“Wagon road due west to MacCleod’s Pass.”
“Can’t see any pass from here.”
“Naw. You slip into fold between the hills, and twist round like a figure three. Then you come to a big open park and MacCleod’s Tank. Three draws run down from the park to the river. ’Pache cañon, the biggest, runs north to nowhere; Redgate, on the left, twists round to Garfield. Wagon road goes down Redgate. And Deadman Draw, in between, bears due west and heap down, short and sweet. Riding?”
“Yep. Hillsboro. The middle draw will be the one for me, then.”
By ten o’clock they watered the horse herd at Preisser Lake; the wagons toiled far behind. Half a mile away they picked the camp site, with a little ridge for wind-break, soapweeds to tie night horses to, wood handy, and a nearby valley to be a bed ground for the herd; a valley wide, open, free from brush, gully or dog holes.
They dragged up a great pile of mesquite roots and built a fire; Pat went to watch his horses and Johnny returned to the lake. Henry drove the wagon into the lake, hub deep; Johnny stood on the hub and dipped buckets of water, which he handed up for the cook to pour into the barrel.
While these two filled the barrel the grumbling night wrangler drove on to the fire; when the slow chuck wagon trundled up, the night-hawk had unharnessed his span of mules, spread his roll in the cool shade under the bed wagon, and was already asleep. The cook tossed down the odd beds, handed down to Johnny certain pots, pans, ovens; he jumped down—slap, snap, clatter, flash!—the ovens were on the fire, the chuck box open, flour in the bread pan; Henry was at his profession, mixing bread on the table made by the open lid of the chuck box, upheld by a hinged leg which fell into place as the lid tilted down.
Johnny unharnessed; he unrolled a tarp which wrapped a quarter of beef, and hung the beef on the big brake; he filled the ten-gallon coffee kettle and took it to the fire.
“Henry,” he said cautiously, “can you let me have some cold bread and meat—enough for night and morning? I’m for Hillsboro. Goin’ to make a dry camp beyond the river somewhere. Hillsboro’s too far and Garfield not far enough. So I don’t want to stay at the settlements to-night. I’ll lay out and stake my horse, I reckon. Got to find the John Cross wagon to-morrow, and it’ll take me all my time—so I don’t want to wait for dinner.”