Marshall had resumed his cigar. “We’ll consider it settled, then.” His minute of introspection was over. He had picked up his thread.
“Who’s in charge there?” Rickard was only gaining time. He thought he knew the name he would hear. Marshall’s first word surprised him.
“No one. Up to a few months ago, it was Hardin, Tom Hardin. He was general manager of the company. He was allowed to resign, to save his face, as the Chinese say. I may tell you that it was a case of firing. He’d made a terrible fluke down there.”
“I know,” murmured Rickard. It was growing more difficult, more distasteful. If Marshall wanted him to supplant Hardin! It had been incredible, that man’s folly! Reckless gambling, nothing else. Make a cut in the banks of a wild river, without putting in head-gates to control it; a child would guess better! It was a problem now, all right; the writer of the report he’d just read wasn’t the only one who was prophesying failure. Let the river cut back, and the government works at Laguna would be useless; a nice pickle Hardin had made.
Still to gain time, he suggested that Marshall tell him the situation. “I’ve followed only the engineering side of it. I don’t know the relationship of the two companies.”
“Where the railroad came in? The inside of that story? I’m responsible—I guaranteed to Faraday the closing of that break. There was a big district to save, a district that the railroad tapped—but I’ll tell you that later.” He was leisurely puffing blue, perfectly formed rings into the air, his eyes admiring them.
“Perhaps you’ve heard how Estrada, the general, took a party of men into the desert to sell a mine he owned. After the deal was made, he decided to let it slip. He’d found something bigger to do, more to his liking than the sale of a mine. Estrada was a big man, a great man. He had the idea Powell and others had, of turning the river, of saving the desert. He dreamed himself of doing it. If sickness hadn’t come to him, the Colorado would be meekly carrying water now, instead of flooding a country. Pity Eduardo, the son, is not like him. He’s like his mother, you never know what they are dreaming about. Not at all alike, my wife and Estrada’s.”
Then it came to Rickard that he had heard somewhere that Marshall and General Estrada had married sisters, famous beauties of Guadalajara. He began to piece together the personal background of the story.
“It was a long time before Estrada could get it started, and it’s a long story. As soon as he began, he was knocked down. Other men took hold. You’ll hear it all in the valley. Hardin took a day to tell it to me! He sees himself as a martyr. Promoters got in; the thing swelled into a swindle, a spectacular swindle. They showed oranges on Broadway before a drop of water was brought in. Hardin has lots of grievances! He’d made the original survey. So when he sued for his back wages, he took the papers of the bankrupt company in settlement. He’s a grim sort of ineffectual bulldog. He’s clung with his teeth to the Estrada idea. And he’s not big enough for it. He uses the optimistic method—gives you only half of a case, half of the problem, gets started on a false premise. Well, he got up another company on that method, the Desert Reclamation Company, tried to whitewash the desert project; it was in bad odor then, and he managed to bring a few drops of water to the desert.”
“It was Hardin who did that?”