"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."