"My time's about up," Dunaway went on. "The hell with this tin-soldier Army! It's gone to hell since the war! You know what I'm going to do?"
Jack shook his head.
"In two more weeks I'm going to Australia! Down there I hear there's lot of cheap land, good wages, pretty girls looking for a husband! That's where I'm bound for! No more chasing raggedy-ass Apaches for me!" In a reedy tenor Dunaway began to sing:
"We went to Arizony For to fight the Injuns there. We came near to being made bald-headed But they never got our hair!"
Corporal Bagley wandered unsteadily to his feet, wiping mud and snow from his breeches. Together they bawled out the chorus:
"Forty miles a day on beans and hay In the Regular Army, O! We bless the day we skipped away From the Regular Army, O!"
"I must go!" Jack insisted. "I've got a long way to travel!"
The lieutenant slapped him on the knee. "When a man gets to know you, you're not a bad sort, Drumm!" Hiccuping, he draped an arm about Jim Bagley's shoulder and the two staggered into the night, singing off key.
Descending the rocky grade, well clear of Prescott, Jack halted the mule under a windswept grove of trees. Shaking snow from the canvas cover, he called, "Come out and stretch your limbs if you want to! I think we're out of danger—immediate danger, anyway!"
Stiff and cramped, the two females clambered down. The snow had stopped and the moon shone, scudding high in a rack of clouds.
"I was so afraid, back there in town, when you stopped the wagon," Phoebe said, shivering.
"That was Dunaway—George Dunaway."
"After a while," Phoebe said, "I realized it was him. I'd know his voice anywhere. It would have been nice if I could have said hello. George Dunaway is such a good man. Oh, he's kind of rough, I give you that, but he's all wool and a yard wide!"
Jack remembered the lieutenant bringing Phoebe flowers. He said, with some asperity, "There was hardly any time for visiting!"
"I know," Phoebe cried. "Oh, yes, I know!"
He helped them back into the wagon. This time they could safely lie together and look up at the stars, free from the smothering canvas. As he drove, he heard their drowsy chatter, the female talk; it was somehow domestic and comforting. An excellent idea came to him—one that might solve a lot of problems. Why not? he asked himself. Why not? The idea seemed eminently practicable, and he resolved to try it at the first opportunity.
During his short absence Rancho Terco had grown—perhaps only a little, but one more gun to defend against Agustín and his Apaches was worthwhile. The newcomer, Eggleston reported, was a man from Columbus, Ohio, with weak lungs, a wife, and three towheaded children. Ben Sprankle had come to Arizona for his health. He had a small stock of chewing tobacco, coal oil, nails, tinware, and bolts of gingham.
"He wants to start a little store here," the valet explained. "He never had a real home himself, he said, but he thought along the Agua Fria was a good place to raise children, with all the sunshine and fresh air. He says in Columbus, Ohio—where is that, Mr. Jack? —this time of year it's all snow and slush and sniffles."
Phoebe, glad to be "home," as she said, breathed deep of the warm dry air. Uncle Roscoe, now completely recovered, shook her hand like a pump handle. "Ain't nothin' like a pretty woman to dress up a spread like this!" he said, and Phoebe blushed becomingly. Eggleston and Mrs. Glore had disappeared into the now-completed adobe to greet each other in a more private way.
"That's right," Jack agreed. "Women are a proper and fitting part of the landscape, even on the frontier, Uncle Roscoe. I am glad we have attractive females on Rancho Terco."
Phoebe looked at him with a peculiar look, and said, "Well, if I must settle for being part of the landscape, I suppose that will have to do."
"Like the yucca plant," Jack amended. "That is part of the landscape, too. When it blooms, all the birds are attracted to the beautiful waxy flowers. The—the yucca is useful, too. The Indians make all sorts of things out of it."
"And I suppose we females are useful too, Mr. Drumm?"
He was not sure whether she was ragging him. Somewhat stiffly he said, "You and Mrs. Glore have been a great help to us here."
"And you've helped me and Beulah too," Phoebe murmured. "So we must be grateful." She turned away to wander among the outbuildings, inspecting everything new, leaving Jack Drumm with the remembrance that the yucca plant had sharp spiky leaves resembling small daggers. He was pondering this botanical resemblance when Eggleston emerged from the adobe. Mrs. Glore was already preparing a fresh kettle of beans and had a batch of biscuits going.
"I was so glad to see Beulah again," the valet said earnestly. "Really, Mr. Jack, I missed her dreadfully."
"I, also."
"But—" Eggleston broke off and looked down at his fingers, scarred and toughened by the hard life. "What I mean to say is—I missed her in an entirely different way from you, Mr. Jack."
"How is that?"
Eggleston coughed, clasped his hands nervously behind his back. "Well, I have never married. But there comes a time in a man's life when he thinks about growing old alone, and lonely. I do not care if Beulah has committed some offense against the American law. I am sure she meant well, and was probably even justified in what she did. That would be no bar to my marrying her."
"Marrying her?" Jack was astonished.
"Marry her!" Eggleston spoke firmly. "Yes, Indeed, I would be happy spending my declining years with such a female as Beulah Glore! I would, of course, someday want to take her home with me to Clarendon Hall, but—well, she is such a different kind that I wonder how she would fit in in Hampshire."
Jack put his hand on the valet's sleeve. "Eggie, if you love her and she loves you—"
"Oh, Mr. Jack, she does, and I do!"
"Then she is the mate for you in Hampshire, or in Halifax! Perhaps the old families in Hampshire—like yours and mine—would benefit from new blood, some of the new American blood, teeming as it does with life and energy and determination."
Feeling awkward at having spoken so emotionally, he clapped Eggleston on the back and hurried away to make his plans. Time was of the essence. He called them together to advise them.
"We had a narrow escape from Mr. Meech in Prescott. No one knows when he may reappear. In the meantime, we must all be cautious. The adobe is finished, and is commodious and comfortable. You, Phoebe, and Mrs. Glore will spend your time inside, emerging only at night, so as not to be seen."
"But how will I cook?" Beulah demanded. "I'll bet none of you has had a decent meal since I left!"
"Eggie will attend to the cooking," Jack said.
"I know we're in danger," Phoebe protested, "but we can't spend the rest of our lives caged like animals in a zoo!"
"It will not be long," he promised. "I have a plan. If everything works out, you will be confined only for a few days."
"What kind of plan?"
He shook his head. "Only trust me for a little while."
"But—"
"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.