She heard voices in the ramada, a man’s clear notes mingling with Gerty’s childish treble. “Godfrey!” Her mind jumped to other tête-à-têtes. Of course! Abundant opportunity, with herself and Tom at the break all day! So that was what was going on. And she not seeing! Just a cheap little woman! If not one man, then another! Conquests, attention! Horrid little clandestine affairs!
The meeting was awkward. Speedily, Innes got rid of the news. She caught an odd look glittering in Mrs. Hardin’s eyes. The same expression Rickard had worn when the gate went out! As though his slate had been cleared, as though her sister-in-law saw an obstacle drop from her path.
Mrs. Hardin shrugged. Her shrugs were dainty, not the hunching variety. She merely moved her shoulders, the action as elusive as a twinkle.
“I believe I’ll go out.” Plaintively, she made the announcement as though it were just evolved. “Now, the camp will be horrid. Everybody will be cross, and everybody will be working. Perspiring men are not inspiring men!”
As she left the tent beyond, Innes could hear the vibrant voice of Godfrey persuading Mrs. Hardin to stay there a few weeks longer. She could hear him say, “This will delay the turning of the river at the most but a few weeks. Rickard told me so a week ago. And think what it would be here without you!”
“They were all expecting it!” resisted Innes Hardin. She turned back toward the river. She must find Tom.
CHAPTER XXXVII
A SUNDAY SPECTACLE
TROUBLE with the tribes, innocent and childish in its first aspect, was well grown before it was recognized. Disaffection was ripe, the bucks were heady, the white man’s silver acting like wine. Few of the braves had dreamed of ever possessing sums of money such as they drew down each Sunday morning. They were paid a white man’s wage, and to each group of ten went another man’s pay, “lagniappe,” to be paid to a squaw cook for the squad. The extra sum had excited from the first a gentle insurrection. Had they dared, they would have divided it among themselves, but the obloquy of “squaw man” confronted them. The discussion was weekly; over their pipes and their fires that sum was passed, itching their palms.
It was a solemn processional, smacking of ceremonial, which filed into Rickard’s ramada every Sunday. Pay time was the climax of their week, the symbol of the revel which followed. All day, the bucks danced and glutted.
Rickard began to suspect liquor again. The commandant and Forestier protested. There was no way of their getting liquor. Still Rickard shrugged, incredulous. In the Indian camp, Sunday was a day of feasting, followed by a gorged sleep; the next day, one of languor, of growing incohesion.