At once the man became active. “Sure; sure!” he said with a grin. “I’ll get you a bucket.”
She waited, the pinto pulling the reins and nosing the spigot of the tank.
Directly the man came to her with a galvanized pail. Behind him in the door more men now appeared, and two women with impossibly pink and white faces stood on tiptoe and watched over the men’s shoulders. From behind them came the click of gambling devices and the wheezy complaint of a piano.
The man who brought the bucket wore a black Stetson hat, a cream-colored silk shirt without a tie, and a fancy silk vest. Underneath the vest the shirt bloused comfortably, cow-puncher fashion. He was dark and had a carefully waxed black mustache. His dark eyes seemed small and calculating—a slight cast in one of them. Manzanita remembered him now. He was the man who had watched her so keenly on her first surreptitious visit to Stlingbloke.
“Oh, thank you so much,” she said, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice, for now she was just a little bit afraid of this man’s steady stare.
She attempted to take the bucket. Their hands touched.
“Le’ me draw the water,” he suggested.
“Just a little, please—not over two inches in the bucket. More might hurt her, overheated as she is.”
“Sure! I know. Just a little at first. More pretty soon, maybe.”
He turned on the water, and the pinto frantically nosed him aside to thrust her muzzle into the refreshing downpour. Manzanita stood silent, ill at ease, as the group in the door still gazed at her and laughed occasionally among themselves.