"Thank you!" she gasped, looking into his eyes.
Embarrassment spoke for him, put words into his mouth he did not intend.
"I—I—well, I guess I would have done the same thing for anyone that was drowning."
Her face changed; the blue eyes became wide and hurt. She drew back.
"But—but I'm not just anyone! I'm Phoebe Larkin! You risked your life for me, and I'm bound to be grateful!" When she seemed to step toward him again, he stepped awkwardly, warily, back.
"Well," he muttered, "I'm—I'm glad you're all right, anyway."
A flush came into her pale cheeks. One hand attempted to arrange the wet strands of hair. When she spoke her voice trembled slightly.
"I—I'm sorry! I didn't mean to—to bother you!"
Frustrated, trying to find the proper words, he shook his head. "You didn't bother me! You didn't bother me at all! That wasn't what I meant!"
"I know what you mean," Phoebe said icily. "It's my fault, Mr. Drumm. You see—I have a very loving nature. Sometimes it betrays me. I am grateful you saved me, but sorry you misunderstood my gratitude!"
Almost desperately he looked around at the camp, devastated once by an Indian raid and now by a perverse flood. Everything was coming out wrong. He had planned the Grand Tour well, but the Arizona Territory had a way of upsetting things.
"Eggie," he muttered, "we must get some order back into things."
For the first time Phoebe Larkin seemed conscious of her scanty attire. Mrs. Glore found a blanket that was not too wet and drew it about Phoebe's shoulders. Even in the warm sun the girl shivered.
"There, there!" Mrs. Glore soothed. "It's only the after-effects of your dreadful experience! Come sit with me on that box under the tree."
Phoebe accepted the blanket, and an opportunity for the last word.
"Mr. Drumm," she said bitterly, "whatever you think of me, I must say—you're a damned cold fish! I heard Englishmen were like that, but so far I never had the bad luck to meet up with one!" Tossing her head, she turned her back on him and went to sit with Mrs. Glore.
Discouragement only brought out the stubbornness in Jack Drumm's character. While Phoebe sullenly watched, and Mrs. Glore searched downstream for enough unspoiled food to nourish them, he and the valet worked to bring order out of chaos. Noontide came and went, and they were sweating and exhausted. In the late afternoon Mrs. Glore squinted into the distance and pointed.
"There! Do you see that? Something is coming—a stage, maybe —or wagons!"
In the distance they could see a plume of dust in the mouth of Centinela Canyon. Drumm snatched up his spyglass. Shaking water from it, he focused on the distant disturbance: wagons, several wagons, escorted by a patrol of cavalry.
"Thank God!" Mrs. Glore said. "Now maybe we can leave this Godforsaken place and travel to Prescott, like we planned!" She glanced at Jack Drumm. "No offense meant—you've been kind and helpful, Mr. Drumm. But there is Phoebe's Uncle Buell in Prescott! He'll be worried."
"That's right," Phoebe Larkin agreed, tossing her head. "I'm anxious to mingle with some kind and understanding people for a change!"
Safely out of the canyon, the train crawled forward while the cavalry escort galloped toward Drumm's camp. Moments later Lieutenant George Dunaway reined up his mount and dismounted, hat in hand as he spied Miss Phoebe Larkin.
"Well, Drumm!" He looked at the wreckage of the camp. "What in hell—pardon, ladies—what happened here?"
"Apaches!" Drumm said sourly. "After we left you, Agustín and his bullies attacked us and ran off all our animals, except that one mule over there. Then, early this morning, a flood came down the mountain and overran the camp." He stared at Dunaway. "What's so damned funny?"
The lieutenant preened his mustache. "Didn't you see the storm over the mountain last night? No one but a greenhorn would camp in the middle of the Agua Fria this time of year!" He bowed to the ladies. "Introduce me, will you?"
Jack Drumm was annoyed with Dunaway's flippancy but muttered an introduction. "The ladies," he explained, "were going to Prescott on the stage. But when it was forced to turn back because of Apaches, they chose to stay here and wait for other transportation."
"I know," Dunaway said. At his gesture the men dismounted and lay wearily on the ground, munching hardtack and cold bacon. "Passed old Coogan and the California and Arizona Stage Line coach yesterday, hightailing it back to Phoenix. Sam Valentine said to take care of the ladies." Hat in hand, he approached Miss Phoebe Larkin. "Ma'am, the accommodations are kind of rough, but there's room for you and your friend in one of the freight wagons yonder if you want to travel to Prescott."
Phoebe Larkin seemed to bat her blue eyes at Dunaway, which annoyed Jack Drumm further.
"What about us?" he demanded. "And our equipment?"
Dunaway fondled his mustache and grinned. "If there's room. Ladies first, you know!"
"Have you got the Apaches put down, Lieutenant?" Phoebe Larkin asked. "I shouldn't like to be scalped before I see Uncle Buell in Prescott!" She laughed, looking charmingly at Dunaway.
"Not exactly, ma'am. Eighth Infantry sent a company out from Camp McDowell, and other forces will be here in a few days. But my B Company has hazed Agustín pretty well into the mountains already. Things have eased enough for wagons and stages to come through the valley. Oh, the Apaches may swoop down in a few raids like at Weaver's Ranch, but we've got Agustín pretty well trapped up on the mountain." He gestured toward the Mazatzals and grinned. "See that smoke? Probably old Agustín barbecuing one of your mules, Drumm! Nothing an Apache likes better than a mule steak!"
"I should think," Drumm muttered, "that with their need of transportation they would be very foolish indeed to eat their animals!"
The brigandish-looking corporal whom Drumm remembered from the encounter with Dunaway in the canyon hooted with laughter. A trooper slapped his thigh and grinned a gap-tooth grin. Dunaway was also amused. He swigged water from a canteen and put the cap back on, savoring the moment. "An Englishman couldn't be expected to know, I guess, but Apaches don't ride horses—they eat them!"
"Eat them?"
"That's right."
Drumm was bewildered. He gestured at the infinite space of the playa. "But how do they get around, then?"
"They walk!" Seeing Drumm's astonished stare, Dunaway chuckled. "You know Port Isabel, down on the Gulf?"
"Of course. We landed there, on the Sierra Nevada, from San Francisco."
"Then you know it's a hundred miles from Port Isabel up to Yuma?"
"About that. Yes, I should guess a hundred miles."
"Colorado Steam Navigation Company had some tame Apaches hired a while back to run mail from Port Isabel to Yuma. The red sons of—" He coughed, delicately. "An Apache runner delivered the mail on regular schedule; a hundred miles in twenty-four hours." He glanced toward the train of freight wagons, now drawing up at the river to water their teams of oxen. "Well—"
"If the rascals are walking," Jack Drumm said in a tight voice, "then it seems to me your mounted command should have captured them by now, and have them safely back on the Verde River reservation, where they cannot plague innocent travelers!"
Dunaway scowled. "We've been in the saddle for six days running! An Apache on foot is harder to catch than a flea in a sandstorm! I've seen 'em travel all day and all night with no food but a handful of mesquite beans, and gain on us! A man on a horse shows up a long way off, but an Indian on foot looks like another damned bush till he raises up and shoots your ass off!"
Drumm had found a sensitive spot, and probed deeper.
"Nevertheless, I should think a few men from our Middlesex Regiment could handle this situation rather better. They have fought Indians—real Indians, from India—for a long time. They probably know better how to handle the aborigines than you people from the Colonies!"