Gary lowered the canteens to the ground beside their little camp fire and got out his tobacco and papers, while he looked the two over.
“So you think it’s a bad place, do you? Is that why you camp out here?”
“Them cañon no good,” stated the other Indian, speaking for the first time. “Too much holler all time no see ’m. That’s bad luck.”
“You mean the man up on the bluff, that hollers so much?” Gary eyed them interestedly. “Who is he? You fellows know anything about it?”
They looked at one another and muttered some Indian words. The old man began to unpack the apathetic mule standing with dropped lip behind the two saddle horses.
“You know Monty Girard?” Gary asked, lighting his cigarette and proffering his smoking material to the younger Indian when he saw an oblique glance go hungrily to the smoke.
“Yass! Monty Girard. His camp by Kawich,” the old man answered in a tone of relief that the subject had changed.
“Well, I don’t know where Kawich is—I’m a stranger in the country. Seen him lately?” Gary waved his hand for the younger Indian to pass the tobacco and papers to the older buck. “Seen Monty lately?”
“Nah. We don’t see him, two months, maybe.” The old buck was trying to conceal his pleasure over the tobacco.
Gary thought of something. “You see any Walking X horses—work horses, or saddle horses?”