Lopez shuffled in swiftly from the kitchen.
“Gonzales,” he said warningly.
Torres swore feelingly and leaned against the table. He did not want Gonzales to come now—Gonzales, the unprincipled pig of a ruffian, who supplied Guadalupe with the goods which were to be smuggled; Gonzales, whose mustaches reached below his chin, and who wanted to fight after the second drink of tequila.
Guadalupe swung open the door and blinked into the sunlight. The huge Gonzales, resplendent in a red silk shirt, the widest and tallest hat he had been able to purchase, leather breeches, and heavy boots, while his waist was circled by an ornate cartridge belt, which sparkled with silver trimming and brass cartridge heads, stood near, holding a weary-looking horse.
There were two more wide-hatted Mexicans with him, also heavily armed, and two mules packed.
Felipe, the half-wit, was waiting for Gonzales to hand him the bridle reins. The air was dusty from the trampling animals.
“Buenos dias,” greeted Guadalupe.
“The day is good enough,” replied Gonzales gruffly, as he flung his reins to the waiting Felipe and strode up to the doorway.
“Get us food and drink,” he ordered.
His wide shoulders brushed the sides of the doorway as he entered.