“Wait, gen’lemen, I’m coming back for a second load,” called the darky who was holding the reins.
“If you wait for the second trip, you won’t get a room,” suggested a friendly voice from the seat above.
Rickard threw his bag to the grinning negro, and swung on to the crowded steps.
Leaving the railroad sheds, he observed a building which he assumed was the hotel. It looked promising, attractive with its wide encircling veranda and the patch of green which distance gave the dignity of a lawn. But the darky whipped up his stolid horses. Rickard’s eyes followed the patch of green.
The friendly voice from above told him that that was the office of the Desert Reclamation Company. His next survey was more personal. He saw himself entering the play as the representative of a company that was distrusted, if not indeed actively hated by the valley folk. It amused him that his entrance was so quiet as to be surreptitious. It would have been quieter had Marshall had his way. But he himself had stipulated that Hardin should be told of his coming. He had seen the telegram before it left the Tucson office. He might be assuming an unfamiliar rôle in this complicated drama of river and desert, but it was not to be as an eavesdropper.
“Going in to settle?” The friendly voice belonged, he could see through the press of arms and limbs, to a pair of alert eyes and a faded buttonless shirt that had once been blue.
“I did that before I left!” He was tired of the question.
There was a laugh from the seats above.
“Going to try Calexico?”
“I think Calexico is going to try me! If this dust is a sample!”