In Tucson, Rickard had heard a dwarfing version of over-solicitude. Since he had been with them at the river, the thing smacked to him of tragedy. He had seen the gentle rogue slip that wistful bridle before. Her eyes, to him, looked robbed. Why should she not grudge each unnatural night, insist on life at her terms instead of the full-blooded recklessness of his?
He left the car musing on marital ironies. Daring adventure to throw together a team of unmatched natures, gambling on exteriors—as teams are chosen. Without a driver, he followed his thought whimsically, what team left so to itself would not smash its harness? Terrible plunge, that! What can two people, neighbors even, know of congeniality, that mutual delight which must survive the nagging friction of every-day life? Harder for a man to know the nature of the woman he picks out, than for the girl. She has his work as a guide; she can guess at temperament and taste. What guide has a man in the choice of the home-bred girl, the only sort he himself could imagine being willing to pin his faith to? Modern life, the home, shelters the woman; she has no profession to betray her taste or disposition. In a place like this, it’s different. Camp life shows up the real man or woman. A good preliminary course, that, in matrimony, love-sick couples, made to work out a probation in a rough camp, the woman to cook, the man to hunt for grub and fire-wood! Fewer marriages, perhaps, but then not so many divorces.
A group of Indian children were playing under a clump of willows, directing a mimic stream through a canal of their own making. Even the children were playing the river game! He stopped to watch their mimicry. A pool of deserted water lay caught in a depression. The little brown hands had raised a labored levee, had scooped out the return canal.
“Hold on,” cried Rickard. An engineering problem had stopped their game. The stream, returning, threatened to overwhelm their breastworks. “Do it this way.” The miniature of a stolid bronze buck looked up uncomprehendingly. Rickard tried Spanish. The children shook their heads. He got down on his knees, and in a few minutes straightened out the rebellious river. Many a year since he had played with kids! The little faces looking up at him, the confidence, stirred quiescent longings. He was no longer what one would call a young man. He was living so hurriedly that he was allowing life in its great, sweet solemn meaning to pass him by. It was always mañana with him, or pasada mañana. And he was getting along!
Stretching the kinks in his legs, he continued his walk. He would take a look at the levee while he was there. The youngsters’ problem recurred to him. He had had a new thought back there. He pulled a note-book from his pocket, scrawling as he went. An idea pulled him stock-still. Why not, he asked himself with some excitement? Custom says borrow-pits on the outside. What was the origin of that custom?
“Is not our problem different?” he demanded. “A dike is placed usually to protect immediately usable land. Not so, here. Well, then, why?” The borrow-pit must be a menace on the stream side, must expose fallible softness to floods—queer he hadn’t thought of that before. He must think that well over before he made a change, but it certainly did look reasonable to him.
He hailed Parrish, down the levee a distance. Parrish was the foreman of that section of levee, in charge of a big gang of Indians and hoboes. He came up running.
“Go slowly here,” advised his chief. “I may change the orders. Going to open up muck-ditches this afternoon?”
Parrish thought that they might, late.
“Wait to see me. Come up to camp this evening. I’ll go over it by myself first. I’ll talk it over with you.”