“Young Van is due with water.”
“Yes, he is due, Mr. Carhart, but you told him not to come back without it, and he won’t.”
“Listen!” Outside, in the night, voices sounded, and the creaking of wagons.
“Here he is now,” said Carhart.
Into the dim light before the open tent stepped a gray figure. His face was thin and drawn; his hair, of the same dust color as his clothing, straggled down over his forehead below his broad hat. He nodded at the waiting group, threw off his hat, unslung his army canteen, and sank down exhausted on the first cot.
Old Van, himself seasoned timber and unable to recognize the limitations of the human frame, spoke impatiently, “Well, Gus, how much did you get?”
“Fourteen barrels.”
“Fourteen barrels!” The other men exchanged glances.
“Why—why—” sputtered the elder brother, “that’s not enough for the engines!”