muddy water. But Eggleston had splashed into the pool to help him.
'You're almost there, Mr. Jack!'
Just as he could swim no more and was about to release his hold on the floating fabric, Drumm's feet touched bottom. He staggered from the water, hauling Miss Larkin by her petticoats. Depositing her on a grassy hummock, he collapsed. Dimly he realized that the roar of the waters was almost gone. As he listened, it dwindled downstream, the sound like that of a goods van passing into the distance.
Eggleston turned Miss Larkin over while Mrs. Glore vainly patted Phoebe's face, trying to rouse her. Drumm pointed. 'Get that keg over there!'
Mrs. Glore did not understand, but Eggleston had lived in Brighton and knew how to handle drowning victims. Quickly the valet snatched up a small barrel that had held preserved herrings. Drumm picked up the recumbent figure like a rag doll and flopped it over the barrel. With Eggleston taking Phoebe's bare feet and himself the limp arms, they began to roll her back and forth.
'What are you doing?' Mrs. Glore cried.
'Reviving her,' Drumm explained.
'I never seen anything like that!' Mrs. Glore sobbed. 'Is that a proper way to handle a female?'
Drumm glanced at the camisole, the lacy petticoats, the exposed thighs.
'At this moment,' he said, 'I do not give a tinker's damn if she is male or female or something in between! What matters only is to save her life!'
Phoebe Larkin made a hiccuping sound; a gout of water drained from her bluish lips. The rescuers paused in their frantic seesawing.
'She's alive!' Mrs. Glore cried. 'She's alive!' Sinking to her knees, she raised her hands in a prayer of thanks.
The limp body stiffened, seemed now to oppose their flailing. Miss Larkin hiccuped again; her body twisted under their hands. A small object fell from her bodice onto the muddy ground. It was a derringer pistol, a two-barrel weapon with a pearl handle glinting in the growing sunlight.
Afterward, what with the emotion of the moment and the quickness with which Mrs. Beulah Glore snatched up the tiny gun and dropped it into the pocket of her wrapper, Drumm was not even certain he had seen it. A derringer was certainly a peculiar item for a lady to carry in her bosom. He was trying to assess this development when their subject curled herself into a ball, like an eel. Eggleston lost his grasp on her ankles. Jack Drumm slipped on the muddy ground; he and Miss Larkin fell heavily together, her wet body plastered against his.
It was an awkward position. She lay across him, pinioning him to the ground. Exhausted from his own near- drowning and his efforts to rescue her, he could only lie there, panting and helpless, her face against his. He saw with great clarity the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the delicately shaped eyebrows—plucked, surely—the glorious red hair now hanging dankly about her face.
'Let me help her to her feet,' Eggleston suggested. 'I think she is coming round.'
Drumm waved him off.
'She had better not be disturbed,' he explained. 'It is dangerous to awaken unconscious people too quickly. It can lead to disorders of the brain.'
Phoebe opened her eyes, stared into his. Bemused by their cerulean depths, he could only stare back. She hiccuped. 'Where am I? What-what—'
'You come back from the dead, dear!' Mrs. Glore told her. 'Mr. Drumm here threw himself into the water to pull you out!'
Phoebe continued to look into Drumm's eyes. He was uncomfortably aware of his maimed mustache and the blood-caked scar. But she seemed bemused.
'You saved my life!' Her lip trembled.
They lay together in the bright sunlight, the valet and Phoebe's traveling companion hovering over them. Jack Drumm cleared his throat in embarrassment. 'I—I suppose so.' He turned to Mrs. Glore. 'If you will help her up now, ma'am—'
Eggleston and Mrs. Glore hauled her to her feet and supported her between them. She continued to stare at Drumm with admiration.
'At the risk of your own life!'
In the dry air his drawers were clammy. Embarrassed at her show of emotion, he shivered and looked about for his blanket.
'Nothing,' he muttered. 'It was nothing! I am a good swimmer. And Eggie here helped me.'
Phoebe pulled away from them and rushed to Drumm. Throwing her arms about his neck, she kissed him hard on the lips. Astounded, he could only stand mute, hands dangling at his sides, feeling the soft body pressed against him, the full red lips wetly on his. He tried to speak but found it difficult. Finally he managed to disengage her.
'Thank you!' she gasped, looking into his eyes.
Embarrassment spoke for him, put words into his mouth he did not intend.
'I—I—well, I guess I would have done the same thing for anyone that was drowning.'
Her face changed; the blue eyes became wide and hurt. She drew back.
'But—but I'm not just
'Well,' he muttered, 'I'm—I'm glad you're all right, anyway.'
A flush came into her pale cheeks. One hand attempted to arrange the wet strands of hair. When she spoke her voice trembled slightly.
'I—I'm sorry! I didn't mean to—to bother you!'
Frustrated, trying to find the proper words, he shook his head. 'You didn't bother me! You didn't bother me at all! That wasn't what I meant!'
'I know what you mean,' Phoebe said icily. 'It's my fault, Mr. Drumm. You see—I have a very loving nature. Sometimes it betrays me. I am grateful you saved me, but sorry you misunderstood my gratitude!'
Almost desperately he looked around at the camp, devastated once by an Indian raid and now by a perverse flood. Everything was coming out wrong. He had planned the Grand Tour well, but the Arizona Territory had a way of upsetting things.
'Eggie,' he muttered, 'we must get some order back into things.'
For the first time Phoebe Larkin seemed conscious of her scanty attire. Mrs. Glore found a blanket that was not too wet and drew it about Phoebe's shoulders. Even in the warm sun the girl shivered.
'There, there!' Mrs. Glore soothed. 'It's only the after-effects of your dreadful experience! Come sit with me on that box under the tree.'
Phoebe accepted the blanket, and an opportunity for the last word.
'Mr. Drumm,' she said bitterly, 'whatever you think of me, I must say—you're a damned cold fish! I heard Englishmen were like that, but so far I never had the bad luck to meet up with one!' Tossing her head, she turned her back on him and went to sit with Mrs. Glore.
Discouragement only brought out the stubbornness in Jack Drumm's character. While Phoebe sullenly watched, and Mrs. Glore searched downstream for enough unspoiled food to nourish them, he and the valet worked to bring order out of chaos. Noontide came and went, and they were sweating and exhausted. In the late afternoon Mrs. Glore squinted into the distance and pointed.
'There! Do you see that? Something is coming—a stage, maybe —or wagons!'
In the distance they could see a plume of dust in the mouth of Centinela Canyon. Drumm snatched up his spyglass. Shaking water from it, he focused on the distant disturbance: wagons, several wagons, escorted by a patrol of cavalry.
'Thank God!' Mrs. Glore said. 'Now maybe we can leave this Godforsaken place and travel to Prescott, like we planned!' She glanced at Jack Drumm. 'No offense meant—you've been kind and helpful, Mr. Drumm. But there
'That's right,' Phoebe Larkin agreed, tossing her head. 'I'm anxious to mingle with some kind and
