“Caballo Blanco is good friends with your dad?” I asked. “Sí.” Marcelino nodded, before disappearing inside the school-house. “He’s a really good guy.” Okay, I thought later that afternoon. Maybe ángel would buffalo us, but I gotta trust the Torch. ángel told us Caballo might be heading to the town of Creel, but we had to hurry: if we didn’tcatch him, there was no telling where he’d turn up next. The Horse would often vanish for monthsat a time; no one knew where he went or when he’d be back. Miss him, and we might not getanother chance. And ángel sure hadn’t lied about one thing, as I was discovering by the surprising strength in mylegs: just before we began our long climb out of the canyon, he’d handed me a dented tin cup fullof something he promised would help. “You’ll like this,” he assured me. I peered inside. The cup was full of gooey slime that looked like rice pudding without the rice, lotsof black-flecked bubbles I was eggs in midhatch. If I were anywhere else, I’dthink it was a gag; it looked exactly like a kid had scooped the scum out of his aquarium to see ifhe could trick me into tasting it. Best guess, it was some kind of fermented root mixed with riverwater— meaning if the taste didn’t make me hurl, the bacteria would. “Great,” I said, looking around for a cactus I could dump it behind. “What is it?” “Iskiate.”