noon
Concho raised the bottle to his lips , took a long draught , made a wry face , and ejaculated : `` Carajo ! '' It appeared that the bottle did not contain aguardiente , but had lately been filled in a tavern near Tres Pinos by an Irishman who sold had American whisky under that pleasing Castilian title . Nevertheless Concho had already nearly emptied the bottle , and it fell back against the saddle as yellow and flaccid as his own cheeks . Thus reinforced Concho turned to look at the valley behind him , from which he had climbed since noon . It was a sterile waste bordered here and there by arable fringes and valdas of meadow land , but in the main , dusty , dry , and forbidding . His eye rested for a moment on a low white cloud line on the eastern horizon , but so mocking and unsubstantial that it seemed to come and go as he gazed . Concho struck his forehead and winked his hot eyelids .