JUMPED
Winter, the wonted season of torrential rains, six weeks' grass, and
budding flowers, when the desert is green and the sky washed clean and
blue, followed close in the wake of the sheep, which went drifting
past Hidden Water like an army without banners. But alas for Hidden
Water and the army of sheep!--in this barren Winter the torrential
rains did not fall, the grass did not sprout, and the flowers did not
bloom. A bleak north wind came down from the mountains, cold and dry
and crackling with electricity, and when it had blown its stint it
died down in a freezing, dusty silence.
Then the mighty south--the rain--wind that blows up out of Papagueria,
rose up, big with promise, and whirled its dust clouds a thousand feet
high against the horizon. But, after much labor, the keen, steely,
north wind rushed suddenly down upon the black clouds, from whose
edges the first spatter of rain had already spilled, and swept them
from the horizon, howling mournfully the while and wrestling with the
gaunt trees at night. In shaded places the icicles from slow-seeping
waters clung for days unmelted, and the migrant ducks, down from the
Arctic, rose up from the half-frozen sloughs and winged silently away
to the far south. Yet through it all the Dos S cattle came out
unscathed, feeding on what dry grass and browse the sheep had left on
Bronco Mesa; and in the Spring, when all hope seemed past, it rained.
Only those who have been through a drought know what music there is
hidden in rain. It puts a wild joy into the heart of every creature,
the birds sing, the rabbits leap and caper, and all the cattle and
wild horses take to roaming and wandering out of pure excess of
spirits. It was early in March when the first showers came, and as
soon as the new feed was up Creede began his preparations for the
spring _rodeo_. The Winter had been a hard one, and not without its
worries. In an interview, which tended on both sides to become heated
and personal, Jim Swope had denounced Hardy for misrepresenting his
orders to his _mayordomo_, and had stated in no uncertain terms his
firm intention of breaking even in the Spring, if there was a blade of
grass left on the upper range.
The season had been a bad one for his sheep, windy and cold, with sand
storms which buried the desert in a pall and drove many flocks to the
hills; and as the feed became shorter and shorter vagrant bands began
to drift in along the Salagua. In the battle for the range that
followed herders and punchers greeted each other with angry snarls
which grew more wolfish every day, and old Pablo Moreno, shaking his
white head over their quarrels, uttered gloomy prophecies of greater
evils to come. Sheep would die, he said, cattle would die--it was only
a question now of how many, and of which. It was a coming _ano seco_;
nay, the whole country was drying up. In Hermosillo, so they said, the
women stood by the public well all night, waiting to fill their
_ollas_; not for nine years had the rains fallen there, and now the
drought was spreading north. Arizona, California, Nevada, all were
doomed, yet _paciencia_, perhaps--and then came the rain. Yes, it was
a good rain but--and then it rained again. _Que bueno_, who would not
be made a liar for rain? But _cuidado_--behold, the ground was still
dry; it drank up the water as it fell and was thirsty again; the river
fell lower and lower and the water was clear; a bad sign, a very bad
sign!
But if the young should wait upon the advice of the old there would be
no more miracles. Creede and Hardy passed up the weather, strapped on
their six-shooters, and began to patrol the range, "talking reason" to
the stray Mexicans who thought that, because their sheep were getting
poor, they ought to move them to better feed.
The time for friendship and diplomacy was past, as Hardy politely
informed his employer by letter--after which he told Rafael to keep
away from the post office and not bring him any more _correo_, if he
valued his job. But though he had made his note to Judge Ware brief,
it had said too much. He had suggested that if the judge did not like
his change of policy he had better come down and see the actual
conditions for himself--and the old judge came.
It was midafternoon of that fateful day when Creede and Hardy, riding
in from up the river, saw Rafael's wagon in front of the house. This
was not surprising in itself as he had been down to Bender for
round-up supplies, but as the two partners approached the house Creede
suddenly grabbed Hardy's rein and drew back as if he were on top of a
rattlesnake.
"For God's sake," he said, "what's that? Listen!"
He jerked a thumb toward the house, and in the tense silence Hardy
could clearly discern the sound of women's voices. Now you could ride
the Four Peaks country far and wide and never hear the music of such
voices, never see calico on the line, or a lace curtain across the
window. There were no women in that godless land, not since the Widow
Winship took Sallie and Susie and left precipitately for St. Louis,
none save the Senora Moreno and certain strapping Apache squaws who
wore buckskin _tewas_ and carried butcher knives in their belts. Even
the heart of Rufus Hardy went pit-a-pat and stopped, at the sound of
that happy chatter.
"They're rustlin' the whole dam' house," exclaimed Creede, all nerves
and excitement. "Didn't you hear that pan go 'bamp'? Say, I believe
they're cleanin' house! Rufe," he whispered, "I bet you money we're
jumped!"
The possibility of having their ranch preempted during their absence
had been spoken of in a general way, since Jim Swope had gone on the
warpath, but in his secret soul Rufus Hardy had a presentiment which
made claim-jumping look tame. There was a chastened gayety in the
voices, a silvery ripple in the laughter, which told him what Creede
with all his cunning could never guess; they were voices from another
world, a world where Hardy had had trouble and sorrow enough, and
which he had left forever. There was soldier blood in his veins and in
two eventful years he had never weakened; but the suddenness of this
assault stampeded him.
"You better go first, Jeff," he said, turning his horse away, "they
might--"
But Creede was quick to intercept him.
"None o' that, now, pardner," he said, catching his rein. "You're
parlor-broke--go on ahead!"
There was a wild, uneasy stare in his eye, which nevertheless meant
business, and Hardy accepted the rebuke meekly. Perhaps his conscience
was already beginning to get action for the subterfuge and deceit
which he had practised during their year together. He sat still for a
moment, listening to the voices and smiling strangely.
"All right, brother," he said, in his old quiet way, and then,
whirling Chapuli about, he galloped up to the house, sitting him as
straight and resolute as any soldier. But Creede jogged along more
slowly, tucking in his shirt, patting down his hair, and wiping the
sweat from his brow.
At the thud of hoofs a woman's face appeared at the doorway--a face
sweet and innocent, with a broad brow from which the fair hair was
brushed evenly back, and eyes which looked wonderingly out at the
world through polished glasses. It was Lucy Ware, and when Hardy saw
her he leaped lightly from his horse and advanced with hat in
hand--smiling, yet looking beyond her.
"I'm so glad to see you, Miss Lucy," he said, as he took her hand,
"and if we had only known you were coming--"
"Why, Rufus Hardy!" exclaimed the young lady, "do you mean to say you
never received _any_ of my letters?"
At this Creede stared, and in that self-same moment Hardy realized how
the low-down strategy which he had perpetrated upon his employer had
fallen upon his own head a thousandfold. But before he could stammer
his apologies, Kitty Bonnair stood before him--the same Kitty, and
smiling as he had often seen her in his dreams.
She was attired in a stunning outing suit of officer's cloth, tailored
for service, yet bringing out the graceful lines of her figure; and as
Hardy mumbled out his greetings the eyes of Jefferson Creede, so long
denied of womankind, dwelt eagerly upon her beauty. Her dainty feet,
encased in tan high boots, held him in rapt astonishment; her hands
fascinated him with their movements like the subtle turns of a
mesmerist; and the witchery of her supple body, the mischief in the
dark eyes, and the teasing sweetness of her voice smote him to the
heart before he was so much as noticed.
No less absolute, for all his strivings, was the conquest of Rufus
Hardy, the frozen bulwarks of whose heart burst suddenly and went out
like spring ice in the radiance of her first smile.
"I knew you'd be glad to see me, too," she said, holding out her hand
to him; and forgetful of all his bitterness he grasped it warmly.
Then, tardily conscious of his duty, he turned to Jeff.
"Miss Kitty," he said, "this is my friend, Jefferson Creede--Miss
Bonnair."
"I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Creede," said Kitty, bestowing her hand
upon the embarrassed cowboy. "Of course you know Miss Ware!"
"Howdy do, Miss," responded Creede, fumbling for his hat, and as Miss
Lucy took his hand the man who had put the fear of God into the hearts
of so many sheep-herders became dumb and tongue-tied with bashfulness.
There was not a man in the Four Peaks country that could best him, in
anger or in jest, when it called for the ready word; but Kitty Bonnair
had so stolen his wits that he could only stand and sweat like a
trick-broken horse. As for Hardy he saw rainbows and his heart had
gone out of business, but still he was "parlor-broke."
"I am afraid you didn't find the house very orderly," he observed, as
Creede backed off and the conversation sagged; and the two girls
glanced at each other guiltily. "Of course you're just as welcome," he
added hastily, "and I suppose you couldn't help cleaning house a bit;
but you gave us both a bad scare, all the same. Didn't you notice how
pale we looked?" he asked, to mask his embarrassment. "But you were
right, Jeff," he continued enigmatically.
"Does he always defer to you that way, Mr. Creede?" inquired Kitty
Bonnair, with an engaging smile. "_We_ used to find him rather
perverse." She glanced roguishly at Hardy as she gave this veiled
rebuke. "But what was it that you were right about?--I'm just dying to
ask you questions!"
She confessed this with a naive frankness which quite won the big
cowboy's heart, and, his nerve coming back, he grinned broadly at his
former suspicions.
"Well," he said, "I might as well come through with it--I told him I
bet we'd been jumped."
"Jumped?" repeated Miss Kitty, mystified. "Oh, is that one of your
cowboy words? Tell me what it means!"
"W'y, it means," drawled Creede, "that two young fellers like me and
Rufe goes out to ride the range and when we come back some other
outfit has moved into our happy home and we're orphans. We've been
havin' a little trouble with the sheep lately, and when I heard them
pots and kittles rattlin' around in here I thought for sure some
Mormon sheepman had got the jump on us and located the ranch."
"And what would you have done if he had?" continued Kitty eagerly.
"Would you have shot him with that big pistol?" She pointed to the
heavy Colt's which Creede had slung on his hip.
But this was getting too romantic and Western, even for Jeff. "No,
ma'am," he said modestly. "We just carry that to balance us in the
saddle."
"Oh!" exclaimed Kitty, disappointed, "and didn't you ever shoot
_anybody_?"
Creede blushed for her, in spite of himself. "Well," he replied
evasively, "I don't know how it would be up where you come from, but
that's kind of a leadin' question, ain't it?"
"Oh, you have, then!" exclaimed Kitty Bonnair ecstatically. "Oh, I'm
so glad to see a really, truly cowboy!" She paused, and gazed up at
him soulfully. "Won't you let me have it for a minute?" she pleaded,
and with a sheepish grin Creede handed over his gun.
But if there had been another cowboy within a mile he would have
hesitated, infatuated as he was. Every land has its symbolism and
though the language of flowers has not struck root in the cow
country--nor yet the amorous Mexican system of "playing the bear"--to
give up one's pistol to a lady is the sign and token of surrender.
However, though it brought the sweat to his brow, the byplay was
pulled off unnoticed, Hardy and Lucy Ware being likewise deep in
confidences.
"How strange you look, Rufus!" exclaimed Lucy, as Kitty Bonnair began
her assault upon the happiness of Jefferson Creede. "What have you
been doing to yourself in these two years?"
"Why, nothing," protested Hardy, a little wan from his encounter with
Kitty. "Perhaps you have forgotten how I used to look--our hair gets
pretty long up here," he added apologetically, "but--"
"No," said Lucy firmly. "It isn't a matter of hair, although I will
admit I hardly knew you. It's in your eyes; and you have some stern,
hard lines about your mouth, too. Father says you spend all your time
trying to keep the sheep out--and he's very much displeased with you
for disobeying his directions, too. He gave up some important business
to come down here and see you, and I hope he scolds you well. Have you
been writing any lately?" she asked accusingly.
"No!" answered Hardy absently, "we don't have to _fight_ them--"
"But, Rufus," protested Lucy Ware, laying her hand on his arm, "do
take your mind from those dreadful sheep. I asked you if you have been
doing any _writing_ lately--you promised to send me some poems, don't
you remember? And I haven't received a thing!"
"Oh!" said Hardy, blushing at his mistake. "Well, I acknowledge that
I haven't done right--and you have been very kind, too, Miss
Lucy," he added gently. "But somehow I never finish anything down
here--and the sheep have been pretty bad lately. I have to do my work
first, you know. I'll tell you, though," he said, lowering his voice
confidentially, "if I can see you when no one is around I'll give you
what little I've written--at least, some of the best. A poet at
his worst, you know," he added, smiling, "is the poorest man in the
world. He's like a woman who tells everything--no one could respect
him. But if we can take our finer moods, and kind of sublimate them,
you know, well--every man is a poet some time."
He hesitated, ended lamely, and fell suddenly into a settled silence.
The hard lines about his lips deepened; his eyes, cast to the ground,
glowed dully; and in every feature Lucy read the despair that was
gnawing at his heart. And with it there was something more--a tacit
rebuke to her for having brought Kitty there to meet him.
"We have missed you very much," she began softly, as if reading his
thoughts, "and your letters were so interesting! Ever since I showed
Kitty the first one she has been crazy to come down here. Yes, she has
been reading 'The Virginian' and O. Henry and 'Wolfville' until it is
simply awful to hear her talk. And ride--she has been taking lessons
for a year! Her saddle is out there now in the wagon, and if she could
have caught one of those wild horses out in that inclosed field I
really believe she would have mounted him and taken to the hills like
an Indian. I had to come down to take care of father, you know,
and--aren't you glad to see us, Rufus?"
She gazed up at him anxiously, and her eyes became misty as she spoke;
but Hardy was far away and he did not see.
"Yes," he said absently, "but--I shall be very busy. Oh, where is your
father?"
A light went suddenly from Lucy's eyes and her lips quivered, but her
voice was as steady as ever.
"He has gone down to the river," she said patiently. "Would you like
to see him?"
"Yes," he replied, still impersonally; and with his head down, he
walked out to where Chapuli was standing. Then, as if some memory of
her voice had come to him, he dropped the bridle lash and stepped back
quickly into the house.
"You mustn't notice my rudeness, Miss Lucy," he began abjectly. "Of
course I am glad to see you; but I am a little confused, and--well,
you understand." He smiled wanly as he spoke, and held out his hand.
"Is it all right?" he asked. "Good-bye, then." And as he stepped
quietly out the light came back into Lucy's eyes.
"I am going to hunt up the judge," he said, as he swung up on his
horse; and, despite the protests of Jeff and Kitty Bonnair, who were
still deep in an animated conversation, he rode off down the river.
It was not exactly like a draught of Nepenthe to go out and face the
righteous indignation of Judge Ware, but Hardy's brain was in such a
whirl that he welcomed the chance to escape. Never for a moment had he
contemplated the idea of Kitty's coming to him, or of his seeing her
again until his heart was whole. He had felt safe and secure forever
within the walled valley of Hidden Water--but now from a cloudless sky
the lightning had fallen and blinded him. Before he could raise a hand
or even turn and flee she had come upon him and exacted his
forgiveness. Nay, more--she had won back his love and enslaved him as
before. Could it mean--what else could it mean? Nothing but that she
loved him; or if not love, then she cared for him above the others.
And Kitty was proud, too! Those who became her slaves must respect her
whims; she would acknowledge no fault and brook no opposition;
whatever she did was right. Yes, it had always been the same with her:
the Queen could do no wrong--yet now she had put aside her regal
prerogatives and come to him!
He hugged the thought to his bosom like a man infatuated, and then a
chill misgiving came upon him. Perhaps after all it was but another of
those childish whims which made her seem so lovable--always eager,
always active, always striving for the forbidden and unusual, yet so
dear with her laughing eyes and dancing feet that all the world gave
way before her. He bowed his head in thought, following the judge's
tracks mechanically as he cantered down the trail, and when he came to
the hill above the whirlpool and looked down at the empty landscape he
was still wrestling with his pride. Never in the two years of his
exile had he so much as mentioned her name to any one; it was a thing
too sacred for confidences, this love which had changed the deep
current of his life, a secret for his own soul and God--and yet, Lucy
Ware might help him!
And where in all the world would he find a more faithful friend than
Lucy Ware? A secret shared with her would be as safe as if still
locked in his own breast--and Lucy could understand. Perhaps she
understood already; perhaps--his heart stopped, and pounded against
his side--perhaps Kitty had told Lucy her story already and asked her
to intercede! He dwelt upon the thought again as he gazed dumbly about
for his employer; and then suddenly the outer world--the plain, rough,
rocks-and-cactus world that he had lived in before they came--flashed
up before him in all its uncompromising clearness; the judge was
nowhere in sight!
A sudden memory of Creede's saying that he could lose his boss any
time within half a mile of camp startled Hardy out of his dreams and
he rode swiftly forward upon the trail. At the foot of the hill the
tracks of Judge Ware's broad shoes with their nice new hob-nails stood
out like a bas-relief, pointing up the river. Not to take any chances,
Hardy followed them slavishly through the fine sand until they turned
abruptly up onto a ridge which broke off at the edge of the river
bottom. Along the summit of this they showed again, plainly, heading
north; then as the ravine swung to the west they scrambled across it
and began to zigzag, working off to the east where Black Butte loomed
up above the maze of brushy ridges like a guiding sentinel. At first
Hardy only smiled at the circuitous and aimless trail which he was
following, expecting to encounter the judge at every turn; but as the
tracks led steadily on he suddenly put spurs to his horse and plunged
recklessly up and down the sides of the brushy hogbacks in a desperate
pursuit, for the sun was sinking low. The trail grew fresher and
fresher now; dark spots where drops of sweat had fallen showed in the
dry sand of the washes; and at last, half an hour before sundown,
Hardy caught sight of his wandering employer, zealously ascending a
particularly rocky butte.
"Hello there, Judge!" he called, and then, as Judge Ware whirled
about, he inquired, with well-feigned surprise: "Where'd you drop down
from?"
This was to let the old gentleman down easy--lost people having a way
of waxing indignant at their rescuers--and the judge was not slow to
take advantage of it.
"Why, howdy do, Rufus!" he exclaimed, sinking down upon a rock. "I was
just taking a little short cut to camp. My, my, but this is a rough
country. Out looking for cattle?"
"Well--yes," responded Hardy. "I was taking a little ride. But say,
it's about my supper time. You better give up that short-cut idea and
come along home with me."
"We-ell," said the judge, reluctantly descending the butte, "I guess I
will. How far is it?"
"About two miles, by trail."
"Two miles!" exclaimed Judge Ware, aghast. "Why, it's just over that
little hill, there. Why don't you take a short cut?"
"The trail is the shortest cut I know," replied Hardy, concealing a
smile. "That's the way the cattle go, and they seem to know their
business. How does the country look to you?"
But the old judge was not to be led aside by persiflage--he was
interested in the matter of trails.
"Cattle trails!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean to say that you do all
your travelling on these crooked cow paths? Why, it is a matter of
scientific observation that even on the open prairie a cow path loses
nearly a quarter of its headway by constant winding in and out, merely
to avoid frail bushes and infinitesimal stones. Now if you and Jeff
would spend a little of your leisure in cutting trails, as they do in
forestry, you would more than save yourselves the time and labor
involved, I'm sure."
"Yes?" said Hardy coldly. There was a subtle tone of fault-finding in
his employer's voice which already augured ill for their debate on the
sheep question, and his nerves responded instinctively to the jab.
Fate had not been so kind to him that day, that he was prepared to
take very much from any man, and so he remained quiet and let the
judge go the whole length.
"Why, yes, if you would stay about the ranch a little closer instead
of going off on these armed forays against sheep--now just for
example, how much would it cost to clear a passable trail over that
ridge to the ranch?"
He pointed at the hill which in his misguided enthusiasm he had been
mounting, and Hardy's eyes glittered wickedly as he launched his
barbed jest.
"About a billion dollars, I guess," he answered, after mature
consideration.
"A billion dollars!" repeated the judge. "A billion dollars! Now here,
Rufus," he cried, choking with exasperation, "I am in earnest about
this matter! I don't altogether approve of the way you and Jeff have
been conducting my affairs down here, anyway, and I intend to take a
hand myself, if you don't mind. I may not know as much as you about
the minor details of the cattle business, but I have been looking into
forestry quite extensively, and I fail to see anything unreasonable in
my suggestion of a trail. How far is it, now, over that hill to the
ranch?"
"About twenty-five thousand miles," replied Hardy blandly.
"Twenty-five thousand! Why--"
"At least, so I am informed," explained Hardy. "Geographers agree, I
believe, that that is the approximate distance around the world. The
ranch is over here, you know."
He pointed with one small, sinewy hand in a direction diametrically
opposite to the one his boss had indicated, and struck out down a cow
trail. It was a harsh blow to the old judge, and rankled in his bosom
for some time; but after making sure that his superintendent was
correct he followed meekly behind him into camp. On the way, as an
afterthought, he decided not to put down his foot in the matter of the
sheep until he was quite sure of the material facts.
They found Creede in the last throes of agony as he blundered through
the motions of cooking supper. Half an hour of house-cleaning had done
more to disarrange his kitchen than the services of two charming
assistants could possibly repair. His Dutch oven was dropped into the
wood box; his bread pan had been used to soak dirty dishes in; the
water bucket was empty, and they had thrown his grease swab into the
fire. As for the dish-rag, after long and faithful service it had been
ruthlessly destroyed, and he had to make another one out of a flour
sack. Add to this a hunger which had endured since early morning and a
series of rapid-fire questions, and you have the true recipe for bad
bread, at least.
Kitty Bonnair had taken a course in sanitation and domestic science in
her college days, since which time the world had been full of microbes
and every unpleasant bacillus, of which she discoursed at some length.
But Jefferson Creede held steadily to his fixed ideas, and in the end
he turned out some baking-powder biscuits that would have won honors
in a cooking school. There was nothing else to cook, his kettle of
beans having been unceremoniously dumped because the pot was black;
but Kitty had the table spotlessly clean, there was an assortment of
potted meats and picnic knicknacks in the middle of it, and Lucy had
faithfully scoured the dishes; so supper was served with frills.
If the ladies had taken hold a little strong in the first spasms of
house-cleaning, Jeff and Rufus were far too polite to mention it; and
while the dishes were being washed they quietly gathered up their
belongings, and moved them into the storeroom. Their beds being
already spread beneath the _ramada_, it was not difficult to persuade
the girls to accept Hardy's room, which for a man's, was clean, and
the judge fell heir to Jeff's well-littered den. All being quickly
arranged and the beds made, Creede threw an armful of ironwood upon
the fire and they sat down to watch it burn.
Three hours before, Hidden Water had been the hangout of two
sheep-harrying barbarians, bushy-headed and short of speech; now it
was as bright and cheerful as any home and the barbarians were changed
to lovers. Yet, as they basked in the warmth of the fireside there was
one absent from his accustomed place--a creature so fierce and shy
that his wild spirit could never become reconciled to the change. At
the first sound of women's voices little Tommy had dashed through his
cat-hole and fled to the bowlder pile at the foot of the cliff, from
whose dank recesses he peered forth with blank and staring eyes.
But now, as the strange voices grew quiet and night settled down over
the valley, he crept forth and skulked back to the house, sniffing
about the barred windows, peeking in through his hole in the door; and
at last, drawing well away into the darkness, he raised his voice in
an appealing cry for Jeff.
As the first awful, raucous outburst broke the outer silence Kitty
Bonnair jumped, and Lucy and her father turned pale.
"What's that?" cried Kitty, in a hushed voice, "a mountain lion?"
"Not yet," answered Creede enigmatically. "He will be though, if he
grows. Aw, say, that's just my cat. Here, pussy, pussy, pussy! D'ye
hear that, now? Sure, he knows me! Wait a minute and I'll try an'
ketch 'im."
He returned a few minutes later, with Tommy held firmly against his
breast, blacker, wilder, and scrawnier than ever, but purring and
working his claws.
"How's this for a mountain lion?" said Creede, stopping just inside
the door and soothing down his pet. "D'ye see that hook?" he inquired,
holding up the end of Tommy's crooked tail and laughing at Kitty's
dismay. "He uses that to climb cliffs with. That's right--he's a new
kind of cat. Sure, they used to be lots of 'em around here, but the
coyotes got all the rest. Tom is the only one left. Want to pet him?
Well--whoa, pussy,--come up careful, then; he's never--ouch!"
At the first whisk of skirts, Tommy's yellow eyes turned green and he
sank every available hook and claw into his master's arm; but when
Kitty reached out a hand he exploded in a storm of spits and hisses
and dashed out through the door.
"Well, look at that, now," said Creede, grinning and rubbing his arm.
"D'ye know what's the matter with him? You're the first woman he ever
saw in his life. W'y, sure! They ain't no women around here. I got him
off a cowman over on the Verde. He had a whole litter of 'em--used to
pinch Tom's tail to make him fight--so when I come away I jest quietly
slipped Mr. Tommy into my shaps."
"Oh, the poor little thing," said Kitty; and then she added, puckering
up her lips, "but I don't like cats."
"Oh, I do!" exclaimed Lucy Ware quickly, as Creede's face changed, and
for a moment the big cowboy stood looking at them gravely.
"That's good," he said, smiling approvingly at Lucy; and then, turning
to Kitty Bonnair, he said: "You want to learn, then."
But Kitty was not amenable to the suggestion.
"No!" she cried, stamping her foot. "I don't! They're such stealthy,
treacherous creatures--and they never have any affection for people."
"Ump-um!" denied Creede, shaking his head slowly. "You don't know
cats--jest think you do, maybe. W'y, Tommy was the only friend I had
here for two years. D'ye think he could fool me all that time? Rufe
here will tell you how he follows after me for miles--and cryin',
too--when the coyotes might git 'im anytime. And he sleeps with me
every night," he added, lowering his voice.
"Well, you can have him," said Kitty lightly. "Do they have any real
mountain lions here?"
"Huh?" inquired Creede, still big-eyed with his emotions. "Oh, yes;
Bill Johnson over in Hell's Hip Pocket makes a business of huntin'
'em. Twenty dollars bounty, you know."
"Oh, oh!" cried Kitty. "Will he take me with him? Tell me all about
it!"
Jefferson Creede moved over toward the door with a far-away look in
his eyes.
"That's all," he said indifferently. "He runs 'em with hounds. Well,
I'll have to bid you good-night."
He ducked his head, and stepped majestically out the door; and Hardy,
who was listening, could hear him softly calling to his cat.
"Oh, Rufus!" cried Kitty appealingly, as he rose to follow, "_do_ stop
and tell me about Bill Johnson, and, yes--Hell's Hip Pocket!"
"Why, Kitty!" exclaimed Lucy Ware innocently, and while they were
discussing the morals of geographical swearing Hardy made his bow, and
passed out into the night.
The bitter-sweet of love was upon him again, making the stars more
beautiful, the night more mysterious and dreamy; but as he crept into
his blankets he sighed. In the adjoining cot he could hear Jeff
stripping slivers from a length of jerked beef, and Tommy mewing for
his share.
"Want some jerky, Rufe?" asked Creede, and then, commenting upon their
late supper, he remarked:
"A picnic dinner is all right for canary birds, but it takes good
hard grub to feed a man. I'm goin' to start the _roder_ camp in the
mornin' and cook me up some beans." He lay for a while in silence,
industriously feeding himself on the dry meat, and gazing at the sky.
"Say, Rufe," he said, at last, "ain't you been holdin' out on me a
little?"
"Um-huh," assented Hardy.
"Been gettin' letters from Miss Lucy all the time, eh?"
"Sure."
"Well," remarked Creede, "you're a hell of a feller! But I reckon I
learned somethin'," he added philosophically, "and when I want
somebody to tell my troubles to, I'll know where to go. Say, she's all
right, ain't she?"
"Yeah."
"Who're you talkin' about?"
"Who're you?"
"Oh, you know, all right, all right--but, say!"
"Well?"
"It's a pity she don't like cats."