The cook handed him a pan, a tin cup, and a knife, fork, and spoon. Then he waved at the pan. "Take all you want of this grub, an' take it now. This bein' a one-man outfit I'll eat off th' cookin' utensils—utensils sounds misleadin', don't it?—somethin' like tonsils or a disease. Now I warn you: dig in deep an' take all you kin eat, for there won't be no second helpin' after I gets my holt. Want yore coffee now?"
"Later, I reckon," smiled Ackerman. "You shore can cook. Better take th' cup first if you wants yore coffee now. I'll use it later."
"Soon as we open one of them cans I'll have a cup of my own, an' we're goin' to open one tomorrow," grinned Long Pete, opening his pocketknife and attacking the frying pan. When the pan had been cleaned of the last morsel Pete emptied the cup, washed it in the creek, refilled it and handed it to his companion. Rolling a cigarette with one hand, he lit it, inhaled deeply and blew a cloud of smoke toward the sky.
"Cuss me if that don't hit me plumb center," he chuckled. "An' plumb center is th' place for it. I'd ruther eat my own cookin' in th' open, than feed in th' house after some dirty cook got through messin' with th' grub. At first I thought you was another prospector; but when I looked close I saw that you didn't have th' rest of th' outfit. Now don't you say nothin'. I ain't lookin' for no information; I'm givin' it. You see, I shoots off my mouth regardless, for I'm a great talker when I'm sober; an' tight as a fresh-water clam when I'm drunk. A whiskered old ram of a sky-pilot once told me that I was th' most garrulous man he'd ever met up with. After I let him up he explained what garrulous means; an' th' word sort of stuck in my memory. I know it stuck in his; he'll never forget it."
Ackerman coughed up some coffee. "He won't," he gasped. "But what—made you think—I might be prospectin'?"
"Just a little superstition of mine," explained Long Pete. "There's some coffee runnin' down yore neck. You never ought to laugh when yo're drinkin'. Good thing it wasn't whiskey. Things allus comes in bunches. That purty near allus holds good, as mebby you've noticed. I have. I saw one prospector, a cow-puncher gone loco, hoofin' it in th' dirt alongside his loaded cayuse. Of th' two I thinks most of th' cayuse. It was a black, of thoroughbred strain, steppin' high an' disdainful, with more intelligence blazin' out of its big eyes than its master ever had. So when I sees you ridin' along with a big pack I reckoned mebby that you must 'a' eat some of th' same weed an' had got th' same kind of hallucernations. They's different kinds, you know. But this is once th' rule fails. There won't be no bunch of prospectors, an' I know why; but that's a secret. There won't be no third."
Ackerman looked keenly at him through narrowed lids, speculating, wondering, puzzled. Then he leaned back and yawned. "Is there a prospector down here?" he asked incredulously. "You don't mean it."
Long Pete coolly looked him over from boots to sombrero. "I'm duly grateful for this sumptious feed, an' I know what is th' custom when you breaks bread with a man; but I do mean it; an' I don't lie even when my words are ramblin' free. I reckon, mebby, you ought to remember that. We'll sort of get along better, day after day."
"No offense! I was just surprised. Which way was th' fool headin'?"