Anyway, the whole trip was a gamble. All was on the knees of the gods. A challenge to Fate. A fortune at one end and a shoestring to start with. Their luck might as well be tested first as last. There is no adventurer who is not a gambler, who does not believe in his star. An atheist may not believe in a God but, if he plays cards, he has his pet superstitions.
They got into Calexico at midnight and found the town asleep. But there were certain night-hawks with jitneys ready to cross the line to where clocks were superfluous and day and night served only to mark the watches of the purveyors to the appetites of the throng that fluttered round Joe Castro's Casa Grande until their wings got singed; or until some rare flier, weighted down with gold, fled north as self-appointed publicity agent of this Mexican Monaco.
It took ten dollars out of the unlucky thirteen to take them to Casa Grande, a collection of adobe buildings bulking purple black in the violet night. Lighted windows showed orange like so many eyes, and a strange, intoxicating murmur came from the pueblo of chance; a medley of human passions, laughter, exuding, music, a vibrant hum that set the blood to pulsing with primal emotions.
Two rounds of drinks—and the liquor was good—reduced them to their working capital. If they lost, they were beggars, unless they sold out half their rights to José Castro for a grubstake. A couple of hours, or less, would see them with sufficient to go on—or bankrupt.
