“No”—said she slowly—“nobody in particular. But anything may happen to-night, Jim. And we can't falter. Not now.”
She let him press her hand during a brief moment; then made him resume his seat. And from behind lowered lids she watched him.
Once he came back, to ask hoarsely: “You said he was rough with you, Dix. Did he—did you and he—my God, if I thought that Tex had—”
She caught his shoulder and placed a hand over his mouth: held him thus while she said: “If he catches you back here, Jim, he'll kill you. No fear! Now you go back there and show me that you can play cards. You're sitting in the biggest game of your life. Jim Watson.”
He crept back; puzzled, something hurt. There was a sting in her voice. Could it be that the girlish Dixie was as cold-blooded as that? Treating him like a child! Hadn't she any feelings? The question came around and around in his muddy brain, confused with frantic uprushes of jealousy against the big man who slept and snored in the bow.... hadn't she any feelings?.... She was excitingly desirable.
Just as a conquest, now; something to brag about.
It was Dixie who sighted the soldiers, sitting in heated argument on the bank not a hundred yards below a big junk that lay moored to stakes in an eddy. She called sharply to Connor; they pulled straight in beside the other two boats.
Tom Sung came to the water's edge, a rifle (with set bayonet) in his hand. Connor stepped out, holding the boat. The Kid, with a furtive, glance at the big yellow fighter, and the abruptly silent shadowy group on the bank, cautiously got out an automatic pistol and held it beside him on the thwart.
Dixie said sharply, for Connor's ears: “Put up that gun, Jim!”
The Kid obeyed.