“But—­while we—­” Lucia started to argue, and then thought better of it.

“Why doesn’t he set his liquor out and see that the meals are right, himself?  Then there wouldn’t be any need of my saying anything.”  His tone was brutally frank.  He really disliked Jones, and would be glad when they could get back to New York.  There was nothing here worth his consideration.  Sturgis had been stupid to think so.

“But when we are enjoying his hospitality—­”

“Enjoying?  Ha!  Suffering, I guess you mean!” And Pell’s head went back and he gave out a guffaw.

Lucia waited for his false mirth to vanish.  Then, “But you seemed very anxious to come here.”

“Yes; because I thought he lived in a house, not a—­”

The sentence was not completed; for Gilbert came back with a bottle of the deadly tequila in his hand.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he apologized, “to have to tell you that dinner will be late.”

“You mean later, don’t you?” Pell edited the remark.

Gilbert handed him the bottle.  “Maybe this will atone for the postponed banquet,” he smiled.  He got the water-bottle hanging on the peg by the fireplace, and brought that to Pell also.  He tried to be as gracious as he could to anyone under his roof.

Pell took a swig out of the bottle—­a long one.  “Good God!” he exclaimed, his face almost purple, his brow puckered like a dwarf’s.

“What’s the matter?” Gilbert said.  And he handed him the water-bottle.

“It’s poison!” Pell cried.  And as if he really believed it, and as though water were an antidote, he grabbed the water-bottle and drank from it swiftly and loudly.  It was horrible the way he guzzled the liquid down.  An animal would have done better.

“The Mexicans like their liquor strong,” young Jones explained.  “That’s what’s the matter with the cook.”

Lucia was puzzled.  “What do you mean?” she asked.

“Simply that he’s been imbibing again.  That’s why dinner is so late.  But we’re getting used to it.  There is nothing to do but stand it.”

“Drunk?” Pell asked.

“Quite,” answered Gilbert.

“Well, I don’t know as you can blame him,” Pell excused.  “I’d be drunk too if I had to live here.  What are you going to do about it?” He hung the water-bottle in its place on the peg.

“Red’s trying to sober him up,” Gilbert said.

They had had enough of the cook, Pell decided within himself.  Dinner was inevitably late, and that was all there was about it.  So he changed the subject abruptly.

“This ranch belongs to you, doesn’t it?” he put the question direct to Jones.

“What’s that?”

“I asked you,” went on Pell, a little disconcerted at having to repeat his question, “if you own this ranch.”

“I—­er—­yes.  Why?” Gilbert said.

Pell was quick to notice the other’s discomfiture.  “I have a friend who thinks he wants to go into the cattle business.  He asked me to look him up a place.  It’s his own money, of course.”