He lifted his head quickly, sniffing at the breeze. It was the unmistakable scent of frying bacon. Somewhere in that tangle of hills, and not far away, somebody was cooking breakfast.
Hashknife tied his horse behind an outcropping of granite boulders, and began working his way slowly ahead, stopping often to sniff at the breeze. He was obliged to travel a crooked course, winding around the upthrusts of granite, the tangle of greasewood and sage.
Now he could smell wood-smoke, mixed with the odor of coffee, but it was evident that the cook was using very dry wood which made little or no visible smoke. Suddenly Hashknife stopped short and leaned in close to a boulder. Just ahead of him in a little clearing was a man, squatting at a tiny fire. He had his back to Hashknife, as he ate from a small frying-pan, and drank from a tin can, which flashed back the rays of the sun.
The man was bareheaded. Around his throat was a dirty-white handkerchief. He wore no coat nor vest over his faded blue shirt, and his broad, bat-wing chaps seemed fairly new. The sun glinted on the heads of the cartridges in his belt, and a heavy gun sagged from his holster. His hair appeared very black at that distance.
Just behind him was a bright-colored blanket, spread out on the ground, and on it lay a rifle and several odds and ends. Finally he shook the coffee grounds from the can and poured the grease from the pan. Placing the two utensils together, he stamped out the fire with a thrust of his foot, hitched backwards to the blanket, where he began rolling a cigarette.
It seemed to Hashknife that the man would never turn around. He leaned back on one elbow and smoked slowly, apparently taking his ease. Magpies chattered at him from a tall greasewood across the coulee. They had evidently scented food.
Suddenly a horse nickered, fairly close at hand. Like a flash the man was on his feet, crouched, his head swinging from side to side, as he scanned the hills to the north and west. Then he whirled around and looked in Hashknife’s direction, but Hashknife had thoughtfully flattened himself against the rock.
Then the man stooped quickly, scooped up the blanket, took his cooking utensils, and faded into the brush, like a shadow. But Hashknife had seen his face, and it was no one he had ever seen before. The man was dark, thin-faced, with rather a long neck. His hair was very straight and appeared coarse, curving down over his forehead in a decided mat. He was about five feet, ten inches tall, but would not weigh more than a hundred and twenty-five.
After his sudden disappearance Hashknife relaxed and watched across the coulee. It was possibly five minutes later that he saw two riders, going slowly through the brush, about a hundred yards north of him. It was Jim Langley and Angel McCoy. As far as Hashknife could judge from their actions, they were not looking for anybody.
They passed out of sight, heading toward the Circle Spade ranch. But Hashknife held his position, and in a few minutes he saw a rider cutting along the side of a hill below him—a bareheaded man, riding a tall, gray horse. He was looking back, as though watching Langley and Angel. Finally he turned and rode deeper into the cañon.