“Good night, Mr. Rickard.”
CHAPTER XIII
THE FIGHTING CHANCE
“CASEY’S back; spying!” announced Wooster at mess one evening. By that time, the feeling against “Marshall’s man” was actively hostile. There had been a smudge of slumbering fires before Rickard had left the towns. Fanned by much talk during his absence, it had burst into active blaze. They were ready to show their resentment against the man who had supplanted Hardin, their Napoleon, if it cost them their places. By this time the cause of the desert was as compelling to these hardy soldiers as were the lily banners of France to the followers of the Little Corporal.
Rickard was not expected. He had been gone less than a week. The effect of his return was that of a person who returns suddenly into a room, hushing an active babel of tongues. He knew what he would find, ample reasons why! He was not given the satisfaction of locating any particular act of disobedience. The men presented a blank wall of politeness, reasonable and ineffectual. Silent explained, briefly, that he had not been able to collect enough men. Most of the force was busy in the Number Six District, trying to push the shattered Wistaria through by a new route before that year’s crops were entirely ruined. A gang was at Grant’s Heading; the floor needed bracing. Another squad, Irish’s, was in the Volcano Lake Region, where they were excavating for the new head-gate.
“No hurry for that.” Rickard was glad to pick a flaw in such a perfect pattern. “You might have withdrawn those men, and put them to work on the levee.”
“I was given no authority to do that.”
The chief pretended to accept the reason; else it were a case of changing horses in mid-stream. What he had seen at the Heading, his peep at the exposed valley, his gleaning of the river’s history had convinced him that in haste and concentration lay the valley’s only chance. He must refuse to see the insubordination of the engineers, the seasoned desert-soldiers. He needed them, must win their confidence if he could. If not, they must save the valley, anyway! The imperturbable front of Silent, his bland big stare, exasperated him; easier to control the snapping terrier of a Wooster. He had told Silent distinctly to gather his men and rush the levee. A good soldier had made a better guess than his, and had stopped the casual work at Black Butte, or had found Indians! Thoughtfully, Rickard followed that last suggestion across the ditch into Mexicali.
He gathered all the recruits he needed that morning. The Indians, lazy Cocopahs, crept out of their huts to earn a few of the silver dollars held out to them by the new white boss. A few Mexican laborers were bribed to toss up earth to the west of the town. Estrada, at his request, put a squad of his road force at the service of the manager. He could not spare many men.
The railroad had already started the line projected by Hardin to Marshall the year before, a spur across the desert, dipping into Mexico between the lean restless sand-hills, from Calexico to Yuma. The Mexican government had agreed to pay five thousand dollars a mile were the road completed at a certain period. Estrada was keeping his men on the jump to fill the contract, to make his nation pay the price. The completion of the road meant help to the valley; supplies, men, could be rushed through to the break.
In spite of his haunting sense of ultimate failure, the growing belief in the omnipotence of the Great Yellow Dragon as the Cocopahs visualized it, Estrada’s work was as intense as though he were hastening a sure victory. The dauntless spirit of the elder Estrada pushed the track over the hot sands where he must dance at times to keep his feet from burning. Many of the rails they laid at night.