“Because there were only three words in it,” interjected Emma Dean.
Hippy sniffed, and, getting up, went over and untied his pony.
While the men were staking down the horses and fetching water for them from the stream, the girls were busily engaged in preparing supper. Ike not only had pitched the tents, but had placed the luggage of his charges in its proper place and set the camp in order in advance of the arrival of the party.
The campfire was still low, purposely kept so for cooking purposes, but a heap of wood nearby promised a cheerful blaze later on.
Pork and beans, bread without butter, canned soup and cake, that Hippy Wingate declared had been baked on a cactus plant, together with a large pot of coffee, formed the principal part of the evening’s bill of fare.
“Not a prize winner in variety, but great chow,” approved Hippy, which was high praise for Lieutenant Wingate.
Following the meal, Elfreda questioned the old stagecoach driver about the country where they were encamped.
“All Apache ground,” answered Ike with a comprehensive wave of the hand. “They’ve fit over every inch of it. You’ll see some of them folks to-morrow or next day. How long do you reckon on stayin’ at the Lodge?”
“What is there to keep us busy there?” asked Grace.
“The lake, the cliff dwellers’ homes, Apaches, an’ huntin’ in the Sierra Anchas, if you folks care for thet. There’s great fishin’ in the lake too.”