'I have every reason to think it will come off successfully. But first—we must plan a little gathering. A Christmas party, that's it!'
'Christmas?' Phoebe asked doubtfully.
'Yes, indeed! It is almost that time, is it not? At home, in Hampshire, good neighbors are gathering for syllabub and innocent games. The goose is fat; English countrymen are roaming the forest for a proper Yule log. The cellars are filled with apples and pears, preserves, fat gammon, braces of fowl. Snow is deep, and children are singing of good King Wenceslas. Here, in this Arizona desert, we should also be mindful of the Christmas season, should we not?'
'But your plan—' Phoebe insisted.
'The celebration is all part of the plan,' he said, and would tell them no more. But they liked the idea of a celebration and fell to with a will, planning a menu, cutting down a sapling cottonwood and draping it with strings of paper flowers and bits of tin and glass, deciding which chickens would grace the festive board.
'And there will be a guest,' Jack added. 'If we are to give each other small gifts as Phoebe suggests, there must of course be one for the guest.'
Phoebe, caught up in the excitement, was cutting a large star from a tin can. 'A guest? Oh, Jack—who?'
'You will see,' he promised. 'You will see come Sunday.'
He wasted no time in getting in touch with the guest. Yes, word came from Prescott, the guest would be honored to attend. He would ride out before dawn and arrive at noon. The Sloats, and the Sprankles down the road, were reminded also of the holiday season and planned their own celebrations. Charlie the Papago disappeared; in a few days he came back with a wife and several brown children in ragged shifts and bare feet. Though not understanding exactly what Christmas was all about, Charlie dug up a clump of saltbush with its clusters of papery fruit and planted it near his hut for his children to decorate as Ostin Drumm's tree was adorned.
'We've got to make presents for Charlie's family too,' Phoebe decided.
In the hubbub and bonhomie of the season their precautions against Alonzo Meech were neglected. Stages came and went, passengers climbed down to eat beans and pie and drink coffee, freight wagons rolled ponderously to and from Prescott. They were so busy, not only with the routine business of the ranch but with the happy preparations for Christmas, that Jack was sure someone knew the females were once again at Rancho Terco. Meech would undoubtedly hear the rumors and take up the scent again. But tomorrow was Sunday—by nightfall everything should be happily resolved.
George Dunaway arrived shortly before noon, sweaty and dusty in dress blues. 'I'm grateful to you, Drumm,' he said. 'Fort Whipple can be a lonesome place for a bachelor officer during the holidays. Oh, someone takes pity on me now and then and invites me for dinner, but I don't take kindly to pity!'
The lieutenant was astonished at finding Phoebe and Mrs. Glore at the ranch. Phoebe, excited, threw her arms about him in what Drumm thought was an excess of emotion, kissing Dunaway hard on his hairy cheek. Mrs. Glore, too, bussed him.
'It's George!' Phoebe cried. 'Isn't that nice! He's come all the way from Prescott for our party!' She turned to Jack Drumm. 'Well, isn't this the nicest surprise! You sly fox! So George was the guest, all along!'
Eggleston too shook hands with the lieutenant, and Uncle Roscoe had known Dunaway for a long time.
'Saved my gizzard one time, over at Mule Canyon!' he crowed. 'Some renegade Navahos had me boxed in, but George and his roughnecks drove 'em off and took an arrer out of my behind!'
'But I don't understand!' Dunaway said, turning to Jack Drumm. 'You said the ladies had gone on to Prescott, and now—'
'I'll explain later,' Jack promised.
Dunaway sniffed at the aroma of roasting chickens, hot pie crust, and cinnamon and other spices. 'Don't smell like Army fare!'
'Dinner's at twelve sharp!' Mrs. Glore beamed, her face red from the stove, arms floured to the elbow. 'Now you menfolk just set and talk while I look to the pies!'
'And after dinner we'll open the presents!' Phoebe cried. 'Oh, it will be such fun! There's something for you, George—I made it myself!'
When the rest had gone back to their work, Jack drew Dunaway aside to present him with one of the American stogies he had learned to tolerate. Sitting together in the shade of the ramada, they drank cold tea from an olla, laced with bourbon.
'Oh, by the way—' Dunaway fished in a shirt pocket. 'Here's a telegraph message come for you to Fort Whipple. Must be important! Civilians usually don't get to use the military wire unless they're pretty high mucketymucks.'
Jack had long been expecting word from Andrew about the money he had requested. He slipped the folded paper into his pocket. 'We're glad to have you here, George,' he said. 'It was a long way for you to come, and I appreciate it.'
Dunaway lay back in his chair and stared at the distant Mazatzals, already dusted with the first snows of winter. 'A man never knows how things will work out,' he mused. 'A few months ago you and I were pummeling each other. I hated your guts, I guess. Now we're friends, having a sociable drink together. This Territory is a strange place—nothing goes according to plan, the way it does elsewhere.' He blew a contemplative smoke ring. 'So the two females were in the back of your wagon when I came up on you in front of the Lucky Lady in Prescott!'
'That's right.'
'I'm glad you explained it to me. I heard Detective Meech was chasing them, but I knew two fine ladies like them couldn't have done anything wrong.'
Jack spoke carefully. 'They are fine ladies, indeed. And Miss Larkin is handsome, into the bargain, with that copper-colored hair and fine complexion.'
'I know,' Dunaway murmured, his eyes far away. 'Yes, I know.'
Encouraged, Jack puffed hard at his stogie. 'You know, of course, we're pleased to have you here, George. But there's a little more to it than that.' He cleared his throat, examined the ash of the cigar. 'Maybe you've noticed—Miss Larkin is attracted to you.'
Dunaway turned sharply from his contemplation of the distant mountains. 'She is?'
'Surely you noticed how she threw her arms about you! Also, she kissed you on the cheek. In addition to being a fine figure of a woman, Phoebe is also affectionate.'
Dunaway was silent, apparently at a loss for words.
'Look here!' Jack pressed on. 'I won't shilly-shally any longer! The other night in Prescott you said you were going to leave the Army, go to Australia to make a new life.'
'That's right.'
'Take Phoebe with you! Make a new life for the both of you!'
Dunaway stared at Jack Drumm. The stogie drooped. 'Take— her? Take Phoebe with me?'
'Of course! Can't you see, man, it solves all sorts of problems! You get a pretty wife for your old age, Phoebe is at last safe from Detective Meech—'
'I'll be God damned!' Dunaway paled, chewed vigorously at his cigar. He rose, paced the dirt floor, furiously puffing. 'I never dreamed—'
'She is certainly too much of a lady to throw herself at you! But I believe there is a real affection there.'
'Are you sure? I wouldn't want to be made a fool of!'
Jack swallowed another mouthful of the bourbon and tea mixture. The earthenware olla, swinging on a cord in the shade, kept the drink delightfully cool and refreshing.
'These things always have an element of risk, I suppose. But I would say your chances were very good.'
Dunaway took the tattered cigar from his mouth. 'How do I go about it? I'm not exactly a lady's man, you know! Never had much to do with females, excepting whores.'
'After dinner,' Jack explained, 'I'll arrange to get you and Phoebe alone for a little talk. Go at it slow, George; don't hurry. By and by you'll get the feel of it, and I know it'll come out right for everyone.'
Dunaway spat out a shred of tobacco. 'Speaking of everyone, what about Beulah—Mrs. Glore?'
'What about her?'
'What are you planning for her? After all, from what you tell me, she's in the soup too.'
Impatient, Jack said, 'Don't worry about Beulah! I'll arrange something for her too, though I don't know at the moment exactly what. In any case, Beulah is not your problem. Phoebe is! What do you say?'
