McHale bit into fresh consolation and spat in the direction of the inadequate dam.
"I reckon they've started in on us," he observed.
"Looks like it," Casey agreed.
"We need water now the worst way. I was figurin' on shootin' a big head on to the clover, and after that on to the oats. They sure need it. What's runnin' now ain't no use to us. We got to have more."
"No doubt about that, Tom," said Casey. "We'll ride up to their infernal dam and see just what's doing."
"Good enough!" cried McHale, his eyes lighting up. "But say, Casey, them ditch-and-dam boys ain't no meek-and-lowly outfit. Some of 'em is plumb hard-faced. How'd it be if I scattered back to the ranch first. I ain't packed a gun steady since I got to be a hayseed, but——"
"What do you want of a gun? We're just going to look at things and have a talk with Farwell."
"You never know when you'll need a gun," McHale asserted, as an incontrovertible general proposition.
"You won't need it this time. Come along."
It was almost midday when they came in sight of the construction camp beside the dam. To their surprise, a barbed wire fence had been thrown around it, enclosing an area of some twenty acres. On the trail, a space had been left for a gate, but it had not yet been hung. Beside it stood a post bearing a notice board, and, sitting with his back against the post, a man rested, smoking. As they came up, he rose and sauntered into the trail between the gate-posts.