“There is something you want to tell me?” Rickard’s patience was courteous but firm. He would hear her errand first. Gerty, remembering MacLean’s banishment to the mesquits, the imploring attitude of the stranger, determined that she would not be sent away.
“Will you excuse me, señora? It will be only a minute.”
She was to tell her errand, and briefly! Gerty swept past the intruder.
“Sit down, Mrs. Hardin?”
Resenting the inflection, she said she would stand. Her voice was a little hard, her eyes were veiled, as she told her mission. Her usual fluency dragged; she felt a lack of sympathy. She saw Rickard look twice toward the Mexican; she knew she was not holding his attention.
Biting her lip, she acknowledged that Ling was doing the best he could, at least the best he knew how, but of course, he had his limitations. He needed an assistant; his hands were over-full. She remembered the phrase in time to hurl it to its place; she wanted to justify her presence in camp. In short, she proposed a commissary department, herself in charge.
Rickard had a weak moment. Outside, the place was teeming with Indians to be enrolled and placed in camp. Forestier, the Indian Outing Agent, who had come in on the train with three of the tribes, was waiting in the neighboring tent. Rickard wanted some new work begun to-morrow; there were but a few hours left of this day. There were letters, despatches to be got off.
“I’d like to feel I was of some use,” urged Gerty again, this time prettily, taking him back into her friendship again. “My heart is bound up in this undertaking; if I’m allowed to stay, I’d like to help along. This is the only way I can, the woman’s way.” It was a proud humility. Did not Rickard think that the best way, the only way? She knew he would think so, indeed!
“Aren’t you taking a good deal on yourself, Mrs. Hardin?”
Then she forgave his hesitation quite, as it was of her he was thinking. “Not if it helps.” Her voice was low and soft, as if this were a secret between them.