Estrada’s thoughtful glance rested on the angry face. Was this genuine, or did not Hardin know of the years Rickard had served on the road; of the job in the heat-baked barrancas of Mexico where Marshall had “found” him? But he would not try again to persuade Hardin to give up his trip to Los Angeles. It might be better, after all, for the new manager to take charge with his predecessor out of the way.
“MacLean’s coming down to-night,” he threw out, still watching Hardin’s face. “With Babcock.”
“I won’t be missed.” Hardin’s mouth was bitter. “Estrada, if I had the sense of a goat, I’d sell out, sell my stock to MacLean, and quit. What’s in all this, for me? Does any one doubt my reason for staying? It would be like leaving a sinking ship, like deserting the passengers and crew one had brought on board. God! I’d like to go! But how can I? I’ve got hold of the tail of the bear, and I can’t let go!”
“No one doubts you—” began Estrada. Hardin turned away, with an ugly oath. The Mexican stood watching his stumbling anger. “Poor Hardin!”
In the office, Rickard was speaking to MacLean, whom he had drawn to one side, out of ear-shot of the checker players.
“I want you to do something for me, not at all agreeable!” His tone implied that the boy was not given the chance to beg off. “What time does the train pull out in the morning?”
“Six-fifteen.”
“I’ll have a letter for you, at the hotel at six. Be on time. I want to catch Hardin before he leaves for Los Angeles. If he’s really going. I’ll give him to-day to think it over. But he can’t disregard an order as he did my invitation. I didn’t want to rub it in before the men.”
MacLean stared; then said that he thought he was not likely to!
Rickard left the office in time to see Hardin shutting the outer gate behind him. His exit released a chorus of indignant voices.