He was abreast of the camp before he knew it.
"Whur you goin'?" Pinkey, who had returned, was hanging over the edge watching him stumbling along with his kettle of water.
"I'm hunting a place to get up," said Wallie, tartly.
"How did you git down?"
"'Way back there."
"Why didn't you git up the same way?"
"Couldn't--without spilling the water."
"I'll git a rope and snake you."
"This doesn't seem like a very convenient location," said Wallie, querulously.
"You can cut out some toe-holts to-morrow," Pinkey suggested, cheerfully. "The ground has got such a good slope to drain the corrals is the reason I picked it to build on."
This explanation reconciled Wallie to the difficulty of getting water. To build a fire and make the coffee was the work of a moment, but it seemed twenty-four hours to Wallie, sitting on a saddle-blanket watching every move like a hungry bird-dog. He thought he never had smelled anything so savoury as the odour of potatoes and onions cooking, and when the aroma of boiling coffee was added to it!
Pinkey stopped slicing ham to point at the sunset.
"Ain't that a great picture?"
"Gorgeous," Wallie agreed without looking.
"If I could paint."
"Does it take long to make gravy?" Wallie demanded, impatiently.
"Not so very. I'll git things goin' and let you watch 'em while I go and take a look at them buzzard-heads. If a horse ain't used to bein' on picket he's liable to go scratchin' his ear and git caught and choke hisself."
"Couldn't we eat first?" Wallie asked, plaintively.
"No, I'll feel easier if I know they ain't tangled. Keep stirrin' the gravy so it won't burn on you," he called back. "And set the coffee off in a couple of minutes."
Wallie was on his knees absorbed in his task of keeping the gravy from scorching when a sound made him turn quickly and look behind him.
A large man on a small white pony was riding toward him. He looked unprepossessing even at a distance and he did not improve, as he came closer. His nose was long, his jaw was long, his hair needed cutting and was greasy, while his close-set blue eyes had a decidedly mean expression. There was a rifle slung under his stirrup-leather, and a six-shooter in its holster on his hip was a conspicuous feature of his costume.
He sat for a moment, looking, then dropped the bridle reins as he dismounted and sauntered up to the camp-fire.
Wallie was sure that it was "Boise Bill," from a description Pinkey had given him, and his voice was slightly tremulous as he said: "Good evening."