It was a thunderclap. There was no one to replace Ling, who was drawing down the salary of a private secretary.
“You sick?” demanded Rickard. Lose Ling? It would be more demoralizing to the camp than to lose an engineer.
“Ling no sick.”
“Maybe you want more money?”
“Plenty get money.” The yellow lean fingers spread wide apart. “Money all lite. Bossee all lite. No likee woman. Woman she stay, Ling go.”
“Mrs. Hardin!” Rickard woke up.
“She all time makee trouble. She talkee butter—butter, butter. All time. She clazy. She think woman vellee fine cook. She show Ling cookee plunes. Teachee Ling cookee plunes! I no stay that woman.” Unutterable finality in the leathern face. Rickard and MacLean, Jr., exchanged glances which deepened from concern into perplexity. They could not afford to lose Ling. And offend Mrs. Hardin, the camp already Hardinesque?
Rickard grew placating. “Now, see here, Ling, you no understand. Mrs. Hardin a nice lady; nice home, she like things first-class. You understand things first-class?”
Sourly, Ling vouchsafed that he, too, understood things first-class. “She say bad plunes. Too much water. She bossee me all time. Mr. Lickard likee lady, keep lady, no keep Ling.”
Rickard looked at his watch. He wanted to be off. He had been promising himself an afternoon for three weeks, since the day the tribes came in. He must start things moving at Maldonado’s. Coronel, who had come in from Yuma yesterday, had told him of an Indian who would do the trick for him, who could withstand liquor, and pretend to reel with it. Already, he had lost some of his Indians. They might wander back; the chances were good that they had been “sent up.” He needed every Indian. But more he needed Ling. He spent another half-hour in wheedling. They met at the starting place. “Ling go tamale.”