A rude query in Spanish came back from inside the hut.
"Wants to know who we are," he said in an aside to Jack. Then to the hermit:
"We are hunters, and lost in the mountains. Can we get food and water and some fodder for the ponies?"
An almost unintelligible answer came back.
"Wants us to lay down our rifles," translated Pete. "What do you say?"
"I guess we'll have to," said Jack. "I'm so hungry that I feel as if I'd risk anything for a square meal."
"That's the way I feel," agreed Pete. "The ponies, too, are pretty well played out. Reckon we'd better do as he says."
Accordingly, the rifles were dropped on the ground at the ponies' sides, and presently the rusty rifle barrel was withdrawn.
"What now?" wondered Jack.
The solitary cañon-dweller presently appeared at the door of his hut. He was an old man in ragged garments, so tattered as to here and there expose his flesh. His face was wrinkled till it resembled a monkey's more than a human being's. The lower half of his countenance was completely covered by a huge matted growth of white beard. He still kept his aged rifle in his hand as he faced his visitors, as if he was afraid of some treachery.