"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."

"I guess you've been there, all right," the other chuckled.
"Well, I don't carry but the one frying pan. I'm equipped light,
because I've got to outfit with grub, further along."

"Well, we'll make out all right, just like this." Bud propped
the handle of the frying pan high with a forked stick, and stood
up. "Say, my name's Bud Moore, and I'm not headed anywhere in
particular. I'm just traveling in one general direction, and
that's with the Coast at my back. Drifting, that's all. I ain't
done anything I'm ashamed of or scared of, but I am kinda bashful
about towns. I tangled with a couple of crooks, and they're
pulled by now, I expect. I'm dodging newspaper notoriety. Don't
want to be named with 'em at all." He, spread his hands with an
air of finality. "That's my tale of woe," he supplemented,
"boiled down to essentials. I just thought I'd tell you."

"Yeah. Well, my name's Cash Markham, and I despise to have
folks get funny over it. I'm a miner and prospector, and I'm
outfitting for a trip for another party, looking up an old
location that showed good prospects ten years ago. Man died, and
his wife's trying to get the claim relocated. Get you a plate
outa that furtherest kyack, and a cup. Bannock looks about done,
so we'll eat."