pebbles, went for a quarter. Though the goods were consigned to L. Bushford and Co., a Prescott grocer, the whiskered driver apparently saw a way to dispose of them at an even greater profit than the goods would fetch in the capital. What arrangements Jake would later make with L. Bushford and Co. were of no concern to Drumm; he suspected the arrangements would be as unsavory as the rest of the Arizona Territory and its inhabitants.
Fortunately, he had greenbacks, converted from English pounds at the Merchants' Exchange Bank in San Francisco. There he had hesitated at giving away sound English currency for the gaudy greenbacks; now he boggled even more at bolstering the economy of the Territory with his purchases. But there was no remedy for it. If he were to stay here he would have to have supplies. Perhaps his decision, born out of injured pride and humiliation, had been a rash one, but it was now made.
Jake stuffed the bills into a hip pocket. 'It's a shame, Mr. Drumm,' he said, 'that I ain't got a few cans of salmon for you.'
'How's that?'
'When I was teamster down at Camp Bowie, we had some tame Apaches on the post. They'd steal anything—stuff they couldn't even use, like the bandmaster's tuba. But Apaches is scared to death of fish; figger they're cousin to the snake. So all a man had to do was open a can of salmon and they wasn't no Apache'd come within a hundred yards of his belongings!'
'I'll have a few pounds of sugar too,' Drumm decided, counting his money.
'Cost you six bits a pound!' Jake warned. 'That's a bargain, though, considering it come all the way from Frisco!'
If he continued to stay along the Agua Fria, Drumm would soon have to have more money. Perhaps there was a way he could have Andrew arrange a letter of credit with a Phoenix bank. There was certainly no sustenance along the river for anything but jackrabbits; everything would have to be brought in.
'Tell you what I'll do,' Jake decided, weighing out the sugar. 'You bein' such a good customer—' He reached under the high seat and handed Drumm a wide-brimmed straw hat of the kind Mexicans wore, complete with a gaudy braided cord for the chin. 'Compliments of the management!'
The Bombay topi was indeed in bad repair. A rent in the crown let in the sun and the brim had nearly been torn away during the Apache raid. 'Thanks,' Drumm said glumly, hooking the garish scarlet cord under his chin. He must look a fright; Cornelia would recoil in horror.
Jake unwrapped his long whip, looking calculatingly at the fourteen oxen. 'Them critters is bushed,' he complained. 'Since Weaver's Ranch went under there's no place to pasture fresh stock.' He looked around, scratched his chin. 'The right man could make himself some money here running a stage stop. Plenty water, grass, lots of politicians traveling to the capital.' He waved farewell; the whip cracked like a rifle shot. Wearily the oxen leaned into the yokes and the heavily laden wagon creaked away.
While Phoebe Larkin and Mrs. Glore watched, Eggleston helped Drumm carry the food back to the litter and confusion of the wrecked camp. The setting sun cast shadows long and black as they staggered under the burdens. The valet put down his load with a sigh.
'Mr. Jack,' he asked, 'do you really mean to stay here, along the banks of the river?'
'I do, indeed,' Drumm said. 'I am sorry if I compromised you, too, Eggie, but perhaps there is some way I can get you safely back to Clarendon Hall. As for myself, I intend to stick it out to show these people what an Englishman can do under adverse circumstances!'
'Then I will stay with you,' the valet decided.
'It is not necessary! Already I have taken great advantage of your loyalty.'
Eggleston shook his head. 'My place is with you! My people served the Drumms for over a century, and I cannot abandon my duty now.' He looked calculatingly at Jack Drumm. 'You do need a shave, Mr. Jack! Shall I get out my basin and razor?'
Drumm shook his head. 'This wound on my cheek does not yet permit it.' Anyway, he thought, a beard could help to conceal the damage done to his mustache. A beard would also be more appropriate to the Mexican sombrero.
Mrs. Glore strolled over to inspect the supplies. 'I've got some bacon,' she volunteered. 'I could boil up a mess of them beans. With a little meat they wouldn't taste bad for supper. And if Mr. Eggleston will gather some poke salat along the river there—'
The valet looked baffled.
'Along the bank, in the riffles,' Mrs. Glore explained. 'That stand of green shoots sticking up! My land—don't you have poke salat in England, Mr. Eggleston? Why, there's nothing better than a mess of them shoots with a little bacon grease poured onto 'em!'
Drumm picked up the shovel, watching the dwindling tracery of dust as the wagon train, under Lieutenant George Dunaway's protection, creaked toward Prescott. A breath of French scent made him turn sharply.
'Is there anything I can do?' Phoebe Larkin asked.
Put off by the shameless way she had flirted with Dunaway, afraid also that she would pity him after his trouncing, he planted the shovel in the trench and stamped viciously at it, driving the steel deep into the earth.
'No,' he muttered. 'Nothing you can do—not in those clothes, anyway!'
'But I want to help!'
Silent and tight-lipped, he went on shoveling.
'You're real grouchy!' Phoebe complained. 'Whatever is the matter with you? Has the cat got your tongue?'
Drumm didn't know what that meant; he supposed it was an American witticism. 'There's no need for you to do anything!' he snapped. 'Just sit over there in the chair, and Mrs. Glore will have some supper ready directly!'
Phoebe Larkin set her lips; under the lace niching her breasts rose and fell quickly. 'Now you listen to me, Mr. Drumm!' she cried. 'Maybe you're mad because I invited Beulah and me to stay here, but it really was not convenient for us to go to Prescott right now! Soon we hope to—to travel on, but right now we have no choice!'
Doggedly he kept on shoveling.
'I'm strong as a horse, and willing! Show me what needs doing! All my life I worked hard for my board, and I intend to keep on doing so!'
While he was trying to pry loose a rock, the handle snapped off in Drumm's hand. Disgustedly he threw the broken shovel from him. Phoebe Larkin pushed him aside. Snatching up his mattock, she swung it high over her head. Fearing feminine awkwardness, Drumm stepped back. But the blade, accurately aimed, buried itself next to the offending rock. Phoebe Larkin, tugging the weight of her body against the handle, neatly popped up the obstinate boulder.
'There!' she cried triumphantly.
Jack Drumm glowered at her.
'You see?' Phoebe cried. 'A determined woman can do a
There was also the matter of the derringer she carried in her bosom. And why, after being in such a hurry to reach Prescott, did she refuse George Dunaway's offer of transportation there? But Miss Larkin stared at him so challengingly Jack Drumm decided not to press the matter—at least, not for the moment.
They needed a small dam to impound the scanty waters of the Agua Fria. In addition, the work would keep him and Eggleston gainfully employed; if they did nothing but sit in the rifle pit all day they would surely go mad. It was now early October. The nights turned cold and crisp, and the heat in the valley moderated. In a perverse way Jack Drumm enjoyed the hard labor—the swing of the repaired shovel, the chunking noise as gouts of dirt flew through the air and landed in line with the cord he had strung between two stakes. Mrs. Glore and Phoebe insisted on working, also, cleaning up the litter of the camp, repairing the wrecked reed hut, leading Drumm's solitary mule down to the river to drink. Phoebe named the mule Bonyparts, from the jutting hip bones and impoverished ribs.
