"Mr. Hill is just angry," she explained good-naturedly, "on account of
that other man; but if you'll wait a few minutes I'll cook you some
breakfast and----"

"Thank you, ma'am," returned the miner, taking off his hat civilly,
"I'll just take a drink and go."

He hurried back to the well and, picking up the bucket, drank long and
deep of the water; then he threw away the rest and with practiced hands
drew up a fresh bucket from the depths.

"You'd better fill a bottle," called Bunker Hill, whose anger was
beginning to evaporate, "it's sixteen miles to the next water."

The hobo said nothing, nor did he fill a bottle, and as he came back
past them there was a set to his jaw that was eloquent of rage and
disdain. It was the custom of the country--of that great, desert country
where houses are days' journeys apart--to invite every stranger in; and
as Bunker Hill gazed after him he saw his good name held up to
execration and scorn. This boy was a Westerner, he could tell by his
looks and the way he saved on his words, perhaps he even lived in those
parts; and in a sudden vision Hill beheld him spreading the news as he
followed the long trail to the railroad. He would come dragging in to
Whitlow's Wells, the next station down the road, so weak he could hardly
walk and when they enquired into his famished condition he would unfold
some terrible tale. And the worst of it was that the boys would believe
it and repeat it to all who passed. Men would hear in distant cow camps,
far back in the Superstitions, that Old Bunk had driven a starving man
from his door and he had nearly perished on the desert.

"Hey!" called Bunker Hill taking a step or two after him, "wait a
minute--I'll give you a lunch."

"You can keep your lunch," said the man over his shoulder and strode
doggedly on up the hill.

"Gimme something to take to him," rapped out Hill to his wife, but the
hobo's sharp ears had caught the words and he wheeled abruptly in his
tracks.

"I wouldn't take your danged lunch if it was the last grub on earth," he
shouted in a towering rage; and while they stood gazing he turned his
back and passed on over the hill.

"Let 'im go!" grumbled Bunker pacing up and down and avoiding his
helpmeet's eye, but at last he ripped out a smothered oath and racked
off down the street to his stable. This was an al fresco affair,
consisting of a big stone corral within the walls of what had once been
the dancehall, and as he saddled up h