Leaving the distant, misty mountains behind, the ancient Spanish coach rolled across the vast grassy highland plains. The horses galloped down a rutted and puddled road.
Before slamming the door of the plush coach, Yaquita had kissed Smith goodbye, then ran back to the plane with the pilot, claiming other “important business” she had to attend to. She’d warned the coachmen sternly before she left, “I think Pedrito hurt his head or something. He is acting just a little loco. Take good care of him, and get him to the hacienda safely, or I’ll rip out your eyes and feed them to the crows. Understand?”
Smith had no idea what he was supposed to do now, or how he would make his way with these strangers. They wouldn’t believe that he wasn’t Pedrito.
Perhaps, at least, they would have a telephon
