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Updated: May 12, 2025
"Go back in the patio and Juan will get you some chuck," said The Spider abruptly. "Which I'm payin' for," said Pete. "Which you're paying for," said The Spider. Following its usual course, the devil-wind died down suddenly at dusk of the third day. A few Mexicans drifted into the saloon that evening and following them several white men up from the border.
A hot wind sprang up suddenly and swept with a rush down the night-walled cañon. It was the devil-wind of the desert, the wind that curls the leaf and shrivels the vine, even in the hours when there is no sun. When the devil-wind drives, men lie naked beneath the sky in sleepless misery.
Pete knew that this devil-wind would make old Flores restless. He stepped round to the doorway and asked for water. From the darkness within the adobe came Flores's voice and the sound of a match against wood. The Mexican appeared with a candle. "My head feels queer," stated Pete, as an excuse for disturbing Flores. "I can't find the olla and I'm dead for a drink."
"Then we shall drink this," said Flores, fetching a jug of wine from beneath the bench. "Not for mine! I'm dizzy enough, without that." "It is the devil-wind. One may get drunk and forget. One may then sleep. And if one sleeps, it is not so bad." Pete shook his head, but tasted the wine that Flores poured for him.
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