After supper they sat by the fire, silent with fatigue, the scent of the men's tobacco on the air, the girl, with her hands clasping her knees, looking into the flames. In the shadows behind the old servant moved about. They could hear him crooning to the mules, and then catch a glimpse of his gnomelike figure bearing blankets from the wagon to the tent. There came a point where his labors seemed ended, but his activity had merely changed its direction. He came forward and said to the girl,
"Missy, your bed's ready. You'd better be going."
She gave a groan and a movement of protest under which was the hopeless acquiescence of the conquered:
"Not yet, Daddy John. I'm so comfortable sitting here."
"There's two thousand miles before you. Mustn't get tired this early. Come now, get up."
His manner held less of urgence than of quiet command. He was not dictatorial, but he was determined. The girl looked at him, sighed, rose to her knees, and then made a last appeal to her father:
"Father, do take my part. Daddy John's too interfering for words!"
But her father would only laugh at her discomfiture.
"All right," she said as she bent down to kiss him. "It'll be your turn in just about five minutes."
It was an accurate prophecy. The tent flaps had hardly closed on her when Daddy John attacked his employer.