Neither would she—after Pedro had saddled up and departed, have any commerce with the jacal. “It isn’t that it’s dirty. Old Pedro is as clean in his habits as any white man, and quite fussy over his housekeeping. But it has been lived in. We’ll camp by the stream at the far end of the valley.”
She did borrow a few clay drinking and cooking bowls; also appropriated a savory stew of frijoles which Pedro had ready for supper, adding it to the supplies they had brought from San Carlos. On his part Gordon commandeered an old shot-gun.
“What for?” Though he laughed, repeating her question, the glow in his eye proved him at one with her in spirit. “To kill the meat for our first meal, Mrs. Stone-Hatchet. Also protect you against the attack of any saber-toothed tiger or dinosaurus that may be roaming at night in this neck of the woods.”
“That will be fine!” Her hands being full of clay dishes, she could not clap them; but her shining eyes supplied the applause. “The wood at the end of the valley is alive with wild pigeon. They’re just lovely broiled over hot coals.”
“Broiled over hot coals?” he teased her. “Wild doves, the symbol of love? What desecration!”
“I don’t care,” she pouted. “One has to eat—and they’re awfully good.”
Nevertheless, after they had pitched camp where the stream plunged down a small rapid into a long, still pool, he shouldered the gun and went after wild pigeon without compunction.
After he departed she looked around and took a deep breath.
It was all as it should be. In anticipation of their coming, a great oak had spread a leafy carpet under its wide branches. It required only to gather them and spread their serapes to form the softest of couches. First she brought water and built a fire; then, after a shy glance around, she followed down-stream to a spot where the pool curved into a natural arbor of alders. When Gordon returned, half an hour later, with a half-dozen pigeons he found her all red and rosy from her swim.
“Your turn, Dirty Man,” she rallied him. “Go and take your bath.”