“Never tasted the stuff.”
“And ‘never too late to mend.’ Here, take this vial, I present it to you with my compliments. With the captain’s respect. With the good will of the whole outfit.”
“But, beg pardon, I have no use for–picra.”
“Don’t delude yourself. You’ll have to have it, outside or in. I’m a friend. I give you this bottle. Then, when Aunt Sally appears with her little dish and spoon, produce this from your pistol pocket and knock her plumb speechless. It’s your only salvation. Now or never.”
“All right. Thanks. A case of forearmed, I suppose.”
“Exactly. Now–there she is!”
Samson rose in his stirrups and pointed forward with his crop. Upon a barren, wide-stretching tableland stood a cluster of adobe huts. Behind them a clump of live oaks, beside them a sandy, curving streak, an arroyo, lighter in hue than the surrounding soil, but parched and dry as if part of the desert itself; behind them, three mighty, jagged, upward-pointing rocks.
“There she is. The weirdest, lonesomest, God-for-sakenest habitation that fools ever made or lived in, quoted the joker, giving Samson’s hand a cordial grasp. Hello! What’s up captain?”
For Jessica had also caught sight of the desolate homestead and, having too low stirrups for standing, had sprung to Scruff’s back and poised thus on his saddle, was straining her eager, excited gaze toward the distant El Desierto.
“My dream! The spot! For once he told the truth! Follow, follow me, quick!”