Cool, clear water

    He dropped his war-bag, and a young man standing in an inner doorway walked to the desk and turned the register around. "Room?" His was a pleasant smile.

    "The best you've got," Canavan said, smiling back.

    The clerk shrugged. "Sorry, but they are all equally bad, although reasonably clean. Take fifteen, at the end of the hall. You'll be closer to the well."

    "Pump?"

    "What do you think this is? New York? It's a rope and bucket well, but it's been almost a year since we hauled the dead man out. The water should be pure enough by now."

(from Where the Long Grass Blows, by Louis L'Amour)