“We brought coffee,” Wally said, “so as to have a fire.” They had brought something else too: a bottle of milky liquor that Tom claimed was tequila.
Gin disagreed on principle. “You’re crazy. There never is any tequila in Santa Fé. Every time some bootlegger goes wrong on his gin he sells the batch to cowboys and calls it tequila.”
“I brought it myself from Juarez,” said Tom. “It ain’t gin. If you don’t want it, pass it up. I can use it.”
Flo said bravely, “Well, I’ll try it. I need something new to get cheered up. I don’t care what it is. If I get sick they’ll have to let me off the trip tomorrow.”
“Oh,” said Gin, “I didn’t say I didn’t want it. Hand it over.”
They munched sandwiches and cake in silence. Gin tasted the drink and silently admitted that she was wrong. It might not be tequila, but it was something very strange. It had a chilling effect at first, and after each swallow settled down in her stomach like a stubborn little lump of lead before it seemed to melt and spread. The others finished the food before she noticed: there were only three limp jelly sandwiches left.
“You made them,” said Flo, unkindly. “Eat ’em. I told you not to. Have more coffee.”
“She don’t want coffee,” Tom interposed. “Give her the bottle.”
Flo said in a discouraged tone, “It’s having no effect whatever. I thought I could get happy tonight and forget my troubles, but I’m just the same, only worse.”
“It always acts like that when you set out for a good one,” said Wally. “One night last year I started out for a three-day party and I kept going all night and went to bed in the morning cold sober.”