He made his way down among the boulders, sliding the last few feet to the bottom of the cañon, where he picked up a sizable club. His steps made little sound in the yielding sand, as he made his way down the bottom to where he circled the big boulder, and where they had built their fire.
Clustered around the little spring were dozens of quail, getting their morning drink. Rex did not know what they were, except that they were birds, and birds meant food. Perhaps they had never before seen a human being, because they merely squatted and looked at him. With a side swing of his hand he flung the club into them, killing three and sending the rest in a whirring, curving flight down the cañon.
He secured his birds, filled his hat with water, and started on his return journey to the cave. Nan had dressed and cooked many quail, and she fairly danced with joy at the sight of the three birds.
‘I didn’t know what they were,’ confessed Rex. ‘But they looked good to eat, so I hit them with a club.’
Nan skinned the birds and they went back into the cave to build up the fire. Briggs had not moved yet, and Rex was afraid he was dead, but he muttered brokenly, as Rex leaned over him.
He did not look so formidable now; more like an oldish man who had been badly mistreated. It seemed as though his head had been battered until it was all out of shape.
‘He is wearing a dress shirt,’ said Rex. ‘Isn’t it queer for a man down here to be wearing a stiff-bosom shirt? Did you ever see him before, Nan?’
‘No, I never have. See if you can find a couple of green sticks, Rex; about a yard long and as big as your finger, to broil these quail on.’
‘But what are we going to do with this man, Nan? He’s in awful bad shape. Shouldn’t we tie him up, or something?’
‘I don’t know, Rex. We haven’t any ropes. Oh, I don’t think he can hurt anybody. He’s just an old man.’