“We brought coffee,” Wally said, “so as to have a fire.” They had brought something else too: a bottle of milky liquor that Tom claimed was tequila. Gin disagreed on principle. “You’re crazy. There never is any tequila in Santa Fé. Every time some bootlegger goes wrong on his gin he sells the batch to cowboys and calls it tequila.” “I brought it myself from Juarez,” said Tom. “It ain’t gin. If you don’t want it, pass it up. I can use it.” Flo said bravely, “Well, I’ll try it. I need something new to get cheered up. I don’t care what it is. If I get sick they’ll have to let me off the trip tomorrow.” “Oh,” said Gin, “I didn’t say I didn’t want it. Hand it over.” They munched sandwiches and cake in silence. Gin tasted the drink and silently admitted that she was wrong. It might not be tequila, but it was something very strange. It had a chilling effect at first, and after each swallow settled down in her stomach like a stubborn little lump of lead before it seemed to melt and spread. The others finished the food before she noticed: there were only three limp jelly sandwiches left. “You made them,” said Flo, unkindly. “Eat ’em. I told you not to. Have more coffee.” “She don’t want coffee,” Tom interposed. “Give her the bottle.” Flo said in a discouraged tone, “It’s having no effect whatever. I thought I could get happy tonight and forget my troubles, but I’m just the same, only worse.” “It always acts like that when you set out for a good one,” said Wally. “One night last year I started out for a three-day party and I kept going all night and went to bed in the morning cold sober.” “It’s a strange life,” Gin suddenly said. She hugged her knees and rocked backward, staring at the sky. “People trying to make themselves crazy with bottles of poison, when everything is all right as it is.” “What’s that?” Wally looked worried. “It’s a strange life,” she repeated. “Everything is peculiar. Don’t you think so? Really, don’t you?” Flo sighed audibly. “Leave her alone; she’s off again.” “But it is,” Gin persisted. A messianic zeal possessed her: she must convey the message in her soul or die unappeased. The moon, the bushes, the beautiful silent horses, all waited with an understanding patience while she spoke to these scoffers. “It is,” she said again. “Here I am sitting by a fire out in the middle of Nature, wearing pants and drinking tequila. I mean here I am, and ten years ago—five years ago—I was living in cities and wearing skirts and now here I am. It’s wonderful.” “That’s all right,” said Tom. “Of course it’s wonderful.” “It’s so peculiar. Can’t you see?” Her eyes filled with tears; her soul filled with a passionate sensibility of life and all its lovely factors; the moon, the fire, the horses.... She stretched out on the ground and put her head on her arm, thinking it over. Tom rose to his feet, leaned over her, and pulled her gently by the arm. “Come on, Gin. Come on back to town with me and we’ll get some more funny thoughts.”