So when he presently came upon two sway-backed burros that showed the sweaty imprint of packsaddles freshly removed, and a couple of horses also sweat roughened, he straightway assumed that some one was making camp not far away. One of the horses was hobbled, and they were all eating hungrily the grass that grew along the gully's sides. Camp was not only close, but had not yet reached suppertime, Bud guessed from the well-known range signs. Two or three minutes proved him right. He came upon a man just driving the last tent peg. He straightened up and stared at Bud unblinkingly for a few seconds. “Howdy, howdy,” he greeted him then with tentative friendliness, and went on with his work. “You lost?” he added carefully. A man walking down out of the barren hills, and carrying absolutely nothing in the way of camp outfit, was enough to whet the curiosity of any one who knew that country. At the same time curiosity that became too apparent might be extremely unwelcome. So many things may drive a man into the hills--but few of them would bear discussion with strangers. “Yes. I am, and I ain't.” Bud came up and stood with his hands in his coat pockets, and watched the old fellow start his fire. “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.”