“Dunno. Don’ nobody know. Steve, he makes them shack. Got cattle, got horses, got chickens. Mine a little, mebby. One time my brother she go there. No ketchum Steve Carson no place. Hears all time holler up there. My brother holler. Thinks that’s Steve, mebby. My brother wait damn long time. Steve don’t come. All time them holler up on hill. My brother thinks Steve’s hurt, mebby. My brother goes. Hunts damn long time. Looks all over. No ketchum Steve. My brother scare, you bet! “My brother comes my place. Tells Steve Carson, he’s hurt, hollers all time. Tells no ketchum Steve no place. I go, my father goes. Other mans go. Hunt damn long time. Nobody hollers. No ketchum Steve Carson. Saddle in shed, wagon by tree, canteens hang up, beans on stove--burnt like hell. Them cat holler all time. “By ’m by we go. Hunt two days, then go. We get on horses, then comes holler like hell up on hill. Get off horses. Hunt some more. All night. No ketchum holler. No ketchum Steve no place. Them cat go ‘Yeouw! Yeouw!’ all time like hell. “My brother, she’s damn ’fraid for ghos’. My brother gets on horse and goes away from that place. Pretty soon my brother dies. That’s five years we don’t find Steve Carson. All them time holler comes sometimes. This place bad luck. Injuns don’t come here no more, you bet. We come here now little while when sun shines. Comes night time it’s damn bad place. You hear them hollers you don’t get scared?” It would seem that Gary’s assertion had not quite convinced them. The young Indian was plainly skeptical. According to the judgment of his tribe, it was scarcely decent for a man to foregather with ghosts and feel no fear. The mottled cat squirmed out of Gary’s embrace and went bounding away among the rocks. The eyes of the Indians followed it inscrutably. The old man got up, clawed in his pack, pulled out a dirty cloth in which something was tied. He opened the small bundle, scooped a handful of tea and emptied it into the bucket of boiling water. The young man opened a savage-looking pocket knife and began cutting thick slices of salt pork. The old Indian brought a dirty frying pan to the fire. Gary leaned against the rock ledge and watched them interestedly. After so long an exile from all human intercourse, even two grimy Piutes meant much to him in the way of companionship. They talked little while they were preparing the meal. And when they ate, squatting on their heels and spearing pork from the frying pan with the points of their big jackknives, and folding the pieces around fragments of hard, untempting bannock, they said nothing at all. Gary decided that eating was a serious business with them and was not to be interrupted by anything so trivial as conversation.