The last time he came sliding down to the others his face was not so heavy with anxiety and his voice when he spoke had a new briskness.
"There's a ranch of some kind straight ahead about two miles," he announced.

"I could see a green patch, so there must be water around there somewhere.

We'll make noon camp there, and maybe we can dig up a little information.

Ramon must have stopped there for water, and we'll find out just how far we are behind." The ranch, when they finally neared it, proved to be a huddle of low, octagon-shaped huts (called hogans) made of short cedar logs and plastered over with adobe, with a hole in the center of the lid-like roof to let the smoke out and a little light in; and dogs, that ran out and barked and yelped and trailed into mourning rumbles and then barked again; and half-naked papooses that scurried like rabbits for shelter when they rode up; and two dingy, shapeless squaws that disappeared within a hogan and peered out at one side of the blanket door.
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.