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So she accepted the glass from Felipe, with the inch of raw tequila in the bottom. It did not seem very much. Surely such a little bit could not be harmful. She listened to the toast in English and Spanish, hesitated a moment and saw the way the others took it down in one gulp. She held her breath and did the same. White-hot lava abraded the lining of her throat. Her stomach gave a hard convulsive leap. She looked through tears and said, in a harsh and prolonged way, “Haaaaaaa …” And she felt a curious warmth that began at the pit of her stomach and spread out in every direction from that point. Within a few minutes the room had become more beautiful, all light and color. Her face lost its clinical severity when she smiled. Surely this could not be a thing of such horror, so long as one had only a little and did not become a
borracho
.

When Felipe came with the bottle again, she extended her glass shyly.

And later, it was so kind of the American Señor Wahl to teach her the American jeeterboog. It made the room whirl. And she was certain that no one had ever danced more gracefully than she.

Of the staff, only Alberto Buceada did not join in. He had a bottle of mescal. He sat in the shade under a window with his back against the wall and quietly, without haste, killed the bottle, toppled over onto his side, and snored on into the dusk and the night.

Hildabeth, with cherry brandy ringing in her ears, was prevailed upon to demonstrate the hula she had learned in Hawaii. After considerable earnest instruction, the musicians were able to make a determined frontal attack on “Blue Hawaii,” with ranchero overtones. Hildabeth was surprisingly graceful, and it was appreciated by everyone but Dotsy who stood by, crimson-faced, in an agony of sympathetic embarrassment.

Harvey Ardos could not dance. He had never tried. And his shame was compounded by the obvious fact that Monica Killdeering was a superb dancer. She had the physical requirements,
the suppleness, the training and the perfect sense of timing of the professional.

Harvey stood by in jealous misery and watched her dance with Kemp, Barnum, Drummond, Torrigan, Klauss, Wahl, Shane and the colonel. Her popularity on the dance floor had become enhanced when it was discovered that she did not talk while dancing. For eight dancing men, nine if Fidelio was counted, there were eight women—the Texas girls, Jeanie Wahl, Barbara Kilmer, Monica, the languid Margot and the two maids. Harvey felt embittered and left out. By some kind of accident it had turned into one of those dancing parties. He wished they’d all drop of heat exhaustion.

Whenever she had a chance Monica would come over to him and say, “Please try, Harvey. It’s very easy.”

“Nah!”

“If you can walk, you can dance. I’ll show you.”

“Nah, thanks!”

“Come on, Harvey. It’s wonderful exercise.”

“Nah, I don’t feel like learning.”

And someone would come up and take her away. He drank and watched. He felt like going to his room and closing the door. Damn if he was going to go out and make a fool of himself. Just stand right here and get a little boiled.

He watched Monica dancing with that hard-looking little stranger who had arrived with Mrs. Garvey. Good clothes, but he looked like an ex-fighter, as if he’d spent a few years of having his face pounded. When they turned he could see the thick hand pressed against Monica’s smooth brown back, and it made him feel queer to see it. Quite suddenly he realized she was having some kind of trouble with Shane.

He had danced her over toward a far corner. He was talking to her and she was shaking her head. And he was holding her too tight, and they didn’t seem to be doing much dancing. Harvey put his drink on a table and got over to them fast.

He tapped Shane on the shoulder and said, “Guess you can start giving me those lessons, Monica.”

“On your way, bud,” Shane said.

“I want to dance with Harvey!”

“You’re dancing with me. Go away, Harvey.”

As Monica struggled to free herself, Harvey moved in like a referee and pushed them apart.

Shane tugged at his belt, took several little dance steps,
snuffled against his fist and said, “Get out from behind that glassware, bud. You and me are going around and around.”

Harvey, slightly chilled by the professional gestures, tossed his glasses on a nearby table and squinted at the blurred figure. He took three hard left hooks in the stomach, followed by a right cross high on the jaw. As the wind was being driven out of him, Harvey led with one wild despairing right and hit Shane right in the middle of the forehead, a half second before the right cross dropped him onto his face. Shane did a couple of shuffling steps. Monica, her eyes narrow and dangerous, moved in from the side and suddenly snapped both hands down on Shane’s left wrist. With one violent twist she spun him so that she had his wrist pinned high between his shoulder blades, and, as a result of pain and leverage, he was bent forward from the waist. She gave one hard shove to overcome inertia, and then, with three running steps, she ran him headlong into the stone wall. Shane dropped like a sack of spoiled potatoes.

As she turned toward Harvey he was just pushing himself up onto his feet. He tottered around in a small rubber-legged circle, his mouth slack, his eyes squinting at his myopic world. He drew his fist back to let fly at the vague image in front of him.

“It’s me, Harvey! It’s Monica!”

He stared around. “Where’d he go? I’ll kill ’im.”

She picked up his glasses and handed them to him. He slipped them on and stared at Shane. The scuffle had been over almost as soon as it began. Most of the others came running over. Harvey clenched his fist a few times and then sucked his knuckles. “Hey, now!” he said.

“What happened?” Miles demanded.

“That man got fresh and Harvey fought with him.”

The languid blonde drifted over and looked down at Shane with what could have been satisfaction. “Welter weight champion of the Pacific Fleet,” she said. “God only knows what that means.”

“I’ll be damned!” Klauss said softly. They all stared at Harvey.

He flushed and said, “Lucky punch, I guess.”

“Will you take care of him, Margot?” Gloria asked.

Margot yawned and said, “Why the bloody Christ should I, darling? He joined the group in Vera Cruz and he’s been
going about striking people ever since. To use one of your Americanisms, he’s all yours.”

“Not mine,” Gloria said.

They rolled Shane over and poured water on him. He stirred and suddenly came scrambling to his feet, dancing heavily, fists balled, peering around from under the thick scarred brows. The machine slowed down and stopped and he stared at them. “Who are all you people? Where the hell am I?”

Torrigan led him off toward the bar and the music started again. Harvey squared his shoulders. “Well … you might as well try to teach me, woman,” he said gruffly.

“Yes, dear,” she said humbly.

“Wha’d you call me!”

“I … I said yes, Harvey … uh … dear.”

They stood staring at each other, their faces crimson, until they both looked away at once. And then she shyly told him how to place his hands, and got him to start walking in time to the music. Within a half hour he was, as Monica told him, doing splendidly. She wouldn’t let anyone cut in. She told them it would spoil the lesson. And, as Harvey’s nervous consciousness of his feet began to diminish as his confidence grew, and as the mental count of ONE, two, three, ONE, two, three, became more automatic, he became increasingly aware of the fact that he was holding Miss Killdeering within the half circle of the right arm that had knocked out the welterweight champ. Her back was smooth and vibrant under his hand. She sure had beautiful eyes.

And when the next slow number came, with Rosalinda singing of a girl named Maria Bonita, Harvey Ardos, with a masterfulness that appalled him, drew Miss Killdeering so close that she rested her head on his shoulder, her face turned slightly inward, her round forehead against the angle of his jaw. To be about two inches taller than the girl was exactly right, he decided. He had guided her away from the others, into a shadowy corner of the dining room, and they danced there in half time, in a lovely dream, their eyes half-closed. He was acutely and sweatily aware of the firm twin warmth of her breasts against him. He decided there was a lot to this dancing kick. A lot he hadn’t understood. The music ended. In the moment he released her, just before she stepped back, she planted a very small, shy, nibbly kiss against the side of his throat, just under his ear. She stepped back with pink face and glowing eyes.

Harvey made one small strangled sound, and then he went up through the roof like a rocket. He sped up toward the sun and, as he lost velocity, he began to turn over and over. When he found he could use his arms like wings, he spiraled down until he could land directly in front of her.

“Holy Nelly!” he said in a voice that sounded as if somebody had him by the throat.

The party was a psychological necessity for Gambel Torrigan. He felt that through the episode with Gloria, he had lost caste. Before it had happened, he had been the volatile and expressive and somewhat alarming Mr. Torrigan, a person to be treated with respect, a person whose comments and instructions were of great value. But somehow he had become good old Gam. Somebody to chuckle about. He couldn’t awe anybody any more, not even Harvey and Monica. It was as if he had become some sort of clown. He did not permit himself to dwell on the theory that this was not too different from his experience in all the other schools. He wanted to be a person of pride and dignity. And he felt he was, on the inside. But people were stupid. They see you a little bit drunk now and then, or they have knowledge of some of your other human weaknesses, and they get that damn jocular attitude toward you.

This party was the opportunity for proof, the chance to reestablish the original relationship. By God, once they’d all let their hair all the way down, they would see that they weren’t any more righteous and proper than Gam Torrigan. So he resolved to drink an adequate amount, but not too much. He would have the party spirit, but he would be proper. And as the others went off into the stumbling staggers, he would be there to record, to remember, to be politely amused. Dignity would be regained.

To make certain of the success of this program, he quietly bribed Felipe to make the drinks as massive as possible. And he vowed he would nurse his own drinks. This would be the new Gambel Torrigan, now and forever more.

For Paul Klauss the party was an opportunity to improve the dismal performance of the first part of the summer. And, more importantly, a chance to bolster his sagging morale. That damnable Margarita had managed to outwit him and humiliate him four times. The final episode had been the most disheartening. She could not have accomplished it without coaching.
Every time he thought of how his heart rode high in his throat as he had scrabbled at the night chain to admit the lovely Barbara, only to be overwhelmed by the joyous fervency of Margarita again, he felt sick. Progress on all other fronts had been equally distressing. Before there had been even a slight chance to launch an effective campaign against the Babcock girl, that fool Barnum had married her. He did not doubt but what Barnum had cheated him of success. In the case of the Kilmer woman, circumstances had conspired to defeat him. True, the initial approach had not been handled too well, but such a thing could have been corrected had not that large, dull Kemp person become so friendly with her.

As for Mary Jane Elmore, there was apparently something unnatural about her. So he could not really be blamed for failure, not under those circumstances. Hers had been a very strange response. He had strolled with her out beyond the main gate one evening a week ago, talking, he had thought, quite pleasantly to her about horses and Texas and the cattle business. She had seemed attentive and responsive, and just a promising bit drunk. So he had told her how lovely she looked in the starlight, and had put his hands on her pliant waist and, smiling fondly at her, had drawn her toward him. She had even been smiling back. But just as their lips were about to touch, her elbow had chopped him sharply under the chin and she had stomped him on the instep with a sharp high heel. When the pain had subsided somewhat he was willing to accept her apology that she really didn’t know why she’d done it. It was a sort of a reflex. And so he had recreated the original setting and atmosphere. The second time he had caught the elbow high on the cheek, and a small hard fist in the pit of the stomach and a ringing crack of a kick on the shin. When he could breathe in again without making a gagging sound, and when he could stand relatively upright, she had helped him hobble over to the bench Fidelio had improvised for himself near the gate. As he sat and rubbed his tender shin, she apologized more profusely than before. She said that if he wanted to try again, she would try to control her reflexes, but she couldn’t promise anything. After thinking it over he told her that his only intention anyway had been a friendly kiss, and under the circumstances it didn’t seem worth it. It was a pity there was something so unnatural about her. Really a pretty child. It seemed a problem for a psychiatrist. The next day he was aware that Mary
Jane and her friend Bitsy were doing a lot of giggling, but he decided that it must be some private joke. They certainly could never see anything humorous in Mary Jane’s curious affliction.

The party was, to his way of thinking, an interesting variation on standard procedure. It was like the difference between the stalk of a game animal and the use of beaters. In the stalk the hunter used his guile and experience and knowledge of the habits of the game to get within range for the kill. And he knew which specific animal he was after. But when beaters were used, the hunter had merely to station himself at some strategic spot and keep his wits about him as the game was being driven toward him. He did not know which animal would burst out of the brush, or where it would first appear. The noise of the beaters made the animals lose much of their natural caution. The hunter had to be ready to move like lightning to take advantage of the unexpected opportunity.