“Well, if you don’t really need us——­”

“Not in the least,” was his assurance.

She still hesitated, while her look travelled from Bryant to Menocal and back again.  To the engineer that inclusive regard indicated that her mind was less concerned with the garden ditch than with a comparison of her two visitors; and with a sudden feeling of warmth about his neck Bryant admitted to himself that he presented no attractions.  He wore laced boots, soiled khaki trousers and flannel shirt, with his hat pulled over one eye against the sun; Menocal was dressed in light gray clothes, thin and cool, low white shoes, a pale pink silk shirt (trust a Mexican for colour somewhere!) a vivid rose-hued scarf, and a white cap.  To further emphasize the contrast, Bryant led a loaded horse and a gangling boy, while Charlie Menocal leaned at ease against his twin-six.  Quite a difference, for a fact.  And it was plain that Ruth Gardner noted it with discrimination.

Imogene Martin now spoke.

“I don’t think I’ll go, Ruth.  I’ve not been feeling well the last day or two, as you know, and I’m afraid to risk the sun.”

“Oh, come on, Imo.  The ride will do you good,” her friend replied, with a trace of impatience.

“No, I told Mr. Menocal when he proposed the expedition that I doubted if I should go.”

“Too bad not to come, Miss Martin,” that worthy remarked, without enthusiasm.  Clearly his interest in what company he should have did not point toward her.

“I’m going, at any rate,” Ruth Gardner said.  And then, “Oh, dear!  I overlooked altogether introducing you you two gentlemen.”

Bryant was human; the opportunity was one he could not let pass.  So smiling broadly he said: 

“We’ve met before, haven’t we, Menocal?  At Perro Creek ford.”  And receiving no response but a scowl, he spoke at large, “Well, I must get busy if I’m to save those beans.”

He led Dick, with Dave at his side, toward the garden on open ground below the trees, where the bean vines were already turning yellow for lack of water.  He chuckled as he went, for the disappearance of Charlie Menocal’s patronizing air and the sudden thundercloud hanging on his visage attested that the charge had gone home.

Ten minutes later the automobile passed the garden, but Bryant, who had set up his tripod and stationed Dave with his rod some distance off, did not see the hand Ruth Gardner waved.  His eye was where an engineer’s eye should be, at his transit.

“She waved at you,” Dave called.

“Who?”

“That girl with the Mexican.”

“Well, what of it?”

When Bryant used that tone, Dave recognized the wisdom of silence.  He pretended that he had not heard.  Even his employer, whom he worshipped, had strange, mysterious moods.

CHAPTER VII