‘They’re white,’ whispered Slim. ‘They’re play-actors.’
Then from Cal: ‘What kind of little boys would you say them were, Elbert?’
‘I wouldn’t. They’re girls in hikin’ clothes. Don’t you see their vanities?’
‘Short hair and short pants, Elbert—where do you look for them points you speak of—oh, you mean them little satchels?’
Mexico had petered out; hope dead.
‘You go in first, Elbert. I never coped with nothin’ like them,’ Cal murmured.
They followed the Señora into the front room. A chunky, black-haired girl, who had sat in the driver’s seat of the sedan, was letting it be known that she and her two friends had stopped for refreshments, on their way to San Pasquali. Her voice was resonant, and she tried to make volume do, being without Spanish.
The Señora held up her empty hand; her mouth opened, no sound. Slim hurried back to the fireplace to fetch her clappers.
The black-haired one stamped her foot. She was used to getting what she wanted. ‘Oh, can’t you see, we’re hungry, thirsty—something to eat and drink?’
She had muscle, and big blue eyes.