THE CATASTROPHE
A demon of unrest, twin devil to that which had so clutched and torn
at the sensitive spirit of Rufus Hardy, seemed to rise up with the
dawn of that ill-omened day and seize upon the camp at Hidden Water.
It was like a touch of the north wind, which rumples the cat's back,
sets the horses to fighting in the corrals, and makes men mean and
generally contrary. Bill Johnson's hounds were the first to feel the
madness. They left before sun-up, heading for the wooded heights of
the Juate, and led him a weary chase. At the last moment Creede
abandoned the unprofitable working of The Rolls and ordered the
_rodeo_ up onto Bronco Mesa; and Kitty Bonnair, taking advantage of
his preoccupation, quietly gave him the slip at the end of their long
eastern detour, and turned her pinto's head toward the river.
As for Kitty, her will was the wind's will, which changes with the
times and seasons but is accountable to no universal law. Never in her
life had she met a man who could quarrel like Rufus Hardy. Beneath
her eye he was as clay in the hands of the potter; every glance spoke
love, and for her alone. And yet it was something more than a
smouldering resentment which made him avoid her, riding out before the
dawn; more than the tremulous bashfulness which had stayed his hand
when at times he might have taken hers. There was something deep,
hidden, mysterious, lurking in those fawnlike eyes, and it made him
insurgent against her will. It was a secret, hidden from all the
world, which he must yield to her. And then she would forgive him for
all the unhappiness he had caused her and teach him what a thing it is
for a woman to love and be misunderstood. But first--first she must
see him alone; she must burst upon him suddenly, taking his heart by
storm as she had on that first day, and leave the rest to fate. So she
lingered to gather some flowers which nodded among the rocks, the shy
and dainty forget-me-nots which they had picked together at home; and
when Creede was over the first ridge she struck out boldly up a side
canyon, tucking the miniature bouquet into the shadows of her hair.
The southern flank of Bronco Mesa breaks off sharply above the
Salagua, rising slowly by slopes and terraced benches to the heights,
and giving way before the river in a succession of broken ridges.
Along these summits run winding trails, led high to escape the rougher
ground. Urged on by the slashings of her quirt, Pinto galloped
recklessly through this maze of cow paths until as if by magic the
great valley lay before them. There in its deep canyon was the river
and the river trail--and a man, mounted upon a sorrel horse, savagely
intent upon his way. For a minute Kitty studied him curiously as he
hustled along, favoring his horse up the hills but swinging to the
stirrup as he dodged bushes across the flats; then she flung out her
hand impulsively, and called his name. In a flash he was up in his
saddle, looking. Chapuli tossed his head and in the act caught a
glimpse of the other horse--then they both stood rigid, gazing in
astonishment at the living statue against the sky. At sight of that
witching figure, beckoning him from the mountain top, Hardy's heart
leaped within him and stopped. Once more the little hand was thrown
out against the sky and a merry voice floated down to him from the
sun-touched heights.
"Hello, Rufus!" it called teasingly, and still he sat gazing up at
her. All the untamed passions of his being surged up and choked his
voice--he could not answer. His head turned and he gazed furtively
over his shoulder to the east, where his duty lay. Then of his own
accord Chapuli stepped from the trail and began to pick his way
soberly up the hill.
From the high summit of the butte all the world lay spread out like a
panorama,--the slopes and canyons of Bronco Mesa, picketed with giant
_sahuaros_; the silvery course of the river flowing below; the
unpeopled peaks and cliffs of the Superstitions; and a faint haze-like
zephyr, floating upon the eastern horizon. And there at last the eyes
of Rufus Hardy and Kitty Bonnair met, questioning each other, and the
world below them took on a soft, dreamy veil of beauty.
"Why, how did you come here?" he asked, looking down upon her
wonderingly. "Were you lost?"
And Kitty smiled wistfully as she answered:
"Yes--till I found you."
"Oh!" said Hardy, and he studied her face warily, as if doubtful of
her intent.
"But how could you be lost," he asked again, "and travel so far? This
is a rough country, and you got here before I did."
He swung down from his horse and stood beside her, but Kitty only
laughed mischievously and shook her head--at which, by some lover's
magic, the dainty forget-me-nots fell from her hair in a shower of
snowy blossoms.
"I was lost," she reiterated, smiling into his eyes, and in her gaze
Hardy could read--"without you."
For a moment the stern sorrow of the night withheld him. His eyes
narrowed, and he opened his lips to speak. Then, bowing his head, he
knelt and gathered up the flowers.
"Yes," he said gently, "I understand. I--I have been lost, too."
They smiled and sat down together in the shadow of a great rock,
gazing out over the peaks and pinnacles of the mountains which wall in
Hidden Water and talking placidly of the old days--until at last, when
the spell of the past was on him, Kitty fell silent, waiting for him
to speak his heart.
But instantly the spell of her laughter was broken an uneasy thought
came upon Hardy, and he glanced up at the soaring sun.
"Jeff will be worried about you," he said at last. "He will think you
are lost and give up the _rodeo_ to hunt for you. We must not stay
here so long."
He turned his head instinctively as he spoke, and Kitty knew he was
thinking of the sheep.
"Cattle and sheep--cattle and sheep," she repeated slowly. "Is there
nothing else that counts, Rufus, in all this broad land? Must
friendship, love, companionship, all go down before cattle and sheep?
I never knew before what a poor creature a woman was until I came to
Arizona."
She glanced at him from beneath her drooping lashes, and saw his jaws
set tense.
"And yet only yesterday," he said, with a sombre smile, "you had
twenty men risking their lives to give you some snake-tails for
playthings."
"But my old friend Rufus was not among them," rejoined Kitty quietly;
and once more she watched the venom working in his blood.
"No," he replied, "he refuses to compete with Bill Lightfoot at any
price."
"Oh, Rufus," cried Kitty, turning upon him angrily, "aren't you
ashamed? I want you to stop being jealous of all my friends. It is the
meanest and most contemptible thing a man can do. I--I won't stand
it!"
He glanced at her again with the same set look of disapproval still
upon his face.
"Kitty," he said, "if you knew what lives some of those men lead--the
thoughts they think, the language they speak--you--you would not--" He
stopped, for the sudden tears were in her eyes. Kitty was crying.
[Illustration: "No!" said Kitty, "you do not love me"]
"Oh, Rufus," she sobbed, "if--if you only knew! Who else could I go
with--how--how else--Oh, I cannot bear to be scolded and--I only did
it to make you jealous!" She bowed her head against her knees and
Hardy gazed at her in awe, shame and compassion sweeping over him as
he realized what she had done.
"Kitty--dear," he stammered, striving to unlock the twisted fingers,
"I--I didn't understand. Look, here are your flowers and--I love you,
Kitty, if I am a brute." He took one hand and held it, stroking the
little fingers which he had so often longed to caress. But with a
sudden wilfulness she turned her face away.
"Don't you love me, Kitty?" he pleaded. "Couldn't you, if I should try
to be good and kind? I--I don't understand women--I know I have hurt
you--but I loved you all the time. Can't you forgive me, Kitty?"
But Kitty only shook her head. "The man I love must be my master," she
said, in a far-away voice, not looking at him. "He must value me above
all the world."
"But, Kitty," protested Hardy, "I do--"
"No," said Kitty, "you do _not_ love me."
There was a lash to the words that cut him--a scorn half-spoken,
half-expressed by the slant of her eye. As he hesitated he felt the
hot blood burn at his brow.
"Rufus," she cried, turning upon him quickly, "_do_ you love me? Then
take me in your arms and kiss me!" She spoke the words fiercely,
almost as a command, and Hardy started back as if he had been shot.
"Take me in your arms and kiss me!" she repeated evenly, a flash of
scorn in her eyes. But the man who had said he loved her faltered and
looked away.
"Kitty," he said gently, "you know I love you. But--"
"But what?" she demanded sharply.
"I--I have never--"
"Well," said Kitty briefly, "it's all over--you don't have to! I just
wanted to show you--" She paused, and her lip curled as she gazed at
him from a distance. "Look at my horse," she exclaimed suddenly,
pointing to where Pinto was pawing and jerking at his bridle rein.
When Hardy leapt up to free his foot she frowned again, for that is
not the way of lovers.
He came back slowly, leading the horse, his face very pale, his eyes
set.
"You were right," he said. "Shall we go?"
There was no apology in his voice, no appeal. It had grown suddenly
firm and resonant, and he fixed her with his great honest eyes
steadfastly. Something in the man seemed to rise up suddenly and
rebuke her--nay, to declare her unworthy of him. The thought of those
two years--two years without a word--came upon Kitty and left her
sober, filled with misgivings for the future. She cast about for some
excuse, some reason for delay, and still those masterful eyes were
fixed upon her--sad, wistful, yet steadfast; and like a child she
obeyed them.
It was a long ride to camp, long for both of them. When he had turned
her horse into the corral Hardy wheeled and rode off up the canyon,
where the hold-up herd was bellowing and there was a man's work to do.
There was wild riding that day, such as Judge Ware and Lucy had never
seen before, and more than one outlaw, loping for the hills, was roped
and thrown, and then lashed back to his place in the herd. The
sensitive spirit of Chapuli responded like a twin being to the sudden
madness of his master, and the lagging _rodeo_ hands were galvanized
into action by his impetuous ardor. And at the end, when the roping
and branding were over, Hardy rode down to the pasture for a fresh
mount, his eyes still burning with a feverish light and his lips
close-drawn and silent.
The outfit was huddled about the fire eating greedily after the long
day, when Creede, furtively watching his partner, saw his eyes fixed
curiously upon some object in the outer darkness. He followed the
glance and beheld a hound--gaunt, lame, beseeching--limping about
among the mesquite trees which lined the edge of the flat.
"There's one of Bill's dogs," he remarked sociably, speaking to the
crowd in general. "Must've got sore-footed and come back. Here, Rock!
Here, Rye! Here, Ring!" he called, trying the most likely names.
"Here, puppy--come on, boy!" And he scraped a plate in that inviting
way which is supposed to suggest feed to a dog. But Hardy rose up
quietly from his place and went out to the dog. A moment later he
called to Jeff and, after a hurried conference, the two of them
brought the wanderer up to the fire.
"Hey!" called Bill Lightfoot, "that ain't one of Bill's pack--that's
old Turco, his home dog."
"Don't you think I know Bill's dogs yet?" inquired Creede scathingly.
"Now if you'll jest kindly keep your face shet a minute, I'll see
what's the matter with this leg."
He clamped Turco between his knees and picked up his fore leg, while
the old dog whined and licked his hands anxiously. There was a stain
of blood from the shoulder down, and above it, cut neatly through the
muscles, a gaping wound.
"That was a thirty-thirty," said Creede grimly, and every man looked
up. Thirty-thirty was a sinister number on the range--it was the
calibre of a sheep-herder's carbine.
"Aw, go on," scoffed Bill Lightfoot, rushing over to examine the
wound. "Who could have shot him--away over in Hell's Hip Pocket?"
"Um--that's it," observed Creede significantly. "What you goin' to do,
Rufe?"
"I'm going over there," answered Hardy, throwing the saddle on his
horse. He looked over his shoulder as he heaved on the cinch. "That's
where that dust was," he said, and as the outfit stood gaping he swung
up and was off into the darkness.
"Hey, take my gun!" yelled Jeff, but the clatter of hoofs never
faltered--he was going it blind and unarmed. Late that night another
horseman on a flea-bitten gray dashed madly after him over the Pocket
trail. It was Old Bill Johnson, crazed with apprehension; and behind
him straggled his hounds, worn from their long chase after the lion,
but following dutifully on their master's scent. The rest of the
outfit rode over in the morning--the punchers with their pistols
thrust into the legs of their shaps; Creede black and staring with
anger; the judge asking a thousand unanswered questions and protesting
against any resort to violence; the women tagging along helplessly,
simply because they could not be left alone. And there, pouring forth
from the mouth of Hell's Hip Pocket, came the sheep, a solid phalanx,
urged on by plunging herders and spreading out over the broad mesa
like an invading army. Upon the peaks and ridges round about stood
groups of men, like skirmishers--camp rustlers with their packs and
burros; herders, whose sheep had already passed through--every man
with his gun in his hand. The solid earth of the trail was worn down
and stamped to dust beneath the myriad feet, rising in a cloud above
them as they scrambled through the pass; and above all other sounds
there rose the high, sustained tremolo of the sheep:
"_Blay-ay-ay-ay! Blay-ay-ay-ay! Blay-ay-ay-ay!_"
To the ears of the herders it was music, like the thunder of stamps to
a miner or the rumble of a waterfall to a lonely fisher; the old,
unlistened music of their calling, above which the clamor of the world
must fight its way. But to the cowmen it was like all hell broken
loose, a confusion, a madness, a babel which roused every passion in
their being and filled them with a lust to kill.
Without looking to the right or to the left, Jefferson Creede fixed
his eyes upon one man in that riot of workers and rode for him as a
corral hand marks down a steer. It was Jasper Swope, hustling the last
of a herd through the narrow defile, and as his Chihuahuanos caught
sight of the burly figure bearing down upon the _padron_ they
abandoned their work to help him. From the hill above, Jim Swope, his
face set like iron for the conflict, rode in to back up his brother;
and from far down the canyon Rufus Hardy came spurring like the wind to
take his place by Creede.
In the elemental clangor of the sheep they faced each other, Creede
towering on his horse, his face furious with rage; Swope gray with the
dust of his driving but undaunted by the assault.
"Stop where you are!" shouted Swope, holding out a warning hand as the
cowman showed no sign of halting. But Creede came straight on, never
flinching, until he had almost ridden him down.
"You low-lived, sheep-eatin' hound," he hissed, piling in the
wickedest of his range epithets, "you and me have had it comin' fer
quite a while, and now I've got you. I've never yet seen a sheepman
that would fight in the open, but you've got to or take _that_!" He
leaned over suddenly and slapped him with his open hand, laughing
recklessly at the Mexicans as they brandished their guns and shouted.
"_Quite se, cabrones_," he jeered, sorting out the worst of his
fighting Spanish for their benefit, "you are all gutter pups--you are
afraid to shoot!"
"Here," rasped out Jim Swope, spurring his horse in between them,
"what are you fellers tryin' to do? Git out of here, _umbre_--go on
now! Never mind, Jasp, I'll do the talkin'. You go on away, will ye!
Now what's the matter with you, Mr. Creede, and what can I do for
you?"
Jasper Swope had whirled back from the blow as a rattler throws his
coils. His gray eyes gleamed and he showed all his broken teeth as he
spat back hate and defiance at Creede; but Jim was his elder brother
and had bested him more than once since the days of their boyish
quarrels. Slowly and grudgingly he made way, backing sullenly off with
his Mexicans; and Jim stood alone, opposing his cold resolution to the
white-hot wrath of Creede.
"You can turn back them sheep and git off my range!" yelled Creede.
"Turn 'em back, I say, or I'll leave my mark on some of you!"
"How can I turn 'em back?" argued Swope, throwing out his hands.
"They's ninety thousand more behind me, and all headin' through this
pass."
"You know very well that this is a put-up job," retorted Creede hotly.
"You sheepmen have been crawlin' around on your bellies for a month to
get a chanst to sheep us out, and now you say you can't help yourself!
You're the crookedest, lyingest sheep-puller in the bunch, Jim Swope.
You'd rob a graveyard and show up for prayers the next mornin'. I can
lick you, you big Mormon-faced stiff, with one hand tied behind me,
and what's more--"
"Here now--here no-ow--" protested Swope, holding out his hand for
peace, "they ain't no call for no such talk. Mebbe you can lick me,
and mebbe you can't, but it won't do you any good to try. My sheep is
here, and here they'll stay, until I git good and ready to move 'em.
This is a free range and a free country, and the man ain't born that
can make me stop."
He paused, and fixed his keen eyes upon Creede, searching him to the
heart; and before that cold, remorseless gaze the fighting frenzy in
his brain died away. Meanwhile Hardy had come up from where he had
been turning back sheep, and as he rode in Jeff instinctively made way
for him.
"No," replied Hardy, fastening his stern eyes upon the iron visage of
the sheepman, "not if the lives of a thousand cattle and the last
possessions of a dozen men lay in your way. You and your legal rights!
It is men like you who make the law worse than nothing and turn honest
cowmen into criminals. If there is anything in it you will lie to the
assessor or rob a poor man's cabin with the best of them, but when it
comes to your legal right to sheep us out you are all for law and
order. Sure, you will uphold the statutes with your life! Look at
those renegade Mexicans, every man armed by you with a rifle and a
revolver! Is that the way to come onto another man's range? If you are
going to sheep us out, you can try it on; but for God's sake cut it
out about your sacred rights!"
He rose up in his saddle, haranguing the assembly as he spoke, and
once more Jim Swope felt his cause being weakened by the attacks of
this vehement little cowman.
"Well, what kin I do about it?" he cried, throwing out his hands in
virtuous appeal. "My sheep has got to eat, hain't they?"
"Sure," assented Hardy, "and so have our cattle. But I tell you what
you can do--you can go out through that pass yonder!"
He pointed at the canyon down which the sheep had come in the Fall, the
great middle fork which led up over the Four Peaks; but the sheepman's
only reply was a snarl of refusal.
"Not if I know myself," he muttered spitefully. "How'd do, Judge!" He
fixed his eyes eagerly upon Judge Ware, who was hastening to join in
the struggle. "You're just the man I want to see," he continued,
advancing briskly to meet him, "and I want to ask you, here and now
before these witnesses, do you claim any right to the exclusive use of
this land?"
"Why, certainly not, certainly not," answered the judge warmly, "but
at the same time I do claim an equity which rises from prior and
undisputed possession, and which has always and ought now to protect
my range from any outside invasion."
"Very likely, very likely," remarked Swope dryly. "And now, Judge, I
want to ask you another question before these witnesses. Did you or
did you not authorize your superintendent and foreman to threaten and
intimidate my men and me, with the idea of driving us off this public
land?"
"I did not," replied the judge, his mind suddenly filled with visions
of criminal proceedings. "On the contrary, I have repeatedly warned
them against any such action."
"At the same time," echoed Swope, quick to follow up his advantage,
"these men, who are your agents and employees, have systematically
moved my herders off this range by armed violence, and your foreman
has just now struck my brother, besides threatening to kill some of us
if we don't turn back. I want to tell you right now, Mr. Ware, that I
have consulted the best lawyers in this Territory as to my rights on
public lands, and you will be held personally responsible for any acts
of violence on the part of your employees. Now I want to ask you one
more question: Do you deny my right to pass through this range on my
way to the Sierra Blancas? You don't? Well then, call off these men!"
He paused and jerked his thumb toward Creede and Hardy, grinning
evilly, and as he spoke Creede crowded forward, his brow black as a
thunder cloud.
"I don't take orders from nobody," he cried vehemently, "not now, and
never will. I've got a few hundred head of cows on this range myself
and I intend to protect 'em if I have to kill somebody. You'll have to
git another foreman, Judge,--I've quit."
He shot a glance of pitying contempt at the man who had so stupidly
marred their fortunes, then he turned and fixed his burning eyes upon
his archenemy.
"Jim," he said, speaking quietly at last, "my father had ten thousand
head of cattle on this range before you sheepmen came--and that's all
I've got left. If you think you can sheep me out, go to it!"
He turned his horse's head toward Hidden Water, never looking back at
the sheep; and the cowmen fell in behind him, glad of an excuse to
retreat. What were a bunch of cowboys, armed with six-shooters, to
half a hundred sheepmen armed with repeating rifles and automatic
revolvers? No, it was better to let the sheep come, let them spread
out and scatter, and then jump the herders at night, if it came
to that. But what, reasoned the cautious ones, were a few hundred
head of cows anyhow, in a losing fight against the law itself? What
was a petty revenge upon some low-browed Mexican to the years of
imprisonment in Yuma which might follow? There were some among that
little band of cowmen who yelled for action, others who were disgusted
enough to quit, and others yet who said nothing, riding by themselves
or exchanging furtive glances with Creede. The Clark boys, Ben
Reavis, and Juan Ortega--these were the men whom the _rodeo_ boss
knew he could trust, and none of them spoke a word.
Worn and haggard from his night's riding, Rufus Hardy rode along with
Judge Ware and the ladies, explaining the situation to them. The
sheep had come in from the far east, crossing where sheep had never
crossed before, at the junction of Hell's Hip Pocket Creek and the
drought-shrunk Salagua. They had poured into the Pocket in solid
columns, sheeping it to the rocks, and had taken the pass before
either he or Bill Johnson could get to it. All through the night the
sheepmen had been crowding their flocks through the defile until
there were already twenty or thirty thousand on Bronco Mesa, with
fifty thousand to follow. Bill Johnson had shot his way through
the jam and disappeared into the Pocket, but he could do nothing
now--his little valley was ruined. There would not be a spear of
grass left for his cattle, and his burros had already come out with
the pack animals of the sheepmen. No one knew what had happened when
he reached his home, but the Mexican herders seemed to be badly
scared, and Johnson had probably tried to drive them out of the
valley.
All this Hardy explained in a perfectly matter-of-fact way, free from
apprehension or excitement; he listened in respectful silence to Judge
Ware's protests against violence and threats of instant departure; and
even humored Kitty's curiosity by admitting that Mr. Johnson, who was
apparently out of his head when he shot the sheep, had probably taken
a shot or two at the herders, as well. But Lucy Ware was not deceived
by his repose; she saw the cold light in his eyes, the careful
avoidance of any allusion to his own actions, and the studied
concealment of his future intent. But even then she was not prepared
when, after supper, her father came into the ranch house and told her
that Mr. Hardy had just resigned.
"I can't imagine why he should leave me at this time," exclaimed the
judge, mopping the sweat from his brow, and groaning with vexation,
"but a man who will desert his own father in the way he has done is
capable of anything, I suppose. Just because he doesn't approve of my
policies in regard to these sheep he coolly says he won't embarrass
me further by staying in my employ! I declare, Lucy, I'm afraid I'm
going to lose everything I have down here if both he and Creede desert
me. Don't you think you could persuade Rufus to stay? Go out and see
him and tell him I will consent to anything--except this _unlawful
harrying_ of the sheep."
The old judge, still perspiring with excitement, sank wearily down
into a chair and Lucy came over and sat upon his knee.
"Father," she said, "do you remember that you once told me you would
give me this ranch if I wanted it? Well, I want it now, and perhaps if
you give it to me Rufus will consent to stay."
"But, daughter--" protested the judge, and then he sat quiet,
pondering upon the matter.
"Perhaps you are right," he said at last. "But tell me one thing--there
is nothing between you and Rufus, is there?"
He turned her face so that he could look into her honest eyes, but
Lucy twisted her head away, blushing.
"No," she said faintly. "He--he is in love with Kitty."
"With Kitty!" cried Judge Ware, outraged at the idea. "Why, he--but
never mind, never mind, darling. I am glad at least that it is not
with you. We must be going home soon now, anyway, and that will break
off this--er--But I don't remember having seen them together much!"
"No," said Lucy demurely, "he has been very discreet. But you haven't
answered my question, father. Will you give me the ranch if I get
Rufus to stay? Oh, you're a dear! Now you just leave everything in my
hands and see what a good business woman I am!"
She skipped lightly out the door and hurried over to where Hardy and
Jefferson Creede were sitting under a tree, talking gravely together.
They stopped as she approached and Hardy looked up a little sullenly
from where he sat. Then he rose, and took off his hat.
"May I have a few words with you on a matter of business, Rufus?" she
asked, with her friendliest smile. "No, don't go, Mr. Creede; you are
interested in this, too. In fact," she added mysteriously, "I need
your assistance."
A slow smile crept into the rough cowboy's eyes as he sat watching
her.
"What can I do for you?" he inquired guardedly.
"Well," answered Lucy, "the situation is like this--and I'm not trying
to rope you in on anything, as you say, so you needn't look
suspicious. My father has become so discouraged with the way things
are going that he has given the entire Dos S Ranch to me--if I can
manage it. Now I know that you both have quit because you don't
approve of my father's orders about the sheep. I don't know what your
plans are but I want to get a new superintendent, and that's where I
need your assistance, Mr. Creede."
She paused long enough to bestow a confiding smile upon the _rodeo_
boss, and then hurried on to explain her position.
"Of course you understand how it is with father. He has been a judge,
and it wouldn't do for a man in his position to break the laws. But I
want you two men to tell me before you go just what you think I ought
to do to save my cattle, and you can say whatever you please. Mr.
Creede, if you were a woman and owned the Dos S outfit, what would you
do about the sheep?"
For a minute Creede sat silent, surveying the little lady from beneath
his shaggy hair.
"Well," he said judicially, "I think I'd do one of two things: I'd
either marry some nice kind man whose judgment I could trust, and turn
the job over to him,"--he glanced sideways at Hardy as he spoke,--"or
I'd hire some real mean, plug-ugly feller to wade in and clean 'em
out. Failin' in that, I think I'd turn the whole outfit over to Rufe
here and go away and fergit about it."
He added these last words with a frank directness which left no doubt
as to his own convictions in the matter, and Lucy turned an inquiring
eye upon Hardy. He was busily engaged in pounding a hole in the ground
with a rock, and Lucy noted for the first time a trace of silver in
his hair. The setting sun cast deep shadows in the set lines of his
face and when he finally looked up his eyes were bloodshot and
haggard.
"There's no use in talking to me about that job," he said morosely.
"I've got tired of taking orders from a man that doesn't know what
he's talking about, and I want to use my own judgment for a while. We
won't let anything happen to your cattle, Miss Lucy, and I thank you
very much, but I'm afraid I can't do it."
He stopped, and bowed his head, hammering moodily away at his hole in
the rocky ground.
"Excuse me a minute, Miss Ware," said Creede, rising to his feet as
the silence became oppressive. "Come over here, Rufe, I want to talk
with you."
They stood with their heads together, Jeff tapping the little man on
the chest with every word, and still there was the same dogged
resistance. "Well, come on and let's find out," protested Creede at
last, impatiently dragging him back.
"Miss Ware," he said politely, "what do you expect of this here supe?
I might want that job myself, later on," he observed importantly.
Lucy smiled at the bare-faced fraud and hastened to abet it.
"I expect him to look after my cattle," she responded promptly, "and
to protect my best interests according to his own judgment. The only
thing I insist upon is that he leave his gun at home."
"I'm sorry," said Creede briefly. "And I needed the job, too," he
added lugubriously. "How about your foreman?" he inquired, as if
snatching at a straw. "Same thing, eh? Well, I'll go you--next
month."
He laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and crowded his big black sombrero
down over his eyes until it gave him a comical air of despair.
"Luck's gone," he remarked, reaching parenthetically for a cigarette
paper. "See you later." And, with a last roguish twinkle at Miss Lucy,
he slouched off toward the fire.
His luck indeed had gone, but somewhere in that giant carcass which
harbored the vindictive hate of an Apache, and the restless energy of
a Texano, there still lingered the exuberant joyousness of a boy, the
indomitable spirit of the pioneer, resigned to any fate so long as
there is a laugh in it. As he drifted into the crowd Lucy's heart went
out to him; he was so big and strong and manly in this, the final
eclipse of his waning fortunes.
"Mr. Creede is a noble kind of a man, isn't he?" she said, turning to
where Hardy was still standing. "Won't you sit down, Rufus, and let's
talk this over for a minute. But before you decide anything, I want
you to get a good night's sleep. You are a free man now, you know, and
if there's any worrying to be done it's my funeral--isn't it?"
If he heard her at all Hardy made no response to the jest. He stood
before her, swaying dizzily as he groped about for his hat, which had
fallen from his hand. Then at last a faint smile broke through the
drawn lines in his face.
"That's right," he said, sinking down at her side, and as he settled
back against the tree his eyes closed instantly, like a child whose
bedtime has come. "I'm--I'm so dead tired I can't talk straight,
Lucy--to say nothing of think. But--I'll take care of you. We aren't
sheeped out yet. Only--only I can't--I forget what I'm going to say."
His head fell forward as he spoke, his hands hung heavy, and he
slipped slowly to the ground, fast asleep.
After two days and nights of turmoil and passion his troubles were
ended, suddenly; and as she raised him up Lucy Ware bent down quickly
under cover of the dusk and kissed his rumpled hair.