“Dry!” he yelled, lifting a furious and appalled face to his companion.
Fred stood staring from Average Jones to his three canteens. There was a murderous look on his sinister face.
“Got water?” he growled.
“Yes,” replied the young man.
“Here, Colonel,” said Fred. “Here’s drink for us.”
“For sale,” added Average Jones calmly.
“People don’t buy water in this country.”
“You’re not people,” returned Average Jones cheerfully. “You’re a corporation; a soulless corporation. The North Pinto Gold Mining Company.”
“What’s that!” cried the colonel thickly.
His hand flew back to his belt. Then it dropped, limp at his side, for he was gazing into the two barrels of a shotgun, which, materializing over a rock, were pointing accurately and disconcertingly at the pit of his stomach. From behind the gun Captain Funcke’s quiet voice remarked: