“I’m with you!” he shouted.  “I got a bellyful of this here racket.  An’,” with a glance over his shoulder, “I got a bellyful of that rotgut, too.  Besides, it’s all gone.  How about coffee, boys?”

“And you, Mundy?  How about you?” Conniston called, quickly.  “Do you want to keep your job at the wages I offered you yesterday?  Or shall I put another man in your place?  Quick, man!  Speak up!”

Mundy hesitated, glancing at Ben before he answered.  And then slowly he stepped out to where the Lark already stood.

“I’ll keep my job,” he grunted, sullenly.

“Please, sir,” grinned the Lark, shaking his hand high above his head like a ragged urchin in school, “kin I go git a drink?  Water, I mean,” he finished with widening grin.

“Yes,” answered Conniston, trying to keep from his eyes the gladness which was surging up within him.  “Come this way first.  There—­stop.  Now throw your gun toward me.  You’ve got some sense.  Now go get your water.”

Ben came forward; and slowly, reluctantly, with evil, red-rimmed eyes, Peters.  And, as the Lark had done, they tossed their revolvers to the sand near Conniston’s wagon and trudged off toward the nearest water-wagon.  A dozen men followed them.  Gradually the line broke up as the call of water grew imperative to parched throats.

From the corner of his eye Conniston saw these men go to the first wagon, tilt up the barrels, and go to the next.  And suddenly he heard a great shout go up from them—­a shout no longer of anger, but of sheer surprise.

In the bottom of every barrel there was an auger-hole.  There was not a single drop of water in camp!

In a flash of inspiration Conniston saw the thing which he must say.

“Who wants to go to work for Swinnerton now?” he cried.  “You know whose work this is; you know who is trying to block every move we make.  You know as well as I do that it was Swinnerton, or one of the men working for Swinnerton, the same man who got Bat Truxton drunk, who has given you your whisky—­and taken away your chasers!  And you know as well as I do how many miles it is to water.”

The rest of the men had flung down their guns and rushed to the empty barrels.  Already the burning thirst engendered by the raw, vile whisky was making them lick their dry lips, making their throats work painfully.  They pulled over barrel after barrel, seeking to find that somewhere there was a cupful of water.  And they found none.

“It’s Swinnerton’s gang you have to thank for this, boys,” Conniston shouted again, seeing and taking his opportunity.  “Swinnerton, who wants to break us like a rotten stick.  He will be a millionaire many times over if he breaks us.  And if we put our work across, if we make a go of it, Swinnerton will be the rotten stick!”

He stopped suddenly and watched them.  And as often as he heard them curse him he heard them curse Swinnerton.