“Weather’s turning foul,” said Leon. “But we’re going to press on.”
“Esmeralda is saying that once a storm hits the Strait of Magellan it lasts a week,” said Vivi, indicating the innkeeper, a leathery lady with a prominent jaw.
Esmeralda waved me to a spot at the table and slapped down a bowl with a pozole and lamb stew. Baxter, with fickle affections, had chosen to lie placidly on the floor next to Vivi’s chair.
“I’ve got them gassing up our plane,” said Stan, handing me the gourd of morning mate that was passing around the table. He was wearing a heavy red and white serape that he must have gotten from the landlady. “The fueling might take another hour. They had to truck in extra drums of gas. We definitely want to be full to the brim. Don’t want to run dry before we hit Leng.”
mateS
