They might have had the Holy Grail in there in those wild heights, those spirits of the Capitans. I do not know. There might be better than ’Pache and I to send for it!
Down the long reaches on the other side we rattled, in and out, loppity, loppity, loppity; down into cañons which grew darker as the sun went down. ’Pache didn’t mind it now. He knew where he was, and into his wise, yellow head came visions of a pint of hard, blue Mexican corn, and a whole rio full of water. Happy ’Pache!
But what made the creature stick his ears forward so, and throw his head up, and look around at me out of the corner of his eye? Anything to make a fellow hitch his belt around a little? Ah! There it was. Piñon smoke! The faint, pungent odor came up the cañon quite unmistakably now, and ’Pache and I knew that someone had gone into camp down on the rio, more than a mile below. We had expected to camp there that night ourselves, though it wasn’t plain what we’d have to eat, outside that one pint of Mexican corn, unless Providence should favor a pin-hook, or send a cotton-tail our way. So ’Pache and I scrambled up out of the cañon, at a shallow place, and reconnoitered a bit.
Greasers—a man and a boy—a bull-team—empty—going home from the Fort.
’Pache turned up his nose in disgust. How he did hate Greasers!
We scrambled back into the cañon, and came down the trail on a run, in great style, to show the Greaser outfit that, though we had traveled far, there was still some life in us. ’Pache stopped short at the edge of the wagon, and fell to stealing corn, while his rider threw the bridle down and advanced to the campers, saying, “Como l’va?”
“Como la va, Señor?” said the elder Mexican; and soon he added, seeing that I did not ride on, “Que queres?”
“Quero comar,” said I, briefly and to the point—which is to say, “I want to eat.”
“O, si, muy bien!” said he, smiling gravely, and with a real dignity handing me the camp frying-pan, and then poking the embers up around the coffee-pot. They had just finished their supper.
What there was in that frying-pan I never knew. I only know there was less when I got through than when I began. I dared look at it only once, and then saw a greenish-looking semi-liquid which would have done to tell fortunes over. I suspect chili verde and sheep; maybe cotton-tail, perhaps flour—possibly onions.