"What's that place ahead there?" asked Matt.
What he saw was a spot where the road curved a little to one side in a valley between two hills. There were two or three hitching posts planted beside the road, and from one of the posts swung a tin bucket.
"That's a spring," said Martin, "and it furnishes ice-cold water in the very hottest part of the summer. People stop there to water their horses—and to get a drink themselves if they're thirsty."
"Let's stop, pard," called McGlory, from the tonneau. "I'm dryer than a sand pile and my throat's full of dust."
"We're only three miles from Gardenville," spoke up Martin, his words significant of the fact that there would be plenty of drinking water to be had in the town without delaying the journey at the spring.
"We'll only be a minute," said Matt, swerving to the side of the road and bringing the car to a halt.
All three jumped out, and Martin led the way to a small pool, shaded by overhanging trees. From beyond the pool came a tinkle of falling water.
"Horses are watered from this basin," remarked Martin. "The water falls from the rocks, farther on, and we'll find a cup there."
A well-worn path followed the rill that supplied the pool, and the three continued onward along the path in single file. Half a dozen yards brought them to the rocky side hill where the water welled from a crack in the granite and fell in a miniature cataract to a bowl-shaped depression at the foot of the wall.
A man was standing beside the spring when Martin, Matt, and McGlory emerged from the tangle of brush and vines. The man was just lifting himself erect after filling a tin cup that was chained to the rocks. Startled into inaction, the man stood staring at the three newcomers, the filled cup in his hand.