Quigley laughed softly. "Water is one thing we don't have to worry about at all. That ditch was a great idea."
Could he have followed the ditch in the dark he would have been surprised to have seen the dam across it, and the cut through the artificial bank, where Luke Tedrue and a commandeered shovel had released the little stream and let it flow to Rustler Creek along its old, original bed down a shallow gully. That was Johnny's idea; but after the old scout had carried it out, he had an idea of his own which pleased him greatly, and he acted upon it without loss of time.
The cook stirred and sat up, feeling for his pipe, which was always his first act upon awakening. He grunted sleepily and sat on the edge of his bunk. "This is a whole lot like bein' in jail," he yawned. "An' what do you think? I dreamed that somebody had just tapped a keg of beer, an' when I sidled over to see that none of it was wasted, why I woke up! That's allus my luck. How soon'll it be daylight? That dream made me thirsty. Where's that cussed water bucket?"
"Right where it was th' last time you found it," grinned Purdy. "It ain't moved none at all."
"Yo're right, it ain't," grumbled the cook, scraping a tin cup across the bottom of the pail. "It never does unless I do it. I'll bet four bits that I've filled it every time it got empty; an' I'll bet four bits more that I ain't goin' to fill it this time," he chuckled. "There's just enough here for me. Th' next gent that wants a drink will be observed bendin' over th' trapdoor an' fillin' it for hisself. Here's how! An' d—n th' beer what only comes in dreams."
Gates crawled out of his bunk and limped to the bucket. "Get out of my way," he growled. "Speakin' of beer started my throat to raspin'. No you don't; not a-tall," he grumbled, pushing the cook aside. "I'll wait on myself, slugs or no slugs. I ain't no teethin' infant, even if I am full of holes." He crossed to the trapdoor and fumbled around in the dark. "Huh! I knowed it couldn't get far away. I've been kneelin' on it all th' time!"
"Better lemme do that," offered the cook, advancing.
"Better yore grandmother," said Gates. "No, ma'am; you put on too many airs, you do." He raised the door. "You might strain yore delicate back, Cookie, old boss. An' anyhow, I'm aimin' to spite you for that unnecessary remark about openin' a keg of beer. This ain't no time to talk about things like that." He leaned down and swung the bucket, but there was no splash, only a rattling, tinny thump. "Why," said his muffled voice, "there ain't no water here! Mebby I missed it. Why, d—n it, there ain't no water here a-tall! What th'—" His voice ceased abruptly and a solid, muffled thump came up through the opening.
The cook, leaning forward in the position he had frozen in when he had grasped the significance of the sound of the striking bucket, moved toward the trap, feeling before him. He touched the edge of the opening and swiftly felt around it. Gates was not there.
"D—n it, he's fell in!" he muttered. "It wasn't no job for a wounded man like him, bendin' over that way. Here, Purdy!" he called "Gimme a hand with Ben. He plumb keeled over an' fell in." He reached down impatiently and felt around. "H—l!" he yelled as an up-thrust hand gripped him, jerked him off his balance and pulled him down through the opening. "Look out, fellers!" he shouted.