American type, whose appearance was in nowise remarkable except as
to locality. With a grunt that might have been greeting, but was
more probably surprise, the newcomer passed the seated man. Captain
Funcke he did not see at all. That astute hunter had dropped behind
a boulder.

At the brink of the tenaja the colonel stopped dead. Then with an
outburst of flaming language, he leaped in, burrowing among the
rocks.

"Dry!" he yelled, lifting a furious and appalled face to his
companion.

Fred stood staring from Average Jones to his three canteens. There
was a murderous look on his sinister face.

"Got water?" he growled.

"Yes," replied the young man.

"Here, Colonel," said Fred. "Here's drink for us."

"For sale," added Average Jones calmly.

"People don't buy water in this country."

"You're not people," returned Average Jones cheerfully. "You're a
corporation; a soulless corporation. The North Pinto Gold Mining
Company."