ing. She was up at four o'clock this morning, carrying water to fill the tubs; she is doing the washing now."
"Water's as hard as a rock, too," commented Bob. "I suppose that's the alkali. Did you notice how harsh and dry Mrs. Watterby's face looks? Seems to me I'd rather drill for water than for oil, and the first thing I'd do would be to pump a line Into the house. They've lived on this farm for sixty years, your uncle said. At least Grandma Watterby has. And I don't believe they've done one thing to it, that could be called an improvement."
"Here's the Indian," whispered Betty. "Make him talk, Bob. I like to hear him."
The Indian had eaten at the same table with the family, after the farm fashion, and Betty had been fascinated by the monosyllabic replies he had given to questions asked him. He was patching a harness in the doorway of the barn and glanced up unsmllingly at them. Nevertheless he did not seem hostile or unfriendly.
"You come to see oil fields?" he asked unexpectedly. "You help uncle own big well, yes? Indians know about oil hundreds of years ago."
"Uncle Dick is working for a big oil company," explained Betty. "I don't think he owns any wells himself. Tell us something about the Indians? Are there many around here?"
