It was all said politely and yet there was an edge to it which cut Old Bunk to the quick. He, Bunker Hill, who had fed hoboes for years and had never taken a cent, to be insulted like this by the first sturdy beggar that he declined to serve with a meal! He reached for his gun, but just at that moment his wife laid a hand on his arm. She had not been far away, just up on the porch where she could watch what was going on, and she turned to the hobo with a smile. "Mr. Hill is just angry," she explained good-naturedly, "on account of that other man; but if you'll wait a few minutes I'll cook you some breakfast and----" "Thank you, ma'am," returned the miner, taking off his hat civilly, "I'll just take a drink and go." He hurried back to the well and, picking up the bucket, drank long and deep of the water; then he threw away the rest and with practiced hands drew up a fresh bucket from the depths. "You'd better fill a bottle," called Bunker Hill, whose anger was beginning to evaporate, "it's sixteen miles to the next water." The hobo said nothing, nor did he fill a bottle, and as he came back past them there was a set to his jaw that was eloquent of rage and disdain. It was the custom of the country--of that great, desert country where houses are days' journeys apart--to invite every stranger in; and as Bunker Hill gazed after him he saw his good name held up to execration and scorn. This boy was a Westerner, he could tell by his looks and the way he saved on his words, perhaps he even lived in those parts; and in a sudden vision Hill beheld him spreading the news as he followed the long trail to the railroad. He would come dragging in to Whitlow's Wells, the next station down the road, so weak he could hardly walk and when they enquired into his famished condition he would unfold some terrible tale. And the worst of it was that the boys would believe it and repeat it to all who passed. Men would hear in distant cow camps, far back in the Superstitions, that Old Bunk had driven a starving man from his door and he had nearly perished on the desert. "Hey!" called Bunker Hill taking a step or two after him, "wait a minute--I'll give you a lunch." "You can keep your lunch," said the man over his shoulder and strode doggedly on up the hill. "Gimme something to take to him," rapped out Hill to his wife, but the hobo's sharp ears had caught the words and he wheeled abruptly in his tracks. "I wouldn't take your danged lunch if it was the last grub on earth," he shouted in a towering rage; and while they stood gazing he turned his back and passed on over the hill. "Let 'im go!" grumbled Bunker pacing up and down and avoiding his helpmeet's eye, but at last he ripped out a smothered oath and racked off down the street to his stable. This was an al fresco affair, consisting of a big stone corral within the walls of what had once been the dancehall, and as he saddled up his horse and rode out the narrow gate he found his wife waiting with a lunch.