They were standing in the shade of the Palmyra, Claudia on the platform shading her eyes, Innes on the step below. It was a soft still afternoon. There was no wind; not a cloud blurred the sky. The burning heat of summer had passed, giving place to a warmth that was like a caress. The fierceness of the savage desert had melted to her days of lure. Beyond, the turbid waters of the Colorado bore a smiling surface. There was nothing to hint of treachery.
It was a minute of pleasant lassitude, snatched from the turmoil. Rickard had succumbed to the softness of the day and his mood. He was enjoying the thought of Innes’ nearness, though she kept her face turned from him. He knew by the persistence of those averted eyes that she was as acutely conscious of his presence as he was, restfully, of hers. Deliberately, he was prolonging the instant.
“Well?” said Marshall. The group moved. Rickard turned toward his hostess. Just then a strange thing happened. A stir on the river had caught the alert eye of Tod Marshall. He swore a string of picturesque Marshallian oaths. Rickard’s eyes jumped toward the by-pass. The placid waters had suddenly buckled. Majestically, the gate rose and went out. They watched it variously, the groups by the Palmyra; the catastrophe too big for speech. Months of work swept away! The gate drifted a hundred feet or more, then stopped as though sentience, or a planned terminal, were governing its motion. Some unseen obstruction caught it there, to mock at the labors of man.
Innes, aghast, had turned toward Rickard. His face was expressionless. There was a babel of excited voices behind them, Bodefeldt, MacLean, Tony, Crothers, Bangs, all talking at once. Her eyes demanded something of Rickard. A fierce resentment rose against his calmness. “He knew it,” she rebelled. “He’s been expecting this to happen. It’s no tragedy to him!” There was a stab as of physical pain; she was visualizing the blow to Tom.
She heard Marshall’s voice, speaking to Rickard. “Well, you’re ready for this.” She did not hear the answer, for already Rickard was heading for the by-pass. Marshall and the young engineers followed him. The women were left staring. An odd sound came from the rear of the car.
“What is that?” demanded Claudia.
They found Coronel sitting on the ground, his knees drawn up to his chin. His mud-crusted head was turned riverward. His age-curdled eyes, fixed on the spot where the gate had been, did not see them. A moaning issued from his shut lips. His paint-striped shoulders were shaking with dry sobs. He had been watching, waiting for fifteen years. It was all over, now, to him. The Great Dragon had conquered.
Innes moved toward him. Coronel cared, Coronel and Tom! The Indian sat, wrapped in his grief. To the girl the worst, too, had happened. She had refused to believe in the possibility of failure. Her brother’s optimism had swept her along. That wreck down yonder was worse than failure; it was ruin. It involved Tom’s life. It was his life. This would be the final crushing of his superb courage—her thoughts released from their paralysis were whipped by sudden fear. She must find him, be with him. She did not see the look of sympathy on Claudia Marshall’s face. She felt alone, with Coronel. The next instant, she was speeding like a young colt toward the encampment.
Estrada met her on the run. “Have you heard?” she cried. Estrada said he had just been talking to Rickard. He looked sorry, she reflected after she left him, sorry for her; but not surprised. “No one is surprised but Coronel, Coronel and I.”
Had Gerty heard? The pity that she must know! She would not be tender to Tom; her pride would be wounded. She must ask her to be tender, generous. Her footsteps slackened as she came in sight of the tents.