And then, from the westward, high over the tops of the mountains, which look down upon the Pacific, came the cloud; like the belching of a mighty furnace. Swiftly it blotted out the sun, and a semidarkness settled upon the valley. But there was none of the coolness of the night.
At the door of the cantina we watched it come—that cloud. There were Ramon, Mendez, Pasquale, Pancho, a herder, Felipe and myself. None of us had wives to go home to.
We had been intently watching this cloud, but now the whole sky seemed overcast, dropping lower and lower, as if to crush out the world.
A dog started across the street toward us, but stopped, sniffing at the air. A gust of wind stirred the dust at its feet, and, with a whimper, as if of pain, it turned back, leaning sideways in its walk, as if bracing against the wind which had not yet come.
“Let us have beer,” said Mendez softly. “Madre de Dios! That dog bracing against a ghost wind makes me weak of the spine.”
“Thou art Mendez,” said Pasquale, as if to remind Mendez of his former boasting.
“But I am not that Mendez. Just now I am sober, and I have no stomach to be sober at a time like this.”
We went into the cantina. I think we were all in need of artificial courage. Felipe lighted the candles which guttered in the draught and cast grotesque shadows on the wall; shadows which danced drunkenly at our every move.
Felipe swore softly at his drawing. “Even the beer is wild tonight. I can not keep it in the mugs.”
“That was ever my greatest trouble,” laughed Mendez. “They are forever becoming empty. Hurry, Felipe, or I shall drink from the spigot.”