‘Tequila,’ said Slim, as they entered the shadows.
‘Same here,’ said Cal.
It was like the hold of a ship in a way; the smell of dried orange-peel; a range of barrels with Spanish writing on them, a breath of coolness; shelves of canned and bottled goods, wines and catsup and pickles resting together in dusty composure.
‘I will, too,’ Elbert said.
The little fat man of the place had been trimming his oil lamp, pouring in coal oil from a large glass jar. He drew out a second piece of glassware from under the counter, slightly smaller, but of similar shape to the first. The contents of the two jars were of identical color.
‘Here goes,’ said Slim, and the three small glasses were raised.
For a second Elbert thought he had been shot in the neck. Out of the pandemonium of his faculties then formed the suspicion that either they burned tequila in the lamps, or else that was the Mexican name for kerosene.
‘The first one always hits me where I ain’t lookin’,’ Cal remarked. ‘Suppose we go through the formalities of three more.’
Elbert braced to do it again. He felt himself standing very straight, only there was a curious illusion that his spine extended clear through to the top of his head. The reverberations of the second shot having died away, Elbert was conscious of a faint aroma, as if all the dried fruits and tubers and woodwork had blent in enticing fragrance. A horse nickered from afar down the street and their three ponies at the hitching-rail raised their heads—Mamie’s instant answer being ramified by Chester’s dignified head-tones, and a shrill broken pipe from the ‘Indian.’ A kind of union and interplay in all things—glint of drift and daring in Cal Monroid’s eyes. The little fat man was shaking his match box. It really wouldn’t do for the lamp to be lighted just yet. Elbert spoke up:
‘We might risk one more,’ he said with slow care.