"Yeah--how about some supper? If you am, and you ain't as hungry as you
look--"
"I'll tell the world I am, and then some. I ain't had a square meal
since yesterday morning, and I grabbed that at a quick-lunch joint. I'm
open to supper engagements, brother."
"All right. There's a side of bacon in that kyack over there. Get it out
and slice some off, and we'll have supper before you know it. We will,"
he added pessimistically, "if this dang brush will burn."
Bud found the bacon and cut according to his appetite. His host got
out a blackened coffeepot and half filled it with water from a dented
bucket, and balanced it on one side of the struggling fire. He remarked
that they had had some rain, to which Bud agreed. He added gravely that
he believed it was going to clear up, though--unless the wind swung back
into the storm quarter. Bud again professed cheerfully to be in perfect
accord. After which conversational sparring they fell back upon the
little commonplaces of the moment.
Bud went into a brush patch and managed to glean an armful of nearly
dry wood, which he broke up with the axe and fed to the fire, coaxing it
into freer blazing. The stranger watched him unobtrusively, critically,
pottering about while Bud fried the bacon.
"I guess you've handled a frying pan before, all right," he remarked at
last, when the bacon was fried without burning.
Bud grinned. "I saw one in a store window once as I was going by," he
parried facetiously. "That was quite a while back."
"Yeah. Well, how's your luck with bannock? I've got it all mixed."
"Dump her in here, ole-timer," cried Bud, holding out the frying pan
emptied of all but grease. "Wish I had another hot skillet to turn over
the top."
"I guess you've been there, all right," the other chuckled. "Well, I
don't carry but the one frying pan. I'm equipped light, because I've got
to outfit with grub, further along."
"Well, we'll make out all right, just like this." Bud propped the handle
of the frying pan high with a forked stick, and stood up. "Say, my
name's Bud Moore, and I'm not headed anywhere in particular. I'm just
traveling in one general direction, and that's with the Coast at my
back. Drifting, that's all. I ain't done anything I'm ashamed of or
scared of, but I am kinda bashful about towns. I tangled with a couple
of crooks, and they're pulled by now, I expect. I'm dodging newspaper
notoriety. Don't want to be named with 'em at all." He, spread his
hands with an air of finality. "That's my tale of woe," he supplemented,
"boiled down to essentials. I just thought I'd tell you."
"Yeah. Well, my name's Cash Markham, and I despise to have folks get
funny over it. I'm a miner and prospector, and I'm outfitting for a trip
for another party, looking up an old location that showed good prospects
ten years ago. Man died, and his wife's trying to get the claim
relocated. Get you a plate outa that furtherest kyack, and a cup.
Bannock looks about done, so we'll eat."