It's gettin' the cool of the evenin'; we'll make it." He turns into the inside of that old schooner.
"Gi' me the cup, Sue." A white-faced woman who looked mighty good to us alkalis opened the flaps and gave out a tin cup, which the man pointed out to fill.
"How many of you is they ?" asks Texas Pete.
"Three," replies the man, wondering.
"Well, six bits, then," says Texas Pete, "cash down." At that the man straightens up a little.
"I ain't askin' for no water for my stock," says he, "but my wife and baby has been out in this sun all day without a drop of water.

Our cask slipped a hoop and bust just this side of Dos Cabesas.

The poor kid is plumb dry." "Two bits a head," says Texas Pete.
At that the woman comes out, a little bit of a baby in her arms.

The kid had fuzzy yellow hair, and its face was flushed red and shiny.
"Shorely you won't refuse a sick child a drink of water, sir," says she.
But Texas Pete had some sort of a special grouch; I guess he was just beginning to get his snowshoes off after a fight with his own forty-rod.
"What the hell are you-all doin' on the trail without no money at all ?" he growls, "and how do you expect to get along?
Such plumb tenderfeet drive me weary." "Well," says the man, still reasonable, "I ain't got no money, but I'll give you six bits' worth of flour or trade or an'thin' I got." "I don't run no truck-store," snaps Texas Pete, and turns square on his heel and goes back to his chair.
"Got six bits about you ?" whispers Gentleman Tim to me.
"Not a red," I answers.
Gentleman Tim turns to Texas Pete.
"Let 'em have a drink, Pete.

I'll pay you next time I come down." "Cash down," growls Pete.
"You're the meanest man I ever see," observes Tim.