in bad repair. A rent in the crown let in the sun and the brim had nearly been torn away during the Apache raid. "Thanks," Drumm said glumly, hooking the garish scarlet cord under his chin. He must look a fright; Cornelia would recoil in horror.
Jake unwrapped his long whip, looking calculatingly at the fourteen oxen. "Them critters is bushed," he complained. "Since Weaver's Ranch went under there's no place to pasture fresh stock." He looked around, scratched his chin. "The right man could make himself some money here running a stage stop. Plenty water, grass, lots of politicians traveling to the capital." He waved farewell; the whip cracked like a rifle shot. Wearily the oxen leaned into the yokes and the heavily laden wagon creaked away.
While Phoebe Larkin and Mrs. Glore watched, Eggleston helped Drumm carry the food back to the litter and confusion of the wrecked camp. The setting sun cast shadows long and black as they staggered under the burdens. The valet put down his load with a sigh.
"Mr. Jack," he asked, "do you really mean to stay here, along the banks of the river?"
"I do, indeed," Drumm said. "I am sorry if I compromised you, too, Eggie, but perhaps there is some way I can get you safely back to Clarendon Hall. As for myself, I intend to stick it out to show these people what an Englishman can do under adverse circumstances!"
"Then I will stay with you," the valet decided.
"It is not necessary! Already I have taken great advantage of your loyalty."
Eggleston shook his head. "My place is with you! My people served the Drumms for over a century, and I cannot abandon my duty now." He looked calculatingly at Jack Drumm. "You do need a shave, Mr. Jack! Shall I get out my basin and razor?"
Drumm shook his head. "This wound on my cheek does not yet permit it." Anyway, he thought, a beard could help to conceal the damage done to his mustache. A beard would also be more appropriate to the Mexican sombrero.
Mrs. Glore strolled over to inspect the supplies. "I've got some bacon," she volunteered. "I could boil up a mess of them beans. With a little meat they wouldn't taste bad for supper. And if Mr. Eggleston will gather some poke salat along the river there—"
The valet looked baffled.
"Along the bank, in the riffles," Mrs. Glore explained. "That stand of green shoots sticking up! My land—don't you have poke salat in England, Mr. Eggleston? Why, there's nothing better than a mess of them shoots with a little bacon grease poured onto 'em!"
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,
Jake unwrapped his long whip, looking calculatingly at the fourteen oxen. "Them critters is bushed," he complained. "Since Weaver's Ranch went under there's no place to pasture fresh stock." He looked around, scratched his chin. "The right man could make himself some money here running a stage stop. Plenty water, grass, lots of politicians traveling to the capital." He waved farewell; the whip cracked like a rifle shot. Wearily the oxen leaned into the yokes and the heavily laden wagon creaked away.
While Phoebe Larkin and Mrs. Glore watched, Eggleston helped Drumm carry the food back to the litter and confusion of the wrecked camp. The setting sun cast shadows long and black as they staggered under the burdens. The valet put down his load with a sigh.
"Mr. Jack," he asked, "do you really mean to stay here, along the banks of the river?"
"I do, indeed," Drumm said. "I am sorry if I compromised you, too, Eggie, but perhaps there is some way I can get you safely back to Clarendon Hall. As for myself, I intend to stick it out to show these people what an Englishman can do under adverse circumstances!"
"Then I will stay with you," the valet decided.
"It is not necessary! Already I have taken great advantage of your loyalty."
Eggleston shook his head. "My place is with you! My people served the Drumms for over a century, and I cannot abandon my duty now." He looked calculatingly at Jack Drumm. "You do need a shave, Mr. Jack! Shall I get out my basin and razor?"
Drumm shook his head. "This wound on my cheek does not yet permit it." Anyway, he thought, a beard could help to conceal the damage done to his mustache. A beard would also be more appropriate to the Mexican sombrero.
Mrs. Glore strolled over to inspect the supplies. "I've got some bacon," she volunteered. "I could boil up a mess of them beans. With a little meat they wouldn't taste bad for supper. And if Mr. Eggleston will gather some poke salat along the river there—"
The valet looked baffled.
"Along the bank, in the riffles," Mrs. Glore explained. "That stand of green shoots sticking up! My land—don't you have poke salat in England, Mr. Eggleston? Why, there's nothing better than a mess of them shoots with a little bacon grease poured onto 'em!"
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,
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