“So you gave them the whole pay-roll?”
“Every cent.”
Carhart frowned. “That won’t do,” he said. “A man who can clean out the camp in less than a week will breed more trouble than a water famine.”
There was little more to be said, and soon the council came to a close. Scribner went promptly to sleep. Young Van awoke, and with a mumbled “good night” staggered across after Scribner, to his sleeping tent. And then, for an hour, Paul Carhart sat alone, his elbows on the table, a profile of the line spread out before him. Outside, in the night, something stirred. He extinguished his lamp and listened. Cautious steps were approaching behind the cluster of tents. A moment more and he heard a man stumble over a peg and swear aloud.
Carhart stepped out at the rear of the tent and stood waiting. Four or five shadowy figures slipped into view, caught sight of him, and paused. While they stood huddled together he made out a pair of broad shoulders towering above the group. There was only one such pair in the camp, and they belonged to the cook, Jack Flagg.
The silence lasted only a moment. Then, without speaking, the men broke and ran back into the darkness.
Carhart waited until the camp was silent, then he too, went in and to sleep.
But Young Van, dozing lightly and restlessly, was awakened by the noise behind the tents. For a few moments he lay still, then he got up and looked out. Down the knoll he could see a dim light, and after a little he made it out as coming from the mess tent of the laborers. Now and then a low murmur of voices floated up through the desert stillness.
Young Van folded up the legs of his cot, carried it out, laid it across two of the water barrels, and went to sleep there in the open air.