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 God!" 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.