Mullendore did not reply, but with another oath began to untie the lash rope from the nearest pack.
"Wonder if I could get a drink of water?" The stranger turned to Kate as he spoke, lifting his hat to disclose a high white forehead--a forehead as fine as it was unexpected in a man trailing a bunch of sheep. The men who raised their hats to the women of the Sand Coulee were not numerous, and Kate's eyes widened perceptibly before she replied heartily, "Sure you can."
Jezebel, who had come up leading the big wheel horse, said significantly, "Somethin' stronger, if you like."
The fierce eagerness which leaped into the stranger's eyes screamed his weakness, yet he did not jump at the offer she held out. The struggle in his mind was obvious as he stood looking uncertainly into the face that was stamped with the impress of wide and sordid experiences. Kate's voice broke the short silence, "He said 'water,' Mother." She spoke sharply, and with a curt inclination of her head to the sheepherder added, "The water barrel's at the back door, Mister. Come with me." Apparently this made his decision for him, for he followed the girl at once, while Jezebel with a shrug walked on with the horse.
Kate handed the stranger the long-handled tin dipper and watched him gravely while he drank the water in gulps, draining it to the last drop.
"Guess you're a booze-fighter, Mister," she observed, casually, much as she might have commented that his unkempt beard was brown. Amusement twinkled in his eyes at the personal remark and her utter unconsciousness of having said anything at which by any chance he could take offense, but he replied noncommittally: "I've put away my share, Miss."
"I can always pick 'em out. Nearly all the freighters and cow punchers that stop here get drunk."
He looked at her quizzically.
"The trapper you were playing tag with when I came looks as if he might be ugly when he'd had too much."
He was startled by the intensity of the expression which came over her face as she said, between her clenched teeth: "I hate that 'breed'!"
"He isn't just the pardner," dryly, "that I'd select for a long camping trip."
Her pupils dilated and she lowered her voice: "He's ornery--Pete Mullendore."
As though in response to his name, that person came around the corner with his bent-kneed slouch, giving to the girl as he passed a look so malignant, and holding so unmistakable a threat, that it chilled and sobered the stranger who stood leaning against the water barrel. The girl returned it with a stare of brave defiance, but her hand trembled as she returned the dipper to its nail. She looked at him wistfully, and with a note of entreaty in her voice asked: "Why don't you camp here to-night, Mister?"