry, come to the kitchen. Just follow the hall straight back from this door.”
He heard her steps going away. He waited to give her time enough. Then he pulled the door open, scooped up the clothes, and shut it. He carried the things to the bed and, dropping the blanket, began to get into them. The flare-bottomed narrow-legged trousers fit like banana skin across the seat and the lavender shirt was almost too tight to button, but he crammed himself into them. Then he pulled on-the boots, which were his own that had been fixed, and shrugged into the gilt-hung weight of a charro jacket. No underwear had been included, and no hat. It was the lack of his gun which galled him the most.
An old crone who looked about two-thirds Indian was puttering above the stove when he appeared. He could smell frijoles y chile in a skillet and there was chocolate in a graniteware pot and a stack of tortillas in the open oven. He didn’t see anything of Linda.
He pulled out a chair and sat down at the uncovered table. The old woman padded over and put down a cup and a fork and spoon and went back to the stove without
The fat man hesitated, wanting the money but not Cordray’s anger. “Tomorrow — ”
“Tonight. I will make it twenty pesos, and twenty more if you can find me a drink.”
“The vino?”
“Whisky or tequila.”
Juanito rubbed his jaw, avarice shining in the slants of his eyes. “For thirty pesos I will try, señor.”
“Okay. Thirty pesos.”
“Thirty pesos and twenty are fifty pesos all told.”
Reno, scowling, commenced to eat. Juanito closed the door. The American was chewing the last mouthful of steak when the Mexican came back and, grinning, handed him a cup.
Reno sniffed and loosed a sigh. Tequila, God bless it. He put back his head and let it run down his throat, feeling it chase the coldness out of his belly. “The money, señor,” Juan said, leaning forward.
“Where are the clothes?”
“I could not find them, señor.”
Reno tossed the empty cup in a corner. “I cannot give you your money until I have my clothes. Look again.”
“But, General — ”
“Enough!” Reno said, and then blinked, his eyes contracting until their pupils grew bright as twin slivers of steel.
“What did you say to me?”
The man drew away from him, cheeks gray, his chins quivering. With a sudden frightened bleat he reached the door and scrambled through it.
Reno caught up the tray and hurled it after him, cursing. “The hat — the goddam hat!” he snarled bitterly. The general’s hat had betrayed him. They thought he was Descardo!
• • •
Opening his eyes in the bright glare of sunlight Reno felt more like himself until he recalled the events of the previous evening. Scowling, he threw back the blanket. With some care he flexed his wrenched shoulder and grimaced. There was no help for it now; he would have to play out the hand fate had dealt him.
Last night, after the fat man had gone, he had thought in desperation to depart through the window, but he had found it nailed shut. After adding up his chances he had gone back to bed. Now, getting up, careful to avoid the broken crockery of the cup, he went around to the hand-rolled glass of a tin framed mirror and considered his distorted reflection for some moments without enthusiasm. He’d lost weight. He’d lost a lot of it. But he could see that to a person who had never met Descardo the resemblance might stand up. Especially with that hat and with the quirt and the general’s pistol.
It was not a role he cared for, but if they were bound to put him in it he intended to play it for all it was worth. At least until he found that shack.
He stood a moment thinking.
Hearing someone coming he snatched the blanket off the bed and covered himself.
It was Linda. She said through the door, “Are you awake? I’m leaving some clothes here. When you’re dressed, if you feel hungry, come to the kitchen. Just follow the hall straight back from this door.”
He heard her steps going away. He waited to give her time enough. Then he pulled the door open, scooped up the clothes, and shut it. He carried the things to the bed and, dropping the blanket, began to get into them. The flare-bottomed narrow-legged trousers fit like banana skin across the seat and the lavender shirt was almost too tight to button, but he crammed himself into them. Then he pulled on-the boots, which were his own that had been fixed, and shrugged into the gilt-hung weight of a charro jacket. No underwear had been included, and no hat. It was the lack of his gun which galled him the most.
An old crone who looked about two-thirds Indian was puttering above the stove when he appeared. He could smell frijoles y chile in a skillet and there was chocolate in a graniteware pot and a stack of tortillas in the open oven. He didn’t see anything of Linda.
He pulled out a chair and sat down at the uncovered table. The old woman padded over and put down a cup and a fork and spoon and went back to the stove without
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