"Charley, I find desert life just a bit strenuous," he said.
Charley wiped her face vigorously with her bandanna and nodded.
"So do I. But I like it. I think I must like the constant fight and the awful beauty. There's nothing else here."
"Have you anything in you but Anglo-Saxon blood?" asked Roger.
"No," replied Charley.
"That accounts for your loving it, I believe. The Anglo-Saxons are the trail makers for civilization. And by Jove, if any two people on earth are making trails it's you and Dick."
"You're Anglo-Saxon yourself. What is your work but trail making?"
"We aren't all trail makers!" Roger gave a half cynical chuckle. "You know I'm solving the labor question."
"With old Rabbit Tail's gang?"
"Hardly! Yet, by golly, Charley, I don't know but what I'm developing a typical labor situation down here. The Indian gang is working as a favor, you understand, and not from any necessity."
Charley laughed. "If it weren't for you inventors, we all could revert comfortably to Rabbit Tail's philosophy."
"It was to make that philosophy workable that started me inventing. That is, to give every man food and shelter with a minimum of work."
Once fairly launched, Roger gave Charley a rapid picture of the strike and the burning of the factory. When he had finished the two sat long in silence watching the gray veil that roared before them.
At last Charley shook her head. "It's a long trail from the old plow factory to the hieroglyphic spring, Roger."
"A long way," agreed Roger, "and I have no idea whether I'm helping or hindering labor. I only know now that my job is to make deserts bloom. Let labor go hang!"
Charley did not answer. She sat with her brown hands clasping her khaki knees, her hat pulled low over her eyes. Roger eyed her affectionately. It occurred to him that since Felicia's death, she had seemed more than ever like a fine intelligent boy. And yet he was honest enough to tell himself that there was infinitely more satisfaction in sitting in a hollowed rock with Charley than with any boy he had ever known. Suddenly Roger put his long arm across Charley's fine shoulders.
"Charley, you old dear!" he said. "I am mighty fond of you! You're the best man I know."
Charley said nothing for a moment. She reached up to clasp the hand that hung over her shoulder, then she turned to look into Roger's face and there was that in her eyes that held him speechless. There was in them Felicia's innocence and Felicia's eternal query. There was Charley's own sweetness and wistfulness, but back of these were burning depths of which Roger as yet had no understanding but they stirred him so profoundly that he paled beneath his tan.