“Stop that,” he yelled. “Here you Indians, vamose. D’ye hear me? Vamose.”
The group of Indians drew back but only a few steps, giggling. The sidling motion began again. Rickard, laughing, looked over his shoulder at Eggers’ absurd dilemma.
On the morning-glory-covered veranda of the adobe offices of the Desert Reclamation Company, Ogilvie was waiting.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Mr. Rickard.” His tone was sepulchral and foreboding.
“It’s a big place, the towns. Hard to find any one, unless it’s an accident.” He made for his office, followed by Ogilvie. Rickard, who had had two hours of sleep, felt refreshed and rollicking. This was some fun! These dismal fearful citizens! He and Marshall would show them what a railroad force could do!
He threw himself into his swivel chair and looked up at the expert accountant whose blue-veined hands were describing circles with his straw hat.
“I think,” plunged Ogilvie, “that this is no place for the papers of the company.”
“No?”
“They ought to be in Los Angeles,” stammered the accountant, forgetting his speech.
“If I’m not mistaken, you persuaded them contrarily a few months ago!”