"Good!" exclaimed Douglas Murray, as he felt the hot sand beneath his feet. "Come on over to the liquid emporium, boys, and I'll set up the drinks!"
"Not me," Sandy grimaced. "That sort o' stuff gets my innards, Murray. Besides, I'd better be seein' about business right now. Aiblins, we might make a deal to-night and be gone to-morrow."
"Suit yourself," Murray shrugged. "How about you, Willyum? Ice cream or business?"
"Me fer the cold stuff," averred Bill Hobbs. "I'm dry."
"Come on, then. You register for us, Sandy? Thanks. We'll be back and join you shortly."
"Need any money?" volunteered Mackintavers.
"Nope. Not yet. We're far from broke, thanks."
Murray and Hobbs walked across the street, stiff-legged with much riding, and entered the alluring portals of the refreshment palace.
A single man leaned over the bar, slowly consuming a bottle of near-beer and talking with the white-aproned proprietor. He was a dusty man, a withered, sun-browned, sand-smitten specimen of desert rat, and was palpably the owner of the two burros tethered outside the entrance.
"Ice cream," ordered Murray, ranging up alongside the prospector. "Have a dish, partner?"