CHAPTER IV.
YOU'D BETTER MAKE IT NINETY.
Fifteen years of a changing age left few marks on Rubio City. Luxuriousoverland trains, filled with tourists, now stopped at the depot where,under the pepper trees, sadly civilized Indians sold Kansas City andNew Jersey-made curios--stopped and went on again along the rim of TheKing's Basin, through San Antonio Pass to the great cities on thewestern edge of the continent. But the town on the banks of theColorado, in an almost rainless land, had little to build upon. Stillon the street mingled the old-timers from desert, mountain and plain;from prospecting trip, mine or ranch; the adventurer, the promoter, theIndian, the Mexican, the frontier business man and the tourist.
But there were few of the citizens of Rubio City now who knew the storyof the baby girl whom Jefferson Worth and his party had found in LaPalma de la Mano de Dios. For, though Rubio City was changed but littlesince that day when Texas Joe brought the outfit with the child safelyout of the Desert, the people came and went always as is the manner oftheir moving kind. The few "old-timers" who remained had long ceased totell the story. No one thought of the young woman, who rode down thestreet that afternoon, save only as the daughter of Jefferson Worth.
As she passed, the people turned to follow her with their eyes--the"old-timers" with smiles of recognition and picturesque words ofadmiring comment; the townspeople with cheerful greetings--a wave ofthe hand or a nod when they caught her eye; the strangers from the Eastwith curious interest and ready kodaks. Here, the visitors toldthemselves, was the real West.
"How interesting!" gasped a tailor-made woman tourist to her escort."Look, George, she is wearing a divided skirt and riding a man'ssaddle! And look! quick! where's your camera? She has a revolver!"
That revolver, a dainty but effective pearl-handled weapon, was a giftto Barbara from her "uncles," Texas and Pat; and though ornamental wasnot for ornament. The girl often went alone, as she was going to-day,for a long ride out on the Mesa, and the country still harbored manywild and lawless characters.
But the tailored woman tourist did not need to urge George to look.There was something about the girl on the quick-stepping, spiritedhorse that challenged attention. The khaki-clad figure was so richlyalive--there was such a wealth of vitality; such an abundance of youngwoman's strength; such a glow of red blood expressed in every curvedline and revealed in every graceful movement--that the attraction wasirresistible. To look at Barbara Worth was a pleasure; to be near herwas a delight.
At the Pioneer Bank the girl cheeked her horse and, swinging lightly tothe ground, threw the reins over the animal's head, thus tying him inwestern fashion. As she stood now on the sidewalk laughing and chattingwith a group of friends, who had paused in passing to greet her, herbeautiful figure lost none of the compelling charm that made her, onhorseback, so good to look at. Every movement and gesture expressedperfect health. The firm flesh of her rounded cheeks and full throatwas warmly browned and glowing with the abundance of red blood in herveins. Though framed in a mass of waving brown hair under a widesombrero, her features were not pretty. The mouth was perhaps a bit toolarge, though it was a good mouth, and, as she laughed with hercompanions, revealed teeth that were faultless. But something lookedout of her brown eyes and made itself felt in every poise and movementthat forced one to forget to be critical. It was the wholesome,challenging lure of an unmarred womanhood.
"Oh, Barbara, how could you--how _could_ you miss last Thursdayafternoon at Miss Colson's? We had a perfectly lovely time!" cried avivacious member of the little group.
"Yes indeed, young lady; explanations are in order," added another."Miss Colson didn't like it a bit. She had an exquisite luncheon, andyou know how people depend upon your appreciation of good things toeat!"
"Well, you see," answered Barbara, turning to pat her horse's neck asthe animal, edging closer to her side, rubbed his soft muzzle coaxinglyagainst her shoulder, "Pilot and I were out on the Mesa and he said hedidn't want to come back. Pilot doesn't care at all for afternoonparties, do you old boy?"--with another pat--"so what could I do? Ididn't like to hurt Miss Colson's feelings, of course, but I didn'tlike to hurt Pilot's feelings either; and the day was so perfect andPilot was feeling so good and we were having such fun together! I guessit was a case of 'a bird in the hand,' or 'possession being ninepoints,' you know; or something like that. Only for pity's sake, girls,don't tell Miss Colson I said that."
They all laughed understandingly and the vivacious one said: "I guessit was possession all right. Could anything on earth induce you to giveup your horse and your desert, Barbara?"
Inside the bank Jefferson Worth, with his customary careful, exactmanner, was explaining to a small rancher that it was impossible toextend the loan secured by a mortgage on the farmer's property.Personally Mr. Worth would be glad to accommodate him. But the loan hadalready been extended three times and there were good reasons why thebank must call it in. The farmer must remember that a bank's duty toits stockholders and depositors was sacred. It was not a question ofthe farmer's honesty; it was altogether a question of Good Business.
The farmer was agitated and presented his case desperately. Mr. Worthknew the situation--the unforeseen circumstances that made itimpossible for him to pay then. Only two months more were needed--untilhis new crop matured. He could not blame Mr. Worth, of course. Heunderstood that it was business, but still--The farmer searched thatcold, mask-like face for a ray of hope as a man might hold out hishands for pity to a machine. He was made to feel somehow that thebanker was not a man with human blood, but a mechanical something,governed and run by a mighty irresistible power with which it hadnothing to do save to obey as a locomotive obeys its steam.
Jefferson Worth began explaining again in exact, precise tones that theloan, wholly for business reasons, was impossible, when Barbara enteredthe bank. As the girl greeted the teller in front, her voice, full andrich, with the same unconscious power that looked out of her eyes andspoke in every movement of her body, came through the bronze grating atthe window and carried down the room. Jefferson Worth paused. With thefarmer he faced the open door of his apartment. Every man in the placelooked up. The desk-weary clerks smilingly answered her greeting andturned back to their books with renewed energy. The cashierstraightened up from his papers and--leaning back in hischair--exchanged a jest with her as she passed.
"Oh, excuse me, father, I thought you were alone. How do you do, Mr.Wheeler? And how is Mrs. Wheeler and that dear little baby?"
The man's face lighted, his form straightened, his voice rang outheartily. "Fine, Miss Barbara, fine, thank you. All we need in theworld now is for your father to give me time enough on that blamed noteto make a crop."
Barbara Worth was just tall enough to look straight into her father'seyes. As she looked at him now the banker felt a little as he had feltthat night in the Desert, when the baby, whose dead mother lay besidethe dry water hole, shrank back from him in fear.
"Oh, I'm sure father will be glad to do that," the girl said eagerly."Won't you father? You know how hard Mr. Wheeler works and what troublehe has had. And I want some money, too," she added; "that's what I camein for."
The farmer laughed loudly. Jefferson Worth smiled.
"But I don't want it for myself," Barbara went on quickly, smiling atthem both. "I want it for that poor Mexican family down by the wagonyard--the Garcias. Pablo's leg was broken in the mines, you know, andthere is no one to look after his mother and the children. Someone mustcare for them."
They were interrupted by a clerk who handed a paper to the banker."This is ready for your signature, sir."
Jefferson Worth's face was again a cold, gray mask. Methodically heaffixed his name to the document. Then to the clerk: "You may give MissWorth whatever money she wants."
The employe smiled as he answered: "Yes, sir," and withdrew.
Barbara turned to follow. "Good-by, Mr. Wheeler. Tell Mrs. Wheeler I'mgoing to ride out to see her soon. I haven't forgotten that goodbuttermilk you see."
> "Good-by, Miss Barbara, good-by! I'll tell the wife. We're always gladto see you."
The farmer could not have said that Jefferson Worth's face changed orthat his voice altered a shade in tone as they turned again to thebusiness in hand. "I guess we can fix you out this time, Wheeler. Sixtydays, you say? You'd better make it ninety so you will not be crowdedin marketing your crop."
Quickly the black horse carrying Barbara passed through the streets tothe outskirts of the city, where the adobe houses of the earlier days,with tents and shacks of every description, were scattered in carelessdisorder to the very edge of the barren Mesa. Beyond the wagon yardBarbara turned Pilot toward a whitewashed house that stood by itself onthe extreme outskirts. Her approach was announced by the loud barkingof a lean dog and the joyful shouts of three half-naked Mexicanchildren; and as the horse stopped a woman appeared in the low doorway.
"Buenas dias, Senorita," she called; then, still in her native tongue:"Manuel, take the lady's horse. You Juanita, drive that dog away. Thisis not the manner to receive a lady. Come in, come in, Senorita. MayGod bless you for a good friend to the poor. Come in."
Everything about the place, although showing unmistakable signs ofpoverty, was clean and orderly, while the manner of the woman, thoughquietly respectful and warmly grateful, showed a dignifiedself-respect. In one corner of the room, on a rude bed, lay a young man.
The girl returned the woman's greeting kindly in Spanish and, going tothe bedside, spoke, still in the soft, musical tongue of the South, tothe man. "How are you to-day, Pablo? Is the leg getting better allright?"
"Si, Senorita, thank you," he replied, his dark face beaming withgladness and gratitude and his eyes looking up at her with anexpression of dumb devotion. "Yes, I think it gets better right along.But it is slow and it is hard to lie here doing nothing for the motherand the children. God knows what would become of us if it were not foryour goodness. La Senorita is an angel of mercy. We can never repay."
The people were of the better class of industrious poor Mexicans. Thefather was dead, and Pablo, the eldest son, who was the little family'ssole support, had been hurt in the mine some two weeks before. Barbaravisited them every few days, caring for their wants as indeed shehelped many of Rubio City's worthy poor. For this work Jefferson Worthgave her without question all the money that she asked and oftenexpressed his interest in his own cold way, even telling her of certaincases that came to his notice from time to time. So the banker'sdaughter was hailed as an angel of mercy and greatly loved by the sameclass that feared and cursed her father.
For a little while the girl talked to Pablo and his mother cheerfullyand encouragingly, with understanding asking after their needs. Then,placing a gold piece in the woman's hand and promising to come again,she bade them--"Adios."
For a short distance Barbara now followed the old San Felipe trailalong which, as a baby, she had been brought by her friends toJefferson Worth's home. But where the old road crosses the railroadtracks, and leads northwest into The King's Basin, the girl turned tothe right toward the end of that range of low hills that rims theDesert.
As her horse traveled up the long gradual slope in the easy swinginglope of western saddle stock, the view grew wider and wider. The sunpoured its flood of white light down upon the broad Mesa, and away inthe distance the ever-widening King's Basin lay, a magic, constantlychanging ocean of soft colors. Nearer ahead were the hills, brown andtawny, with blue shadows in the canyons shading to rose and lilac andpurple as they stretched their long lengths away toward the lofty,snow-capped sentinels of the Pass. Free from the city with its manyodors, the dry air was invigorating like wine and came to her rich withthe smell of the sun-burned, wind-swept plains. The girl breatheddeeply. Her cheeks glowed--her eyes shone. Even her horse, seeming tocatch her spirit, arched his neck and, in sheer joy of living,pretended to be frightened now and then at something that was reallynothing at all.
At the foot of the first low, rounded hill Barbara faced Pilot to thenorthwest and bade him stand still. Motionless now the girl sat in hersaddle, looking away over La Palma de la Mano de Dios. It was to thispoint that Barbara so often came, and as she looked now over the milesand miles of that silent, dreadful land her face grew sad and wistfuland in her eyes there was an expression that the Seer sometimes saidmade him think of the desert.
Gentle Mrs. Worth had lived just long enough to leave an indelibleimpression of her simple genuineness upon the life of the child, whohad come to take in her heart the place left vacant by the death of herown baby girl. Since the loss of her second mother the girl had livedwith no woman companion save the Indian woman Ynez, and it was the Seerrather than Jefferson Worth to whom she turned in fullest confidenceand trust. The childish instinct that had led the baby to the bigengineer's arms that night on the Desert had never wavered through theyears when she was growing into womanhood, and the Seer, whose workafter the completion of the S. and C. called him to many parts of theWest, managed every few months a visit to the girl he loved as his own.To Mr. Worth who, as far as it was possible for him to be, was in allthings a father to her, Barbara gave in return a daughter's love, butshe had never been able to enter into the life of the banker as sheentered into the life of the engineer. So it was the Seer who became,after Mrs. Worth, the dominant influence in forming the character ofthe motherless girl. His dreams of Reclamation, his plans and effortsto lead the world to recognize the value of that great work, with hisfailures and disappointments, she shared at an early age with peculiarsympathy, for she had not been kept in ignorance of the tragic part thedesert had played in her own life. Particularly did The King's BasinDesert interest her. She felt that, in a way, it belonged to her; thatshe belonged to it. It was _her_ Desert. Its desolation she shared; itswaiting she understood; something of its mystery colored her life;something within her answered to its call. It was her Desert; shefeared it; hated it; loved it.
Often as Barbara sat looking over that great basin her heart cried outto know the secret it held. Who was she? Who were her people? What wasthe name to which she had been born? What was the life from which thedesert had taken her? But no answer to her cry had ever come from theawful "Hollow of God's Hand."
Before Barbara had left her home that afternoon a man, walking withlong, easy stride, followed the San Felipe trail out from the city onto the Mesa. He was a tall man and of so angular and lean a figure thathis body seemed made up mostly of bone somewhat loosely fastenedtogether with sinews almost as hard as the frame-work. His face, thinand rugged, was burned to the color of saddle leather. He was dressedin corduroy trousers, belted and tucked in high-laced boots, a softgray shirt and slouch hat, and over his square shoulders was the strapof a small canteen. His long legs carried him over the ground at anastonishing rate, so that before Barbara had left the Mexicans thepedestrian had gained the foot of the low hill at the mouth of thecanyon.
With remarkable ease the man ascended the rough, steep side of thehill, where, selecting a convenient rock, he seated himself and gavehis attention to the wonderful scene that, from his feet, stretchedaway miles and miles to the purple mountain wall on the west. So stillwas he and so intent in his study of the landscape, that a horned-toad,which had dodged under the edge of the rock at his approach, creptforth again, venturing quite to the edge of his boot heel; and alizard, scaling the rock at his back, almost touched his shoulder.
When Barbara had left the San Felipe trail and was riding toward thehills, the man's eyes were attracted by the moving spot on the Mesa andhe stirred to take from the pocket of his coat a field glass, while athis movement the horned-toad and the lizard scurried to cover.Adjusting his glass he easily made out the figure of the girl onhorseback, who was coming in his direction. He turned again to hisstudy of the landscape, but later, when the horse and rider had drawnnearer, lifted his glass for another look. This time he did not turnaway.
Rapidly, as Barbara drew nearer and nearer, the details of her dressand equipment became more distinct until the man with the glas
s couldeven make out the fringe on her gauntlets, the contour of her face andthe color of her hair. When she stopped and turned to look over thedesert below he forgot the scene that had so interested him andcontinued to gaze at her, until, as the girl turned her face in hisdirection and apparently looked straight at him, he dropped the glassin embarrassed confusion, forgetting for the instant that at thatdistance, with his gray and yellow clothing so matching the ground androck, he would not be noticed. With a low chuckle at his absurdsituation he recovered himself and again lifting the glass turned itupon Barbara, who was now riding swiftly toward the mouth of a littlecanyon that opened behind the hill where he sat.
Suddenly with an exclamation the young man sprang to his feet. Therunning horse had stumbled and fallen. After a few struggling effortsto rise the animal lay still. The girl did not move. With long, leapingstrides the man plunged down the rough, steep side of the hill.
When Barbara slowly opened her eyes she was lying in the shadow of thecanyon wall some distance from the spot where her horse had stumbled.Still dazed with the shock of her fall she looked slowly around,striving to collect her scattered senses. She knew the place but couldnot remember how she came there. And where was her horse--Pilot? Andhow came that canteen on the ground by her side? At this she sat up andlooked around just in time to see a tall, gaunt, roughly-dressed figurecoming toward her from the direction of the canyon mouth.
Instantly the girl reached for her gun. The holster was empty.
The man, quite close now, seeing the suggestive gesture, halted; then,coming nearer, silently held out her own pearl-handled revolver.
Still confused and acting upon the impulse of the moment before,Barbara caught the weapon from the out-stretched hand and in a flashcovered the silent stranger.
Very deliberately the fellow drew back a few paces and stretched bothhands high above his head.
"Who are you?" asked the girl sharply.
"A white man," he answered whimsically, adding as if it were anafterthought, "and a gentleman."
"But why---What---How did I get here? Where did you come from?"
"I was up on the hill back there. I saw your horse fall and went to youthe quickest way. You were unconscious and I carried you here out ofthe sun."
"I remember now," said Barbara. "We were running and Pilot fell. Hemust have stepped into a hole." She put up her free hand to herforehead and found it wet. Her eyes fell on the canteen and the colorcame back into her face with a rush. "But you haven't told me who youare," she said sternly to the man who still stood with hands uplifted.
"I'm a surveyor going south with a party on some preliminary work. Wearrived in Rubio City this morning expecting to find the Chief, whowrote me from New York to meet him here with an outfit. He has notarrived and there was nothing to do so I walked out on the Mesa to haveanother look at this King's Basin country."
Barbara knew that the Seer had been called to New York by somecapitalists who had become interested in the financial possibilities ofthe reclamation work. At the stranger's explanation of his presence sheregarded him with excited interest. "Do you mean--Is it the Seer whomyou expected to meet? Are you--with him?"
The young man smiled gravely. "I was sure that it was you," heanswered. "You are the little girl whom we found in the desert."
"And you"--burst forth Barbara, eagerly--"you must be Abe Lee!"
The surveyor answered whimsically: "Don't you think I might take myhands down now? I'm unarmed you know and you could still shoot me ifyou thought I needed it."
In her excitement Barbara had forgotten that she still held her weaponpointed straight at him. She dropped the gun with a confused laugh. "Ibeg your pardon, A--Mr. Lee. I did not realize that I was holding upmy"--she hesitated, then finished gravely--"my only brother."
A quick glad light flashed into the sharp blue eyes of the surveyor."You have not forgotten me then?"
"Forgotten! When father and the Seer and Texas and Pat and you are allthe--the family I have in the world." Her lips quivered, but she wenton bravely: "The Seer has told me so many things about you and I havethought about you so much. But I did not realize, though, that you werea big, grown-up man. The Seer always speaks of you as a boy and so Ihave always called you my brother Abe as I call Texas and Pat myuncles. But I think you might have come to see me sometimes. Why didn'tyou come straight to me this morning instead of tramping 'way out herealone?"
Abe Lee was silent. How could he explain the place in his life that wasfilled by the little girl whom he had known for the two years that thebuilding of the railroad had kept him with the Seer in Rubio City? Howcould she understand the poverty and grinding hardship of his boyhoodstruggle when the only time he could snatch from his work he must spendon his books, while she was growing up in the banker's home? He wasmore alone in the world than Barbara. Save for the Seer he had no one.Texas and Pat he had met at intervals when they came together on someconstruction work, and always they had talked about her; while theengineer had often told him of Barbara's interest in her "brother"; andsometimes the Seer even shared with him her letters. But all this hadonly served to emphasize the distance that lay between them. It was nota distance of miles but of position--of circumstances. The namelesslittle waif of the desert had become the daughter of Jefferson Worth.The child of the mining camp was--Abe Lee. So when, at last, his workhad brought him to Rubio City again he shrank from meeting her and hadgone out on to the Mesa to look away over La Palma de la Mano deDios--to be alone.
Barbara, seeing his embarrassment at her question, guessed a part ofthe reason and gently sought to relieve the situation. "I think we hadbetter find my horse and start for home now," she said.
The thin, sun-tanned face of the surveyor was filled with sympathy ashe replied: "I'm sorry, but your pony is down and out."
"Down and out! Pilot? Oh! you don't mean--You don't---"
Abe explained simply. "His leg was broken and he couldn't get up. Therewas nothing that could possibly be done for him. He was suffering sothat I----It was for that I borrowed your gun."
For a long time she sat very still, and the man, understanding that shewished to be alone, quietly went a little way up the canyon around thejutting edge of the rocky wall. Deliberately he seated himself on aboulder and taking from the pocket of his flannel shirt tobacco andpapers, rolled a cigarette. A deep inhalation and the gray cloud roseslowly from his lips and nostrils. Stooping he carefully gathered ahandful of sharp pebbles and--one by one--flipped them idly toward theopposite side of the canyon. Another generous puff of smoke and asecond handful of pebbles followed the first. Then rising he droppedthe cigarette and went back to her.
"I think we should be going now"--he hesitated--"sister."
She looked up with a smile of understanding. "Thank you--Abe. Can we goback over the hill there, do you think? I--I don't want to see himagain."
Together they climbed the low hill at the mouth of the canyon fromwhich he had seen the accident, the girl resolutely keeping her eyesfixed ahead so as not to see the dead horse on the plain below. Whenthe top of the hill was between them and the canyon she made him stopand together they stood looking down and far away over the wide reachesof The King's Basin.
"Isn't it grand? Isn't it awful?" she said in a low, reverent tone. "Itfairly hurts. It seems to be calling--calling; waiting--waiting forsome one. Sometimes I think it must be for me. I fear it--hate it--loveit so." Her voice vibrated with strong passion and the surveyor,looking up, saw her wide-eyed, intense expression and felt as did theSeer that somehow she was like the desert.
"Do you come out here often?" he asked curiously.
"Yes, often," she answered. "I could not get along without my Desertand this is the finest place to see it. The Seer always comes out herewith me when he can. Do you think that land will ever be reclaimed?"She faced him with the question.
"Why, no one can say about that, you know," he answered slowly. "Therehas never been a survey."
"Well," she declared emphatically, "I
know. It will be. Listen! Don'tyou hear it calling? I think it's for that it has been waiting allthese ages."
The surveyor smiled as one would humor a child. "Perhaps you areright," he said.
"Now you are laughing at me," she returned quickly. "They all do;father and the Seer and Texas and Pat. But you shall see! I believe,though, that the Seer thinks that I am right, only he always says asyou do that there has never been a survey; and sometimes I think thateven father--away down in his heart--believes it too."
All the long walk to Barbara's home they talked of the Desert and theSeer's dreams of Reclamation; and Abe told her how at last those"stupid capitalists," as Barbara called them, had opened their eyes.The great James Greenfield himself had read an article of the Seer's on"Reclamation from the Investor's Point of View" and had written him. Asa result of their correspondence the engineer had gone to New York; andnow a company organized by Greenfield was sending him south to lookover a big territory and to report on the possibilities of itsdevelopment.
When they arrived at Barbara's home they found the Seer himself. Thefifteen years had made no perceptible change in the general appearanceof the engineer. His form was still strongly erect and vigorous, buthis hair was a little gray, and to a close observer, his face in reposerevealed a touch of sadness--that indescribable look of one who isbeginning to feel less sure of himself, or rather who, from manydisappointments, is beginning to question whether he will live to seehis most cherished plans carried to completion--not because he has lessfaith in his visions, but because he has less hope that he will be ableto make them clear to others.
When the evening meal was over the surveyor said good-by, for theexpedition was to start in the morning and he had some work to do. Whenhe was gone Barbara joined her father and the engineer on the porch."Here they are," she said. "Haven't I kept them nicely for you?" Shewas holding toward the Seer a box of cigars.
"Indeed you have," returned the engineer in a pleased tone, helpinghimself to a cool, moist Havana. "You are a dear, good girl."
Jefferson Worth did not use tobacco, but it was an unwritten law of thehousehold that the Seer, when he came, should always have his eveningsmoke on the porch and that Barbara should be the keeper of supplies.She liked to see her friend's strong face brought suddenly out of thedusk by the flare of the match and to watch the glow of the cigar endin the dark while they talked.
"And what do you think of your brother Abe, Barbara?" the big engineerasked when his cigar was going nicely. "Didn't he talk you nearly todeath?"
The girl laughed. "I guess he didn't have a chance. I always do most ofthe talking, you know."
The Seer chuckled. "Abe told me once that most of the time he felt likean oyster and the rest of the time he was so mad at himself for beingan oyster that he couldn't find words to do the subject justice."
"I think he is splendid!" retorted Barbara, enthusiastically.
"He is," returned the engineer earnestly. "I don't know of a man in theprofession whom I would rely upon so wholly in work of a certain kind.You see Abe was born and raised in the wild, uncivilized parts of thecountry and he has a natural ability for his work that amounts almostto genius. With a knowledge of nature gained through his remarkablepowers of observation and deduction, I doubt if Abe Lee to-day has anequal as what might be called a 'surveyor scout.' I believe he is madeof iron. Hunger, cold, thirst, heat, wet, seem to make no impression onhim. He can out-walk, out-work, outlast and out-guess any man I evermet. He has the instinct of a wild animal for finding his way and thecoldest nerve I ever saw. His honesty and loyalty amount almost tofanaticism. But he is diffident and shy as a school girl and assensitive as a bashful boy. I verily believe he knows more to-day aboutthe great engineering projects in the West than nine-tenths of theschool men but I've seen him sit for an hour absolutely dumb, halfscared to death, listening to the cheap twaddle of some smart'yellow-legs' with the ink not dry yet on their diplomas. Put him inthe field in charge of a party of that same bunch, though, and he wouldbe boss to the last stake on the line or the last bite of grub in theoutfit if he had to kill half of them to do it. I guess you'll thinkI'm a bit enthusiastic about my right hand man," he finished, with ashort, apologetic laugh, "and I am. It's because I know him."
He struck another match and Barbara saw his face for an instant. As thematch went out she drew a long breath. "I'm glad you said that," shesaid softly. "I wanted you to. I'm sure he has earned it."
Then they talked of the Seer's new expedition that would start south atdaybreak, and it seemed to Barbara that the very air was electric withthe coming of a mighty age when the race would direct its strength tothe turning of millions of acres of desolate, barren waste intoproductive farms and beautiful homes for the people.
At daybreak the girl was up to tell the Seer good-by. "I wish," shesaid wistfully, as she stood with him a moment at the gate, "I wish itwas _my_ Desert that you and Abe were going to survey."
The engineer smilingly answered: "Some day, perhaps, that, too, willcome."
"I know it will," she said simply.
And as she stood before him in all the beautiful strength of her youngwomanhood, the Seer felt that sweet, mysterious power of herpersonality--felt it with a father's loving pride. "I believe you doknow, Barbara," he said; "I believe you do."
The Winning of Barbara Worth Page 6