While he was waiting and watching he saw a man come out of the cabin.
The fellow lounged down to the spring for a pan of water and lounged
back to the house; the eternal Mexican cigaret in his lips sent its
floating ribbon of smoke behind him. Ten minutes later the same man
came out, this time to lie down on the ground under a tree.
"Just one _hombre_," decided Kendric. "A lazy devil of a sheepherder.
There's more than a fair chance that his _siesta_ will last all
afternoon."
At any rate, here appeared his even break. He sprang up, went with
swinging strides down the slope, taking the shortest cut, and reached
the cabin by the back door. The Mexican still lay under his tree.
Kendric looked in at the door. No one there, just a bare, empty untidy
room. It was bedroom, kitchen and dining-room. In the latter capacity
it appealed strongly to Kendric. He went in, set his rifle down, and
rummaged.
There was, of course, a big pot of red beans. And there were
_tortillas_, a great heap of them. Kendric took half a dozen of them,
moistened them in the half pan of water and poured a high heap of beans
on them. Then he rolled the tortillas up, making a monster cylindrical
bean sandwich. A soiled newspaper, with a look almost of antiquity to
it, he found on a shelf and wrapped about his sandwich which he thrust
into the bosom of his shirt. All of this had required about two
minutes and in the meantime his eyes had been busy, still rummaging.
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