Drumm picked up the shovel, watching the dwindling tracery of dust as the wagon train, under Lieutenant George Dunaway's protection, creaked toward Prescott. A breath of French scent made him turn sharply.
"Is there anything I can do?" Phoebe Larkin asked.
Put off by the shameless way she had flirted with Dunaway, afraid also that she would pity him after his trouncing, he planted the shovel in the trench and stamped viciously at it, driving the steel deep into the earth.
"No," he muttered. "Nothing you can do—not in those clothes, anyway!"
"But I want to help!"
Silent and tight-lipped, he went on shoveling.
"You're real grouchy!" Phoebe complained. "Whatever is the matter with you? Has the cat got your tongue?"
Drumm didn't know what that meant; he supposed it was an American witticism. "There's no need for you to do anything!" he snapped. "Just sit over there in the chair, and Mrs. Glore will have some supper ready directly!"
Phoebe Larkin set her lips; under the lace niching her breasts rose and fell quickly. "Now you listen to me, Mr. Drumm!" she cried. "Maybe you're mad because I invited Beulah and me to stay here, but it really was not convenient for us to go to Prescott right now! Soon we hope to—to travel on, but right now we have no choice!"
Doggedly he kept on shoveling.
"I'm strong as a horse, and willing! Show me what needs doing! All my life I worked hard for my board, and I intend to keep on doing so!"
While he was trying to pry loose a rock, the handle snapped off in Drumm's hand. Disgustedly he threw the broken shovel from him. Phoebe Larkin pushed him aside. Snatching up his mattock, she swung it high over her head. Fearing feminine awkwardness, Drumm stepped back. But the blade, accurately aimed, buried itself next to the offending rock. Phoebe Larkin, tugging the weight of her body against the handle, neatly popped up the obstinate boulder.
"There!" she cried triumphantly.
Jack Drumm glowered at her. All my life I worked hard for my board, and I intend to keep on doing so! What had happened to the previous story—her father, Judge Larkin, and the crowd of wealthy suitors always "hanging around the place"?
"You see?" Phoebe cried. "A determined woman can do a lot of things!"
There was also the matter of the derringer she carried in her bosom. And why, after being in such a hurry to reach Prescott, did she refuse George Dunaway's offer of transportation there? But Miss Larkin stared at him so challengingly Jack Drumm decided not to press the matter—at least, not for the moment.
They needed a small dam to impound the scanty waters of the Agua Fria. In addition, the work would keep him and Eggleston gainfully employed; if they did nothing but sit in the rifle pit all day they would surely go mad. It was now early October. The nights turned cold and crisp, and the heat in the valley moderated. In a perverse way Jack Drumm enjoyed the hard labor—the swing of the repaired shovel, the chunking noise as gouts of dirt flew through the air and landed in line with the cord he had strung between two stakes. Mrs. Glore and Phoebe insisted on working, also, cleaning up the litter of the camp, repairing the wrecked reed hut, leading Drumm's solitary mule down to the river to drink. Phoebe named the mule Bonyparts, from the jutting hip bones and impoverished ribs.
Gradually the camp began to take on a neater appearance. With an ax Phoebe broke up old boxes for firewood, repaired camp chairs with wire she found in the wreckage, cut stalks of bamboo and made a brush awning to shelter the makeshift kitchen where Mrs. Glore worked. Phoebe was still angry with him, Drumm suspected. He watched covertly as she busied herself about the camp. In soiled traveling dress, red hair done up in a bun, and her face dirty, Miss Larkin did not in the least resemble the attractive female who had stepped off the Prescott stage. Unfavorably Drumm compared her to Cornelia Newton-Barrett. He could not imagine Cornelia chopping firewood. It was unladylike, to say the least, though he was bound to admit he appreciated Miss Larkin's efforts.
Watching her, he saw also what seemed a movement in the tall reeds along the river, a rustling not accounted for by the breeze. Seizing the Sharp's rifle, which lay always nearby, he rushed into the greenery, calling out, "Who's there?"
Eggleston, carrying his pick, ran after him. Together they stood among the reeds, sun filtering down on them in a lacy pattern like a Japanese print.
"What is it, Mr. Jack?" Eggleston finally whispered. "Did you see something?"
"I don't know." Drumm parted the reeds, rifle cocked. "It seemed to me something moved! Well—" He shouldered the gun. "Perhaps it was only an animal of some sort. At any rate, there appears to be no danger now."
That night they ate more of Mrs. Glore's boiled beans, along with mutton she fried up to prevent it from spoiling. The meat was strong but they all had good appetites. Drumm thought of dinner at Clarendon Hall; how unlike this! But the rains would soon be coming to Hampshire. The weather would turn cold and dank, the great house uncomfortable except for an island of warmth before the fireplace and in the kitchen around the cookstove. Here, on the other hand, the evening turned soft and mellow. Swallows flitted about in search of insects, and the western sky was streaked rose and saffron and the soft lavender of lilacs.
"Surprise!" Mrs. Glore cried. Beaming, she placed on the table a tin plate. "I found a can of peaches and some flour, and made a kind of—well, pie, I guess you could call it, though I could have done better with lard and a proper rolling pin!"
After the scanty rations, Mrs. Glore's pie was a treat. Drumm lolled in a camp chair, lighting a tattered but generally serviceable Trichinopoly cigar that Eggleston had discovered in a broken chest. In the glow of the moment, he felt almost charitable toward his unwelcome guests. He spoke briefly to Phoebe Larkin.
"You mentioned an uncle awaiting you in Prescott. Won't he be worried when you don't arrive there?"
She scraped the bottom of the tin plate with a spoon, dredging up the last juice. "My, that was good! It's been a long time since I et—ate pie!" She turned to Drumm, sucking a sticky finger. "Uncle Buell? Oh, he won't worry! He's lived out here long enough to know how uncertain schedules are on the frontier."
Drumm puffed on his cigar, watching the blue-gray smoke mingle with the sunset colors. "I do hope," he murmured, watching Beulah busy herself with soap and a pan of dirty dishes, "that Mrs. Glore's liver condition has improved."
"Her what?"
"The liver condition! You said her liver was bothering her—that jolting in a wagon to Prescott was medically inadvisable."
Phoebe looked puzzled but Beulah Glore drew quickly near, waving a damp dishcloth in the air to dry it. "That's right!" she confirmed. "That's the God's truth, Mr. Drumm! That's why we couldn't go to Prescott!"
Phoebe looked relieved. "Yes," she said quickly, "that was the reason, all right. Her liver still pains her, too, though it's some better." Changing the subject, she looked up at the stars beginning to wink on against the velvet mantle of the night. "I've read a lot of astrology, Mr. Drumm. Do you know—the stars tell everything?"
He drew on the cigar. "So it is said."
"I cast up my horoscope last night, by candlelight. Right now is really not a good time to travel anyway. Jupiter is in Aries, I think —maybe it's the other way around—but traveling is not advisable for a Pisces person like me—or Beulah, either."
There was something almost beseeching in the way she spoke. Casting aside the stub of cigar, he rose to join her in the gloaming. Eggleston was busy helping Mrs. Glore put supper things away on improvised shelves. "I believe," he said, "it is somehow unwise for you to travel to Prescott, though I must admit I am not sure of the real reason."