“Don’t stop! She may hump yet!” Rickard was splitting his voice against the cheers. The whistles screamed themselves hoarse.
“We’ve got her!” screamed Hardin. “She’s going down!”
And then a girl, sitting on the bank, saw two men grab each other by the hand. She was too far away to hear their voices, but the sun, rising red through the banks of smoke, fell on the blackened faces of her brother and Rickard. She did not care who saw her crying.
A small sound started down the river. It grew into a swelling cheer, the pæan of victory. It demoralized into wild yells. Suddenly, the noise stopped. Simultaneously, Marshall and Rickard had held up their hands. The whistles had blown.
“What was that for?” demanded Mrs. Marshall.
“I suppose they can’t afford to waste any time.” Innes’ reply was uncertain. She, too, was wondering.
Rickard, they could hear, again, screaming directions. The battle was won; but it must be kept won. But no cheering! The men didn’t know who it was who was buried out yonder.
When things were well under way, Rickard discovered that his head was hot, his skin chilly. He would lay off for an hour. He would put Hardin in his place, Hardin or Irish.
He found Hardin, who was having his minute of reaction. This was not his triumph. Sullenly, he accepted Rickard’s place. Rickard turned back. “Had you heard? That was Estrada out there.”
Hardin’s expression followed him, the gloom of sullen egotism passing slowly from the face of unwilling horror. He had not spoken, but his look said: “Not Estrada! Any one but Estrada!”