THE DRAGON SCORES
THE _Palmyra_ was once again on its siding. Marshall was at the Front
again; having made another of his swift dashes from Tucson. This time
he expected officially to close the gate. Claudia was with him. She
never left the car, unless it were to step out to the platform to see
what she could from there of the river work, immediately returning to
her wool work in the shaded compartment.
Hardin and Rickard had been devoting anxious weeks. A heavy rainfall
and cloudburst in the mountains of northern Arizona had swollen the
feeders of the Gila River which roared down to the Colorado above Yuma.
The eroding streams carried mountains in solution which settled against
the gate, a scour starting above and below it. Relief had to be given
on the jump. A spur-track was rushed across the by-pass above the
gate, as the closing of the ill-fated gate with the flash-boards was
no longer possible. A rock-fill was the only means of closure. In the
distant quarries men were digging out rock to fill the call from the
river.
Marshall came down to see the completed spur. Before he reached the
intake, the first rock train had moved on to the spur-track. The
trestle had settled, the train thrown from the rails and wrecked.
“That’s not the way I planned to dump that rock!” was Rickard’s
comment. “Now, we’ll have to stop and straighten out that trestle.”
“If we’d had those rock-aprons, this’d never have happened,” stormed
Hardin, who was standing on the bank when the trestle gave way.
They were already repairing that disaster when the _Palmyra_ was
cradled on its siding. Marshall from one platform, Tony, white-capped
from the rear, started out for the river. Claudia settled herself for a
quiet morning.
When Innes Hardin came in later, she felt that she was interrupting a
fierce orgy. But Mrs. Marshall would not let her go. “I can knit just
as fast when I talk.”
The shades were all pulled down. To Innes’ protest, her hostess
declared that “she could see with her fingers.” Innes had never asked
the destiny of the little knitted jackets; earlier in the acquaintance
she had surmised a pressing haste for some sister, or niece; a tender
date. She had seen several downy sacques completed; but still those
black needles clicked.
Later, Marshall came in from the damaged trestle, bringing Rickard and
Crothers. The chief was in buoyant spirits, as though the accident had
played to his hand, instead of against it.
“I’ve brought company to lunch, mother,” his mellow voice called
through the car.
Only one caught the look of pain that twisted the severe features of
Claudia Marshall. Instantly, Innes saw it disciplined into a welcoming
smile. And then she herself fell to flushing, and chilling, as a
lithe-muscled figure came directly to her. His eyes--where was the
look she had feared, of possessive tenderness? The quizzical gleam
was gone. On guard! A solemn business, loving, when you know that
it means--Life! On guard, though, to _her_! She pulled her fingers
from his strong lingering clasp, and joined Mrs. Marshall, who was
again busily knitting, until Tony’s crisp whiteness crackled into the
apartment.
Rickard had his soldier look on. She was watching him covertly as he
talked with his host and Crothers, as though she were not there; as
though something were not waiting for him to claim! She told herself
that she would have no character if she did not deny him, when he came
for her. How could he be talking, oblivious of everything else in the
world except that river? Was that--loving? Could she think of anything
else when he was in the same room with her? Was that the difference
between men and women? Woman’s whole existence! He was a soldier of the
modern army. It came to her, a sort of tender divination, that he would
not divide his thoughts, even with her, with Love, until his battle
was won. He owed his mind clear and on duty to the work on hand. Well,
couldn’t she understand that? What her accusation against Gerty? Sex
honor--keep off the track! Wasn’t that her own notion? Oughtn’t she to
be proud of him?
She had brought a nest of waspish thoughts tumbling about her ears.
Gerty! He had loved Gerty. Her resentment was alive again. Perhaps, it
was not true. Perhaps, some day he would tell her that it was not true,
had never been true. He couldn’t love her, if his thoughts had ever
lingered, with that same seriously solemn look on the false little face
of her sister-in-law.
A slur to a chef could one talk of else but food while banqueting!
Tony’s white cap danced around the table after he had seated them,
urging their appetites. Mrs. Marshall tried to suppress him; Marshall
and Rickard wickedly abetting his capering. He forced a commendation of
his bouillon from dreamy Innes; the recipe, he boasted, was his own.
Tod Marshall’s query as to the Spanish peppers evoked a long history.
The lunch was served to a running accompaniment of his reminiscences,
when he had been a restaurateur, and the great Samuel Bliss one of his
patrons. He was working up a crescendo of courses. With the importance
of a premier, he bore in a majestic, seasoned plank carrying a thick
steak. Another trip to the kitchen returned a primrose sauce.
“Tony will be insulted if you do not all mention the Bernaise,”
Marshall had suggested during the chef’s absence.
Rickard declared without straining his veracity that it was the best
Bernaise he had ever tasted. Tony’s face worked with emotion.
“It is because no one knows how to mix a Bernaise--bah, the bad stuff
I’ve eaten! When I go to a big city, I go to the finest hotel. Good
clothes, a diamond ring,” his finger shot up to his nose. “And who
would refuse to give me a table to myself? Who would believe that it
is a cook? I say, ‘Your best wine, and the steak thick, and a sauce
Bernaise!’ Never have I tasted it but once fit to serve to a gentleman
like Mr. Marshall--or Mr. Bliss. They make it with poor vinegar.
You can not make the sauce Bernaise without the best Tarra-r-rragon
vinegar.” His r’s hurtled out like a burst of artillery. “Everywhere
you can not get the real Tar-r-ragon vinegar. Ah!” His face grew
wolfish and eager. “Tony knows. Tony always carries it with him for the
great gentlemen like Mr. Bliss, Mr. Marshall--”
“Some bread, Tony,” clipped in Mrs. Marshall. “You can not teach him
his place,” she complained in the interval, “if you let him talk like
this!”
“Oh, but you don’t want to, mother!”
Innes saw again the look of pain. Did he think her life complete, in
its guarding of his own reckless one! Innes thought pitifully of the
little knitted jackets. Hadn’t he ever sensed--those?
Tony trotted back with the bread. He was eager with speech, but Rickard
was beginning a river anecdote, of his introduction to Godfrey, the
story of the bacon rind. Marshall was at once interested in the tenor.
“We must have him down some night to sing for us, eh, mother?”
“Oh, I wish he wouldn’t call her that!” yearned Innes. A rich salad of
mayonnaise and canned shrimps was rejected, to the chef’s despair.
“Why, you’ll incapacitate us, Tony.” Marshall waved it away. “I want to
get back to Tucson alive. Now, a cup of coffee, not another thing on
your life--or I’ll cut your salary. I want Mr. Rickard to do some work
this afternoon! Now be quick with the coffee.”
Deep gloom covered the retreat of the salad.
The coffee was brought in with ascetic simplicity. But Tony was not
to be crushed. While Marshall was talking to Rickard, he insinuated a
platter of cream puffs toward the ladies.
Marshall caught the sly action. He stopped. “You can have one--but only
one, Rickard,” he commanded. “If Tony does not mind me, you must.”
“If you will excuse me,” Rickard was rising. “Tony, will you _owe_ it
to me? There really is other work to be done to-day. You are setting a
bad example in camp, Mr. Marshall, you and Tony. We are not sybarites
here.” His good-by to Innes was guarded. Why should she drop her eyes,
she asked herself angrily? Nothing there that the whole world might not
see! Marshall went out to the platform with his engineer. Immediately
he came back, smiling, “Look here, girls!”
Claudia and Innes Hardin followed him to the platform. Under the
kitchen window, a group of young engineers were eating indiscriminate
“hand-outs.” MacLean, unabashed, waved a lukewarm stuffed pepper at his
chief. Bodefeldt, caught red-handed, crimsoned under his desert tan
when Innes’ glance isolated him, his mouth full of cream puffs, his
hand greasy from fried bananas.
“He’s a prince,” cried Bangs, of the Reclamation Service.
“He can afford to be on that salary,” cried MacLean, with roguish
intention. “I’d be generous on a hundred and fifty a month.”
“Mex.,” cried Bangs. “That’s only seventy-five.”
“It’s a hundred and fifty,” spluttered the white cap from the window.
“I spend it in Mexico; I get twice as much for a dollar down there.”
“Don’t let them tease you, Tony,” laughed Marshall. “You’ll spend that
hundred and fifty in Mexico next week.”
They were standing in the shade of the _Palmyra_, Claudia on the
platform shading her eyes, Innes on the step below. It was a soft
still afternoon. There was no wind; not a cloud blurred the sky. The
burning heat of summer had passed, giving place to a warmth that was
like a caress. The fierceness of the savage desert had melted to her
days of lure. Beyond, the turbid waters of the Colorado bore a smiling
surface. There was nothing to hint of treachery.
It was a minute of pleasant lassitude, snatched from the turmoil.
Rickard had succumbed to the softness of the day and his mood. He was
enjoying the thought of Innes’ nearness, though she kept her face
turned from him. He knew by the persistence of those averted eyes that
she was as acutely conscious of his presence as he was, restfully, of
hers. Deliberately, he was prolonging the instant.
“Well?” said Marshall. The group moved. Rickard turned toward his
hostess. Just then a strange thing happened. A stir on the river had
caught the alert eye of Tod Marshall. He swore a string of picturesque
Marshallian oaths. Rickard’s eyes jumped toward the by-pass. The placid
waters had suddenly buckled. Majestically, the gate rose and went out.
They watched it variously, the groups by the _Palmyra_; the catastrophe
too big for speech. Months of work swept away! The gate drifted a
hundred feet or more, then stopped as though sentience, or a planned
terminal, were governing its motion. Some unseen obstruction caught it
there, to mock at the labors of man.
Innes, aghast, had turned toward Rickard. His face was expressionless.
There was a babel of excited voices behind them, Bodefeldt, MacLean,
Tony, Crothers, Bangs, all talking at once. Her eyes demanded something
of Rickard. A fierce resentment rose against his calmness. “He knew
it,” she rebelled. “He’s been expecting this to happen. It’s no tragedy
to _him_!” There was a stab as of physical pain; she was visualizing
the blow to Tom.
She heard Marshall’s voice, speaking to Rickard. “Well, you’re ready
for this.” She did not hear the answer, for already Rickard was heading
for the by-pass. Marshall and the young engineers followed him. The
women were left staring. An odd sound came from the rear of the car.
“What is that?” demanded Claudia.
They found Coronel sitting on the ground, his knees drawn up to his
chin. His mud-crusted head was turned riverward. His age-curdled eyes,
fixed on the spot where the gate had been, did not see them. A moaning
issued from his shut lips. His paint-striped shoulders were shaking
with dry sobs. He had been watching, waiting for fifteen years. It was
all over, now, to him. The Great Dragon had conquered.
Innes moved toward him. Coronel cared, Coronel and Tom! The Indian sat,
wrapped in his grief. To the girl the worst, too, had happened. She
had refused to believe in the possibility of failure. Her brother’s
optimism had swept her along. That wreck down yonder was worse than
failure; it was ruin. It involved Tom’s life. It was his life. This
would be the final crushing of his superb courage--her thoughts
released from their paralysis were whipped by sudden fear. She must
find him, be with him. She did not see the look of sympathy on Claudia
Marshall’s face. She felt alone, with Coronel. The next instant, she
was speeding like a young colt toward the encampment.
Estrada met her on the run. “Have you heard?” she cried. Estrada said
he had just been talking to Rickard. He looked sorry, she reflected
after she left him, sorry for her; but not surprised. “No one is
surprised but Coronel, Coronel and I.”
Had Gerty heard? The pity that she must know! She would not be tender
to Tom; her pride would be wounded. She must ask her to be tender,
generous. Her footsteps slackened as she came in sight of the tents.
She heard voices in the ramada, a man’s clear notes mingling with
Gerty’s childish treble. “Godfrey!” Her mind jumped to other
tête-à-têtes. Of course! Abundant opportunity, with herself and Tom at
the break all day! So that was what was going on. And she not seeing!
Just a cheap little woman! If not one man, then another! Conquests,
attention! Horrid little clandestine affairs!
The meeting was awkward. Speedily, Innes got rid of the news. She
caught an odd look glittering in Mrs. Hardin’s eyes. The same
expression Rickard had worn when the gate went out! As though his slate
had been cleared, as though her sister-in-law saw an obstacle drop from
her path.
Mrs. Hardin shrugged. Her shrugs were dainty, not the hunching variety.
She merely moved her shoulders, the action as elusive as a twinkle.
“I believe I’ll go out.” Plaintively, she made the announcement as
though it were just evolved. “Now, the camp will be horrid. Everybody
will be cross, and everybody will be working. Perspiring men are not
inspiring men!”
As she left the tent beyond, Innes could hear the vibrant voice of
Godfrey persuading Mrs. Hardin to stay there a few weeks longer. She
could hear him say, “This will delay the turning of the river at the
most but a few weeks. Rickard told me so a week ago. And think what it
would be here without you!”
“They were all expecting it!” resisted Innes Hardin. She turned back
toward the river. She must find Tom.