Part 3 (1/2)
A thin-lookin' man was drivin', all humped up.
”Hullo, stranger,” says I, ”ain't you 'fraid of Injins?”
”Yes,” says he.
”Then why are you travellin' through an Injin country all alone?”
”Couldn't keep up,” says he. ”Can I get water here?”
”I reckon,” I answers.
He drove up to the water trough there at Texas Pete's, me and Gentleman Tim followin' along because our trail led that way. But he hadn't more'n stopped before Texas Pete was out.
”Cost you four bits to water them hosses,” says he.
The man looked up kind of bewildered.
”I'm sorry,” says he, ”I ain't got no four bits. I got my roll lifted off'n me.”
”No water, then,” growls Texas Pete back at him.
The man looked about him helpless.
”How far is it to the next water?” he asks me.
”Twenty mile,” I tells him.
”My G.o.d!” he says, to himself-like.
Then he shrugged his shoulders very tired.
”All right. It's gettin' the cool of the evenin'; we'll make it.” He turns into the inside of that old schooner.
”Gi' me the cup, Sue.”
A white-faced woman who looked mighty good to us alkalis opened the flaps and gave out a tin cup, which the man pointed out to fill.
”How many of you is they?” asks Texas Pete.
”Three,” replies the man, wondering.
”Well, six bits, then,” says Texas Pete, ”cash down.”
At that the man straightens up a little.
”I ain't askin' for no water for my stock,” says he, ”but my wife and baby has been out in this sun all day without a drop of water. Our cask slipped a hoop and bust just this side of Dos Cabesas. The poor kid is plumb dry.”
”Two bits a head,” says Texas Pete.
At that the woman comes out, a little bit of a baby in her arms. The kid had fuzzy yellow hair, and its face was flushed red and s.h.i.+ny.