He demurred.
“But I’ll not speak to them. If I can see them—only a few of them—the real men of our drive—I believe I shall find courage to go on.”
She prevailed, though he was doubtful and warned her that the babbling of the new gossip might be embarrassing.
And so it proved as Father Leroque feared; men perceived only the beguilement of Ward Latisan and had heard only the sordid side of the happenings in Adonia; the girl was glad because she was hid in the gloom outside the circle of light that was the nimbus of the bonfire. They were laughing as they discussed a matter which had eclipsed the interest in the wedding. Her cheeks were hot and she was scarcely restrained by the priest’s monitory palm on her shoulder.
Men were feasting and gossiping; they were herded around the fire, squatting Turk fashion, steaming pannikins on the ground by their sides, heaped plates on their knees.
“Fifteen of us,” stated a man, answering a question. “And prob’ly more to follow. Ben Kyle has gone up there in a hurry, grudge and all, and is hiring for the Comas. If there ain’t going to be any fight we may as well work for the Three C’s.”
“Stay here!” commanded Father Leroque, patting the girl’s arm. “Stay where they can’t see you.” He stepped forward into the firelight. “Do I understand that the Flagg crew is breaking up?”
“Fifteen of us in this bunch,” restated the man, rapping his pannikin to dislodge the tea leaves and holding it out for more of the beverage. “Wedding brought us down—the news we hear is going to keep us going. Flagg is done.”
“Yes, if his men desert him. You mustn’t do it; it isn’t square.”
The priest found it easy to locate the recreants among the other rivermen; they shifted their eyes under his rebuking gaze. “Go back to your work. Another will come in young Latisan’s place.”