Not one of those who labored or watched would ever forget that night. The spirit of recklessness entered even into the stolid native. The men of the Reclamation forgot this was not their enterprise; the Hardin faction jumped to Rickard’s orders; there was a whip of haste in the air. Brandon’s old style came back to him as he wrote, standing now under the great swinging light, his report for the Sun. “Bertha will be reading it to-morrow!” He despatched one bulletin, and began another. His periods rolled off, sonorously syllabled. Down by the trestle, humped up like a camel, the mud washed from his hair which fell like stiff wires from his head, watched Cor’nel. He had not eaten, had not stirred from his place that day.
The rain of rocks, by midnight, had settled into a steady storm. The momentum was gigantic. The watchers on the bank sat tense, thrilled out of recognition of aching muscles, or the midnight creeping chill. No one would go home. Mrs. Marshall and Molly Silent carried the sleeping boy into the Palmyra, where he was laid in Mrs. Marshall’s bed.
“He’ll lie till morning, once he’s asleep,” whispered his mother, and they crept down to the bank again. The swinging lights had turned the darkness into a pale twilight. Each searched through the uncertain light for a familiar figure, for the soldier she had lent. Wistfully, Claudia was wondering if Tod’s flannels were wet. Once, he came within reach of her hand, but she dared not ask him. He was on the run. “Hell! what’s the matter with that train?”
To Innes, the struggle was vested in two men, Rickard running down yonder with that light foot of his as swift as though Ling’s mustard had not been needed a few days before; and Hardin with the fighting mouth tense. And somewhere, she remembered, working with the rest, was Estrada. Those three were fighting for the justification of a vision—an idea was at stake, a hope for the future. There was no fear, only a wild exultation, when she once saw Rickard jump on to an outgoing train of “battle-ships,” heavily laden with rock. It was a battle of giants, to her; drastic and dramatic.
Rickard passed and repassed her, running, or again walking slowly, talking eagerly to Marshall. And had not seen her! Not during those hours would he think of her, not until the idea failed, or was triumphant, would he turn to look for her. Knowing, the thought unfolded slowly, knowing he would find her there!
The real work of the world is man-work; no matter how she or other women might yearn, theirs not the endurance. All they can do is negative; not to get on the track! Neither with pretty ruffles, nor tender fears!
Knowing he would find her there. Suppose she were not there, she were off building a house when he came home to find her, craving her comfort or her laurels? Suppose she had promised to deliver a plan, and that pledge involved her absence, or her attention when the world work, the man-work released him—his story on his eager lips, her ears deaf to hear? She saw Brandon under the swinging light, and his loneliness came knocking at her door. Was it still necessary for that wife to help with the bread-getting? On some women, that problem is thrust, but her college study, her later reading, had taught her that all women should seek it. An economic waste, half of the world spending more than the other half can earn! To the woman who has been spared the problem, comes the problem of choice. Has any one, born a woman, the daring to say—“I will not choose. I will take both! I will be man and woman, too!” Suppose she were not at home when he stumbled back to her! As soon leave that corner of the bank!
Her muscles grew stiff. Once in a while, the watching women stirred, or shifted their positions, but they did not get up. They would stay where their man, Marshall, or Silent, Rickard, Hardin, could find them. Only one woman symbolized that thought, and she followed it until it curved, bringing her back to that twilight of clamor, the fight between disorder and plan, waste and conservation, herself sitting on the bank waiting.
Visibly, the drama moved toward its climax. Before many hours passed, something would happen, the river would be captured, or the idea forever mocked. Each time a belching engine pulled across that hazardous track, it flung a credit to the man-side. Each time the waters, slowly rising, hurled their weight against the creaking trestles where the rock was thin, a point was gained by the militant river. Its roar sounded like the last cry of a wounded animal to Innes’ ear; the Dragon was a reality that night as it spent its rage against the shackles of puny men.
Down in the shadow of a lamp-pole, the light flaring riverward, crouched Coronel. His eyes were fixed on those approaching walls of rock. Motionless, he watched the final tussle, a grunt following each glut of rock. Somewhere, his muscles ached, but his brain did not receive their message. It was off duty. His mind was sending that car across the trestle; it was hastening the charge, that quick clattering downfall of shattered rock.