He was making for a knoll from whence they could get a view of the river, and of the Hardin gate.
Her memory isolated a word of his. “The stokers—who are they?”
“We call them that. The brush-cutters. They look for all the world like the poor wretches in the ship’s engine-room.”
“Indians?”
“I wish they were. No, Mexicans. Rickard couldn’t get enough Indians, and Mexicans can’t stand this.”
Beyond them stretched the river of yellow waters, dividing like the letter Y, the east branch the dry bed of the Colorado. From a distance they could see the great arm of the dredge drop into the mud of the new channel, by which the water was to be diverted through the Hardin gate. Innes watched the bucket rise, dripping with soft silt, saw the elbow crook as the arm swung slowly toward the bank.
“That’s where you danced last night,” he observed.
“I thought I was on a cruiser!”
“A cruiser’s also a battle-ship!”
A hot sweet smell rose from the bank. She thought her sudden sway of faintness was from the sun.