“Partner,” he said, his little close-set eyes taking in the scene, wonderingly, “This is sure a great layout. How’d ye find the place, an’ what’s yer game?”
“I got up here by chance,” Gard said, evasively. “I liked the spot, and so I’ve stayed along. My name’s Gard,” he added, remembering that he had not told it.
“Mine’s Thad Broome,” the other replied, “an’ I’m runnin’ the hell of a streak o’ luck.”
Gard had moved his little table up beside his guest, and now he proceeded to serve his meal on flat, clay plates of rather nondescript shape. He had a fork and a spoon, rudely fashioned of wood, and these he allotted to the stranger.
“Did you make everything ye’ve got?” Broome demanded, examining them curiously.
“Very nearly,” was the reply, and the new-comer began to eat, eagerly. At intervals, during the meal, he told his story.
“I’m a cowman myself,” he said, flinging a bone out across the glade, “An’ if ever I git back on the range ye kin fry me in skunk ile first time ye ketch me off it.”
He took another great draught of the acorn coffee, swearing, savagely, as he set the bowl down.
“Seems like I’d never git the taste o’ the desert out’n my mouth again,” he muttered.
“I was with the ‘K bar C’ outfit,” he went on, “Up Tusayan way. Know it?”