A tall, heavy man upreared himself from the shade.  His example was followed by another man, short and heavy.  Blankets were spread on a tarpaulin beyond them.

“’Light, stranger,” said the tall man heartily.  “Unsaddle and eat a small snack.  We was just taking a little noonday nap for ourselves.”

“Beans, jerky gravy, and bread,” announced the short man, waiter fashion.  “I’ll hot up the coffee.”

With the word he fed little sticks and splinters to a tiny fire, now almost burned out, near the circumference of that shaded circle.

“Yes, to all that; thank you,” said Pete, slipping off.

He loosened the cinches; so doing he caught from the corner of his eye telegraphed tidings, as his two hosts rolled to each other a single meaningful glance, swift, furtive, and white-eyed.  Observing which, every faculty of Pete Johnson’s mind tensed, fiercely alert, braced to attention.

“Now what?  Some more of the same.  Lights out!  Protect yourself!” he thought, taking off the saddle.  Aloud he said: 

“One of Zurich’s ranches, isn’t it?  I saw ZK burned on the gateposts.”

He passed his hand along Midnight’s sweaty back for possible bruise or scald; he unfolded the Navajo saddle blanket and spread it over the saddle to dry.  He took the sudaderos—­the jute sweatcloths under the Navajo—­and draped them over a huge near-by boulder in the sun, carefully smoothing them out to prevent wrinkles; to all appearance without any other care on earth.

“Yes; horse camp,” said the tall man.  “Now you water the black horse and I’ll dig up a bait of corn for him.  Wash up at the trough.”

“Puesto que si!” said Pete.

He slipped the bit out of Midnight’s mouth, pushing the headstall back on the sleek black neck by way of lead rope, and they strode away to the water pen, side by side.

When they came back a nose-bag, full of corn, stood ready near the fire.  Pete hung this on Midnight’s head.  Midnight munched contentedly, with half-closed eyes, and Pete turned to the fire.

“Was I kidding myself?” he inquired.  “Or did somebody mention the name of grub?”

“Set up!” grinned the tall man, kicking a small box up beside a slightly larger one, which served as a table.  “Nothing much to eat but food.  Canned truck all gone.”

The smaller host poured coffee.  Pete considered the boxes.

“You didn’t pack these over here?” he asked, prodding the table with his boot-toe to elucidate his meaning.  “And yet I didn’t see no wheel marks as I come along.”

“Fetch ’em from Silverbell.  We got a sort of wagon track through the hills.  Closer than Cobre.  Some wagon road in the rough places!  Snakes thick on the east side; but they don’t never get over here.  Break their backs comin’ through the gap.  Yes, sir!”

“Then I’ll just june along in the cool of the evenin’,” observed Pete, ladling out a second helping of jerked venison.  “I can follow your wagon tracks into town.  I ain’t never been to Silverbell.  Was afraid I might miss it in the dark.  How far is it?  About twenty mile, I reckon?”