e checked himself sharply. There were shuffling footsteps in the hall outside. A timid tap on the door. Jamison opened it, while Bell dropped one hand inconspicuously to a weapon inside his shapeless clothing.
The toothless and filthy old man who kept the hotel beamed in at them.
"Senores," he cackled. "Vdes son de Porvenir, no es verdad?"
Jamison hiccoughed, as one who has been out and been drunken ought to do.
"No, viejo," he rumbled tipsily, "somos de la estancia del Señor Rubio. Vaya."
The old man seemed to mourn that they did not come from the sheep ranches about Porvenir Bay. But he produced a bottle with a shaking hand, still beaming.
"Tengo muchos amigos en Porvenir," he chirped amiably. "Y questa botella—"
"Démela," rumbled Jamison. He reached out his hand.
"No mas que poquito!" said the old man, beaming but anxious as Jamison tilted it to his lips. "Es visky de gentes...."