The fire had been laid since morning. Zeb, knowing that in all probabilities they would both be tired when night came, had thoughtfully laid a fire in the sheet-iron stove before leaving. “Take that bucket and git some water from th’ spring,” ordered Zeb. “And don’t forget to strain th’ wool out of it before yuh comes back.” “I don’t know where it is,” wailed Ricky. “I never saw any spring. Watts showed you where it was but I was up here all th’ time watchin’ that greaser. Come on and show me where it is, Zeb. I’d shore admire uh nice cool drink from th’ wool-covered bucket that hung in th’ well.” Zeb grumbled while he lit the fire and then picked up the bucket. “Come on and I’ll show yuh our water supply.” They went out of the tent and scrambled down the bank of a deep washout behind the tent. “Don’t slide into it,” warned Zeb. “Aw, slide yer grandmother!” retorted Ricky. “Any time I slide you can——” Ricky failed to state just what he would do in case he did happen to slide, for at that certain moment the whole world seemed to fly up and hit them in the face and they both flopped head first into the spring. A few seconds later something sailed down and lit with a loud smash in the bottom of the washout. “Gi-gi-git yer darned boots out of my mouth!” gurgled Ricky. “What do yuh think my face is—uh welcome mat?” “What in the name of seven kinds of purgatory was that?” mumbled Zeb, wiping the water and mud out of his mouth. “Swallered all th’ water, ate all th’ wool and had uh boot-heel for uh chaser,” announced Ricky drunkenly. “What in thunder hit in th’ washout?” asked Zeb. “I ought to know,” replied Ricky sarcastically. “Unha, I reckon I ought to know, bein’ as I was under about seven feet uh alkali water with yore boots in my mouth.” “I heard it hit,” stated Zeb. “Unha,” agreed Ricky. “Sounded like uh hardware store done leaped before it looked. Let’s go back to th’ tent and see what happened.” They climbed back up the bank and started for the tent, when Zeb grabbed Ricky by the arm and gasped in astonishment. “Where?” he whispered. Ricky rubbed a muddy hand across his eyes. “She ain’t,” he remarked inanely. “Zeb, she’s done went away.” “Giant powder!” exclaimed Zeb, sniffing the air. “Somebody done put dinnamite in our stove, Ricky!” Ricky walked around the hole in the ground where the tent had stood. “Tent’s gone,” he announced foolishly. “Good-by tent! Jerusalem! Zeb, our grub is all gone, too! Blewed up. Rifle gone, too, and—say, Zeb, you got yore six-gun—unha, yo’re gun’s safe but mine was on th’ grub-box.” “Sheeps gone too,” stated Zeb. “Blew—aw, what do we care. I reckon they heard th’ noise and hit fer th’ hills. What do we care for th’ sheep, eh?” “Blankets gone,” groaned Zeb. “Nothin’ to eat and no place to sleep. Now mebby you’ll agree with me that this ain’t no white man’s job, Ricky.” “Man size, anyway,” replied Ricky, sitting down and rolling a cigaret.