But what she would have thought was broken into by a sudden exclamation from farther back in the wagon.  A large black face appeared at the aperture under the front wagon bow, and the owner of it spoke with a certain oracular vigour.

“Fo’ Gawd, Mass’ William, less jess stop right yer!  I ’clare, I’se jess wore to a plum frazzle, a-travelin’ an’ a-travelin’!  Ef we gwine settle, why, less settle, thass all I say!”

The driver of the wagon sat silent for a moment, his leg still hanging over the end of the seat, his chin in the hand of the arm which rested upon his other leg, propped up on the dashboard of the wagon.  At length, quietly, and with no comment, he unbuckled the reins and threw them out and down upon the ground on either side of the wagon.

“Whoa, boys,” he called to the horses, which were too weary to note that they were no longer asked to go farther on.  Then the driver got deliberately down.  He was a tall man, of good bearing, in his shoulders but little of the stoop of the farmer, and on his hands not any convincing proof that he was personally acquainted with continuous bodily toil.  His face was thin, aquiline, proud; his hair dark, his eyes gray.  He might have been a planter, a rancher, a man of leisure or a man of affairs, as it might happen that one met him at the one locality or the other.  One might have called him a gentleman, another only a “pilgrim.”  To Sam he was a “mover,” and that was all.  His own duty as proselyter was obvious.  Each new settlement was at war with all others, population being the first need.

“We’ll turn out here,” said the man, striking his heel upon the ground with significant gesture, as was an unconscious custom among the men who chose out land for themselves in a new region.  “We’ll stop here for a bite to eat, and I reckon we won’t go any farther west.  How is this country around here for water?”

“Sure,” said Sam, “excuse me.  I’ve got a jug along with me.  I nearly always carry some water along, because they ain’t but one creek, and they ain’t no wells.—­Have a drink, miss?” And he politely pulled out the wooden stopper of a jug and offered it with a hand which jumped in spite of himself.

“Thank you, sir,” said the girl, and her uncle added his courteous thanks also.  “What I meant to ask, sir, however,” he continued, “is what is the prospect of getting water in this part of the country in case we should like to settle in here?”

“Oh, that?” said Sam.  “Why, say, you couldn’t very well hit it much better.  Less’n a mile farther down this trail to the south you come to the Sinks of the White Woman Creek.  They’s most always some water in that creek, and you can git it there any place by diggin’ ten or twenty feet.

“That’s good,” said the stranger.  “That’s mighty good.”  He turned to the wagon side and called out to his wife.  “Come, Lizzie,” he said, “get out, dear, and take a rest.  We’ll have a bite to eat, and then we’ll talk this all over.”