Owing water. "It's the overflow from them old-timers' well at the base of the mesa, "

[Sibounma]

Since fighting had begun in Chihuahua, schedules had, to quote Bill,
"gone to pot." On a sidetrack lay a locomotive, smokeless and inert,
just as her crew had abandoned her. Some loaded freight cars, their
contents untouched, likewise stood on the spur. That Bill Whiting,
however, meant to guard the railroad's property, was evidenced by the
fact that strapped to his waist was a portly revolver, while a rifle lay
handy in the ticket office, in which, since the outbreak of trouble, he
had watched and slept and cooked. Bill's first task, after tumbling out
of his blankets and washing his face in a tin basin standing in one
corner of the office, was to tap the telegraph key. The instrument gave
out a lifeless "tick-tick." "No juice--blazes!" grunted Bill, and, being
a philosophical young man, he bothered himself no more about the matter,
and went about getting his breakfast. In the midst of his preparations,
however, he suddenly straightened up and listened intently. To hear
better, he even shoved aside the sizzling frying-pan from its position
over one burner of his kerosene stove. What had attracted his attention
was a distant sound--faint at first, but momentarily growing
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