After all, the way Doolin and Mr. Weston did it, it was very simple. Water for this first stop was carried in a barrel. The horses were watered, given oats and picketed. A pot of coffee was made; two cans of baked beans were heated; a can of peaches was opened; the crackers were passed—there was not even condensed milk for the coffee—and the evening meal was over.
Immediately, with no dishes to wash, old Doolin extracted a rifle from somewhere in the wagon and, charging his pipe, strolled away in the dark “to stretch his legs,” as he put it. The sky was black-blue; the stars were like white hot carbons; no insects disturbed the breezeless soft surroundings, and the red-yellow glow of the dying cook fire sent a straight line of thin smoke upward.
“Goin’ huntin’?” asked Roy, indicating old Doolin.
“Doolin never sets by the fire,” explained Mr. Weston. “He may not be back till midnight. Jist onrestless. But he ain’t lookin’ fur no game. That gun’s like a cane to him. He may be up on the Mesa Verde afore he gits sleepy.”
Roy was tired, after his first day in the saddle. He was lying on a blanket, his eyes on the little fire, and wondering if he would like to be going with the “onrestless” Doolin. Weston was sitting with his back against a wagon wheel, his knees crooked before him, with one hand lazily grasping his bubbling pipe.
“So ye want to know why they call me ‘Sink?’” he said suddenly, as if the two had just been discussing the subject.
Roy cast his eyes again in the direction Doolin had taken. Their companion had disappeared. Somewhere, at that moment, a shivery half-bark and half-wail sounded.
“Coyote,” said Mr. Weston without moving.
The cook fire was but little more than a dying blaze. Just a little wave of apprehension crept over the boy. Was he alone with an irresponsible man? Was his companion about to recall an imaginary experience, an hallucination that might work him into a frenzy? Roy was almost sorry that the teamster had left. He was not afraid, but—