"I—I mean—" he amended, "well, that is to say—we cannot be too careful, ma'am! We are all alone here, on a hostile desert."
Cross-legged on a blanket Eggleston had spread, she seemed not to notice but went on prattling in her quick decisive way.
"Take some more cheese, Mr. Drumm! Beulah bought it in Phoenix—it's a Mexican cheese, called queso duro." She got to her feet gracefully, like a deer rising, and looked at the growing sprinkle of stars. In the west there was only a faint orange flush shading off into dusky purple overhead. "I guess the desert is an unfriendly place, yes! But it is sure pretty." She took a deep breath; the fine bosom rose and fell under the lace ruching, a jeweled pin at her throat caught a last glimmer of light. "Smell that, will you? Some kind of desert plant, I'll bet! Oh, the night is so beautiful!"
At Drumm's nod, Eggleston went obediently to gather blankets and pillows and whatever conveniences he could find around the wrecked camp. Moments later, assisted by Mrs. Glore, he was working in the reed hut by the shaded light of the camphene lamp, preparing couches for the two females.
"You spoke," Drumm said grudgingly, rolling another piece of the hard cheese in a tortilla, "of a bad experience in Phoenix, ma'am."
She sat beside him again on the blanket, sipping at a cup of water.
"I don't want to talk about that! It was too scary."
Miss Larkin was certainly not like Cornelia Newton-Barrett, not like Cornelia at all. But her presence, the female presence, made him think longingly of Cornelia, of home, of peace and contentment and amenities denied in this inhospitable desert.
"I suppose," she said brightly, "you're wondering who I am— how Beulah and I came to be out here, far from everything, traveling to Prescott!"
He inclined his head politely, shifting the position of the needle-gun across his knees. "You do not need to explain yourself to me, Miss Larkin."
"Just call me Phoebe," she said. With a quick gesture she took off the bonnet and China silk scarf and tossed her head, freeing the mane of red hair to flow richly about her face. "That's what I answer to back in—back in—" She paused, picked up the colorful scarf, worked it between her long fingers. After a moment she said, "My father is a wealthy judge in New York City, and Mrs. Glore is an old family friend of the Larkins. You see, I always had a lot of young fellows sparking me there—"
Drumm was puzzled. "Sparking you, ma'am?"
She giggled. "I forgot you were English! That means—well, courting me!"
"I see," he said, somewhat stiffly.
"I guess Papa was afraid the boys were getting too serious! So me and Beulah—Papa packed us off to travel the West, visit my wealthy Uncle Buell Larkin, who made his fortune in a gold mine at Prescott. Papa didn't want me to marry anybody but another judge, and there wasn't any in the pack that always hung around the house."
"That's the God's truth," Mrs. Glore called. "Every word of it!"
Drumm fumbled a hand over his damaged mustache when he looked at Miss Larkin. "I have a friend who was with me at Magdalen College. Geoffrey moved to New York City to take over his father's import business. He lived someplace in New York City near the Bronx. Tell me, do you know the Bronx?"
"The Bronks?" Phoebe shook her head. "There was a family of Bronsons, but they were kind of white trash. The judge never wanted me to associate with them."
Drumm was puzzled. "No, no!" he protested. "I mean the Bronx! It's a locality in New York City."
Phoebe pondered. "Oh, yes," she said. "The Bronx."
She regarded him with asperity. "Well, I did live there!"
"I did not deny it, ma'am."
Her blue eyes narrowed. "But just what are you getting at?"
It had been a long and arduous day, and he was not in the best of moods. "I was not 'getting at' anything!" he said stiffly. "I was only wondering why you had never heard of the Bronx. Even in London we know that area!"
"And in New York," she said loftily, "we have better manners than to haze our guests so!"
He blinked. "Really, Miss Larkin—"
"I have been a perfect lady," she said. "I have shared confidences with you, told you a few details of my personal life as a proper female might, and now you are abusing me!"
Open-mouthed, he could only stare at her. The blue eyes were dark with annoyance, the lips firmly set in disapproval. Dusting her hands in a gesture of finality, she got to her feet. "It really is not nice to be so suspicious, Mr. Drumm. I wonder you have any friends!"
"Look out!" he called after her. "Ma'am, be careful! You're walking right into a barrel cactus—Echinocactus grusoni, I think!"
Pausing in flight, she drew her skirts aside from the menacing spines.
"Thank you," she said curtly, "but I don't need your help, Mr. Drumm. I saw the cactus myself and I don't need any man's help! I can take care of myself—always have, and always will!"
While Eggleston slept, Jack Drumm took the first watch. He squatted for a long time, chill and uncomfortable in the single burr-covered blanket remaining to him after the valet had fitted out the reed hut for the females' occupancy. Moodily he stared into the darkness. Along the river the coyotes started their music, and a night bird tuned up in a nearby bush.
Miss Larkin was certainly an odd person; he suspected she was not even a proper lady. As for that story of living in New York City, it was an obvious fabrication. But there had been no need to lie to him; what did he care about her past?
Near one in the morning, to judge from the position of Orion's belt, he woke the weary Eggleston and lay down himself, hands clasped behind his head. Around the distant Mazatzals forked lightning played, shimmering silently against the dark clouds. Long moments later he heard a cannonading of thunder. But she was beautiful! Not the patrician handsomeness of Cornelia Newton-Barrett, but instead a kind of coltish attractiveness, a careless charm that seemed unaware of its own beauty. Closing tired eyes, he finally slept, exhausted by the events of the day.
In the first flush of dawn he awoke. A single ray of sunlight crept through a notch in the sierra, lighting the disorder and confusion of the camp. Eggleston lay propped against a boulder, Sharp's rifle across his knees, sleeping. Poor Eggie—the valet was done in too! But soon they would be on the cars at Bear Spring and out of this infernal wasteland. Drumm yawned and stretched his arms. In spite of cramps in his legs and an aching back, he felt almost cheerful. Home, soon—the green hills of Hampshire!
The morning was yet chill, and he did not care to leave the scanty warmth of his blanket. As he lay there, he was puzzled by a faint rumbling, so faint he seemed almost to feel it rather than hear. He raised himself on an elbow and looked around.
Miss Phoebe Larkin had also heard the strange noise. In the gray of dawn she hurried from the reed hut with a blanket about her shoulders, otherwise dressed only in camisole and lacy petticoats. Her feet were bare.
"What was that?" she called to Drumm.
"I don't know," he said, and sat up—looking, listening.
Phoebe stood in the shaft of sunlight, tumbled red hair falling about her shoulders and glistening sleekly, like the brush of a fox in autumn. "There! I heard it again!" She raised a slender finger. "Listen!" She wore a lot of rings; though Drumm was no expert, many of them were heavy with what appeared to be diamonds.