At the man’s passionate outburst that came as
if dragged from him against his will, Barbara shrank
back as if he threatened her. He had not asked
if she loved him; he had only spoken brutally—
savagely, of his passion for her. She repeated
insistently, blindly, to herself: “He must
not know! He must not know!”
The man spoke again. “Forgive me, Miss
Worth; I did not mean to let go of myself. I
know how you love this work—how hard you
have tried to hold me true to it. I could not
bear that you should think of me as leaving it without
reason. But you see—you see how impossible
it is now for me to stay.”
As he spoke, a running horse stopped suddenly in front
of the house and through the open door they saw Pablo
leap from the saddle and run swiftly up the walk toward
the house.
“Senorita!” the Mexican cried, as Barbara
sprang towards him; “the river! the river!
It has come. The Company works—it is
all gone! Senor Worth send me quick to tell Senor
Holmes. I go to Kingston; he not there.
They say he ride this way. I come to you, Senorita;
I think maybe you know where I find him.”
He turned to the engineer. “Senor Holmes,
the river has come again into La Palma de la Mano de
Dios like the Indians say it was long time ago.
Senor Worth say you come please pronto!”
Barbara wheeled on the engineer with flushed cheeks
and blazing eyes.
“This is your answer!” she cried.
“Not for me; not for yourself; but for the work—your
work—our work!”
For an instant he looked into her eyes, then turned
and ran towards his horse with Pablo at his heels.
Barbara saw them spring into their saddles and disappear
in a cloud of dust, and the engineer, as he rode,
remembered what Abe Lee had once told him of Pablo’s
saying: “In the Company there is no Senorita!”
BATTLING WITH THE RIVER.
Some day, perhaps, the history of that River war will
be written. It can only be suggested in my story.
It was a war of terrific forces waged for a great
cause by men as brave as any who ever fought with
weapons that kill.
The attacking force was the Rio Colorado that with
power immeasurable had, through the ages past, carved
mile-deep canyons on its course and with its mountains
of silt had built the great delta dam across the ancient
gulf, thus turning back the waters of the sea that
sun and wind might lay bare the floor of the Basin
and work the desolation of the desert.
Using the Seer’s open hand for his map of La
Palma de la Mano de Dios, Jose, the Indian, had traced
the course of the river along the base of the fingers
flowing toward the gulf which lies between the edge
of the palm and the thumb—this same inner
edge of the hand representing roughly the high ground
that shuts out the waters of the sea. The thousands
of acres of The King’s Basin lands lie from
sea level to nearly three hundred feet below.
The river at the point where the intake for the system
of canals was located is, of course, higher than sea
level, for the waters that pass the intake flow on
southward to the gulf.
