The mottled cat squirmed out of Gary’s embrace and went bounding away among the rocks. The eyes of the Indians followed it inscrutably. The old man got up, clawed in his pack, pulled out a dirty cloth in which something was tied. He opened the small bundle, scooped a handful of tea and emptied it into the bucket of boiling water. The young man opened a savage-looking pocket knife and began cutting thick slices of salt pork. The old Indian brought a dirty frying pan to the fire.
Gary leaned against the rock ledge and watched them interestedly. After so long an exile from all human intercourse, even two grimy Piutes meant much to him in the way of companionship. They talked little while they were preparing the meal. And when they ate, squatting on their heels and spearing pork from the frying pan with the points of their big jackknives, and folding the pieces around fragments of hard, untempting bannock, they said nothing at all. Gary decided that eating was a serious business with them and was not to be interrupted by anything so trivial as conversation.
He wanted to hear more about the Johnnywater ghost and about Steve Carson. But the Piutes evidently considered the subject closed, and he could get nothing more out of them. He suspected that he had his sack of Bull Durham to thank for the unusual loquacity while they smoked.
After they had eaten they led their horses up to the pool and let them drink their fill. After that they mounted and rode away, in spite of Gary’s urging them to camp where they were until they had brought in the Walking X horses. They would go back, they said, to Deer Lick and camp there for the night. In the morning they would round up his horses and drive them over to Johnnywater.
Gary was not quite satisfied with the arrangement, but they had logic on their side so far as getting the horses was concerned. Their own mounts would be fresh in the morning for the work they had to do. But the thing Gary hated most was their flat refusal to spend a night at Johnnywater Cañon.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“HOW WILL YOU TAKE YOUR MILLIONS?”
“Johnnywater Cañon,
“On a Dark and Gloomy Night.
“My Princess Pat:
“You are the possessor of a possession of which you wittest not. You have a ghost. Wire Conan Doyle, Sir Oliver Lodge and others of their ilk. Ask them what is the best recipe for catching a Voice. The gink up on the bluff that does so much vocal practice is not a gink—he’s a spook. He’s up there vocaling right now, doing his spookish heckest to give me the willies.