Luck started to dismount and make some attempt at a polite request for water,
and for information as well, but Applehead objected and finally had his way.
If the squaws could speak English, he argued, they would lie unless they
refused to talk at all. As to the water, if there was any around the place the
bunch could find it and help themselves. "These yer Navvies ain't yore
Buffalo- Bill Sioux)" he pointed out to Luck. "Yuh can't treat 'em the same.
The best we kin look fer is to be left alone--an' I'm tellin' ye straight."
Luck gave the squalid huts a long stare and turned away toward the corral and
a low shed that served as a stable. A rusty old mower and a toothless rake and
a rickety buckboard stood baking in the sun, and a few stunted hens fluttered
away from their approach. In the corral a mangy pony blinked in dejected
slumber; and all the while, the three dogs followed them and barked and yapped
and growled, until Pink turned in the saddle with the plain intention of
stopping the clamor with a bullet or two.
"Ye better let 'em alone!" Applehead warned sharply, and Pink put up his gun
unfired and took down his rope.
"The darned things are getting on my nerves!" he complained, and wheeled
suddenly in pursuit of the meanest-looking dog of the three.
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