"Unsaddle and eat a small snack.

We was just taking a little noonday nap for ourselves." "Beans, jerky gravy, and bread," announced the short man, waiter fashion.
"I'll hot up the coffee." With the word he fed little sticks and splinters to a tiny fire, now almost burned out, near the circumference of that shaded circle.
"Yes, to all that; thank you," said Pete, slipping off.
He loosened the cinches; so doing he caught from the corner of his eye telegraphed tidings, as his two hosts rolled to each other a single meaningful glance, swift, furtive, and white-eyed.

Observing which, every faculty of Pete Johnson's mind tensed, fiercely alert, braced to attention.
"Now what?
Some more of the same.

Lights out! Protect yourself!" he thought, taking off the saddle.

Aloud he said: "One of Zurich's ranches, isn't it?
I saw ZK burned on the gateposts." He passed his hand along Midnight's sweaty back for possible bruise or scald; he unfolded the Navajo saddle blanket and spread it over the saddle to dry.