The storekeeper at Nelson stood on his little slant-roofed porch and mopped his beaded forehead with a blue calico handkerchief. The desert wrinkles around his eyes drew together and deepened as he squinted across the acarpous gulch where a few rough-board shacks stood forlorn with uncurtained windows, to the heat-ridden hillside beyond.
“It’s going to be awful hot down there by the river,” he observed deprecatingly. “You’ll find the water pretty muddy—but maybe you know that. Strangers don’t always; it’s best to make sure, so if you haven’t a bucket or something to settle the water in, I’d advise you to take one along. I’ve an extra one I could lend you, if you need it.”
“We have a bucket, thanks.” Rawley stepped into the dust-covered car loaded with camp outfit. “El Dorado is right at
