Bud could not resist the temptation to stop a moment. The man greeted him with a stare, but the old woman held out a skinny hand. Her brown, wrinkled face was almost repulsive. A red and yellow handkerchief was wound around her head, and her oily, thin black hair was twisted into tight braids behind her ears, from which hung long, brassy-looking earrings. In spite of her age, she was neither bent nor feeble.
As the low fire played on the gaudy colors of her thick dress, she leaned forward, her hand still extended.
“Twelve o’clock, the good-luck hour,” she exclaimed in a broken voice. “I see good fortune in store for the young gentleman. Let the Gypsy Queen read your fate. Cross Zecatacas’ palm with silver. I see good fortune for the young gentleman.”
There was something uncanny in the surroundings, and Bud was about to beat a retreat, when the man exclaimed:
“Got a cigarette, Kid?”
In explaining that he had not, Bud’s eyes fell on the rest of the group. A little girl lay asleep with her head in the middle-aged woman’s lap. The man held a tin cup in his hand. On the coals of the fire stood a coffee pot.