They climbed down and Rivera said, “I’ve had enough of this damned heat. I’ll go out to the hacienda in the cool of the evening.”
Rivera preceded them inside.
Fallon said to Dillinger, “I hope he doesn’t run into Rose first thing. They hate each other’s guts.
“Come on,” Dillinger said, “I need to wet my whistle.”
Inside there was no sign of Rivera. Fallon led the way into a large stone-flagged room. There were tables and chairs and a zinc-topped bar in one corner, bottles ranged behind it on wooden shelves. A young man poured beer into two glasses.
“Lord God Almighty’s just been in to tell me you were here. He’s gone up to his room,” he said in English with a pronounced French accent.
Fallon picked up one of the glasses and emptied it in one long swallow. He sighed with pleasure and wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. “Another like that and I’ll begin to feel human again. Andre Chavasse, meet Harry Jordan.”
They shook hands, and, grinning, the young Frenchman put two more bottles on the counter. “We heard you were coming, courtesy of Rivera’s telegraph. All the comforts of civilization, you see.”
Chavasse was perhaps twenty-five, tall and straight with good shoulders, long black hair growing into foxtails at his neck. He had a handsome, even aristocratic face. The face of a scholar that was somehow relieved by the mobile mouth and humorous eyes. A man whom it would be hard to dislike.
Dillinger turned to Fallon. “What happens now?”
Fallon shrugged. “I suppose he’ll want us at the mine tomorrow.”
“Where do we stay?”
“Not at the hacienda, if that’s what you’re thinking. Rivera likes to keep the hired help in their place. There’s a shack at the mine.”
“You’re staying here tonight,” Chavasse put in. “Rivera booked the room. It’s the brown door at the top of the stairs.”
Dillinger swallowed his beer and put down the glass. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll go up now. I feel as if I haven’t slept in two days.”
Fallon grinned at the Frenchman. “We had ourselves a rough ride in. Villa and his boys tried to take over the train, then we ran into Ortiz on the way. That didn’t improve Rivera’s temper, I can tell you.”
“You saw Ortiz?” Chavasse asked eagerly. “How did he seem?”
Had blood in his eyes, if you ask me. One of these days Rivera’s going to do something about him.”
“I would not like to be Rivera when that day comes,” the Frenchman said gravely.
“You think he’s dangerous?” Dillinger asked.
Chavasse took a cigarette from behind his ear and struck a match on the counter. “Let me tell you something, my friend. When you speak of the Apache, you speak of the most dangerous fighting men who ever walked the face of the earth. Rivera will find one day that he has pushed Ortiz once too often.”
“And Andre should know,” Fallon said. “He’s forgotten more about Apaches than I’ll ever know.”
“Right now,” Dillinger said, “the only thing I’m interested in is about eight hours’ sleep and whatever passes for a bath around here.”
He walked out into the dark hall and paused to remove his jacket, blinking as the sweat ran into his eyes. A step sounded on the porch, and a spur jingled as someone entered.
He turned slowly. A young woman stood in the doorway looking at him, the harsh white light of the street outlining her slim figure. Booted and spurred, she wore Spanish riding breeches in black leather, a white shirt open at the neck, and a Cordoban hat.
But it was her face that blinded him, slightly Oriental eyes that were unusually large, the nose tilted, a sensuous mouth. There was about her a tremendous quality of repose, of tranquility almost, that filled him with a vague irrational excitement.
You are Senor Jordan?” she said. “Harry Jordan, who is to run the mine for my uncle? I am Rose Teresa Consuela de Rivera.”
She removed her hat, revealing blue-black hair in braids coiled high on the back of her head. She put out her hand in a strangely boyish gesture, and he held it for a moment, marvelling at its coolness.