PORTENTS OF WAR
There were signs of impending war on Bronco Mesa. As God sent the rain
and the flowers and grass sprang up they grappled with each other like
murderers, twining root about root for the water, fighting upward for
the light--and when it was over the strongest had won. Every tree and
plant on that broad range was barbed and fanged against assault; every
creature that could not flee was armed for its own defence; it was a
land of war, where the strongest always won. What need was there for
words? Juan Alvarez was dead, shot from some distant peak while
rounding up his sheep--and his sheep, too, were dead.
They buried the boss herder under a pile of rocks on Lookout Point and
planted a cross above him, not for its Christian significance, nor yet
because Juan was a good Catholic, but for the Mexicans to look at in
the Spring, when the sheep should come to cross. Jim Swope attended to
this himself, after the coroner had given over the body, and for a
parting word he cursed Jeff Creede.
Then for a day the world took notice of their struggle--the great
outside world that had left them to fight it out. Three thousand head
of sheep had been killed; mutton enough to feed a great city for a day
had been destroyed--and all in a quarrel over public land. The word
crept back to Washington, stripped to the bare facts--three thousand
sheep and their herder killed by cattlemen on the proposed Salagua
Reserve--and once more the question rose, Why was not that Salagua
Reserve proclaimed? No one answered. There was another sheep and
cattle war going on up in Wyoming, and the same question was being
asked about other proposed reserves. But when Congress convened in
December the facts began to sift out: there was a combination of
railroad and lumber interests, big cattlemen, sheepmen, and
"land-grabbers" that was "against any interference on the part of the
Federal Government," and "opposed to any change of existing laws and
customs as to the grazing of live stock upon the public domain." This
anomalous organization was fighting, and for years had been fighting,
the policy of the administration to create forest reserves and protect
the public land; and, by alliances with other anti-administration
forces in the East, had the President and his forester at their mercy.
There would be no forestry legislation that Winter--so the newspapers
said. But that made no difference to the Four Peaks country.
Only faint echoes of the battle at Washington reached the cowmen's
ears, and they no longer gave them any heed. For years they had been
tolled along by false hopes; they had talked eagerly of Forest Rangers
to draw two-mile circles around their poor ranches and protect them
from the sheep; they had longed to lease the range, to pay grazing
fees, anything for protection. But now they had struck the first blow
for themselves, and behold, on the instant the sheep went round, the
grass crept back onto the scarred mesa, the cattle grew fat on the
range! Juan Alvarez, to be sure, was dead; but their hands were clean,
let the sheepmen say what they would. What were a few sheep carcasses
up on the high mesa? They only matched the cattle that had died off
during the drought. When they met a sheep-herder now he gave them the
trail.
Tucked away in a far corner of the Territory, without money, friends,
or influence, there was nothing for it but to fight. All nature seemed
conspiring to encourage them in their adventure--the Winter came on
early, with heavy rains; the grass took root again among the barren
rocks and when, in a belated _rodeo_, they gathered their beef steers,
they received the highest selling price in years. All over Arizona,
and in California, New Mexico, and Texas, the great drought had
depleted the ranges; the world's supply of beef had been cut down;
feeders were scarce in the alfalfa fields of Moroni; fat cattle were
called for from Kansas City to Los Angeles; and suddenly the despised
cowmen of the Four Peaks saw before them the great vision which always
hangs at the end of the rainbow in Arizona--a pot of gold, _if the
sheep went around_. And what would make the sheep go around? Nothing
but a thirty-thirty.
The price of mutton had gone up too, adding a third to the fortune of
every sheepman; the ewes were lambing on the desert, bringing forth a
hundred per cent or better, with twins--and every lamb must eat! To
the hundred thousand sheep that had invaded Bronco Mesa there was
added fifty thousand more, and they must all eat. It was this that the
sheepmen had foreseen when they sent Juan Alvarez around to raid the
upper range--not that they needed the feed then, but they would need
it in the Spring, and need it bad. So they had tried to break the way
and, failing, had sworn to come in arms. It was a fight for the grass,
nothing less, and there was no law to stop it.
As the news of the trouble filtered out and crept into obscure corners
of the daily press, Hardy received a long hortatory letter from Judge
Ware; and, before he could answer it, another. To these he answered
briefly that the situation could only be relieved by some form of
Federal control; that, personally, his sympathies were with the
cattlemen, but, in case the judge was dissatisfied with his
services--But Judge Ware had learned wisdom from a past experience and
at this point he turned the correspondence over to Lucy. Then in a
sudden fit of exasperation he packed his grip and hastened across the
continent to Washington, to ascertain for himself why the Salagua
Forest Reserve was not proclaimed. As for Lucy, her letters were as
carefully considered as ever--she wrote of everything except the sheep
and Kitty Bonnair. Not since she went away had she mentioned Kitty,
nor had Hardy ever inquired about her. In idle moments he sometimes
wondered what had been in that unread letter which he had burned with
Creede's, but he never wrote in answer, and his heart seemed still and
dead. For years the thought of Kitty Bonnair had haunted him, rising
up in the long silence of the desert; in the rush and hurry of the
round-up the vision of her supple form, the laughter of her eyes, the
succession of her moods, had danced before his eyes in changing
pictures, summoned up from the cherished past; but now his mind was
filled with other things. Somewhere in the struggle against sheep and
the drought he had lost her, as a man loses a keep-sake which he has
carried so long against his heart that its absence is as unnoticed as
its presence, and he never knows himself the poorer. After the drought
had come the sheep, the stampede, fierce quarrels with the Swopes,
threats and counter-threats--and then the preparations for war. The
memory of the past faded away and another thought now haunted his
mind, though he never spoke it--when the time came, would he fight, or
would he stay with Lucy and let Jeff go out alone? It was a question
never answered, but every day he rode out without his gun, and Creede
took that for a sign.
As the Rio Salagua, swollen with winter rains, rose up like a writhing
yellow serpent and cast itself athwart the land, it drew a line from
east to west which neither sheep nor cattle could cross, and the
cowmen who had lingered about Hidden Water rode gayly back to their
distant ranches, leaving the peaceful Dos S where Sallie Winship had
hung her cherished lace curtains and Kitty Bonnair and Lucy Ware had
made a home, almost a total wreck. Sheep, drought, and flood had
passed over it in six months' time; the pasture fence was down, the
corrals were half dismantled, and the bunk-room looked like a deserted
grading camp. For a week Creede and Hardy cleaned up and rebuilt, but
every day, in spite of his partner's efforts to divert his mind, Jeff
grew more restless and uneasy. Then one lonely evening he went over
to the corner where his money was buried and began to dig.
"What--the--hell--is the matter with this place?" he exclaimed,
looking up from his work as if he expected the roof to drop. "Ever
since Tommy died it gits on my nerves, bad." He rooted out his tomato
can and stuffed a roll of bills carelessly into his overalls pocket.
"Got any mail to go out?" he inquired, coming back to the fire, and
Hardy understood without more words that Jeff was going on another
drunk.
"Why, yes," he said, "I might write a letter to the boss. But how're
you going to get across the river--she's running high now."
"Oh, I'll git across the river, all right," grumbled Creede. "Born to
be hung and ye can't git drowned, as they say. Well, give the boss my
best." He paused, frowning gloomily into the fire. "Say," he said, his
voice breaking a little, "d'ye ever hear anything from Miss Bonnair?"
For a moment Hardy was silent. Then, reading what was in his partner's
heart, he answered gently:
"Not a word, Jeff."
The big cowboy sighed and grinned cynically.
"That was a mighty bad case I had," he observed philosophically. "But
d'ye know what was the matter with me? Well, I never tumbled to it
till afterward, but it was jest because she was like Sallie--talked
like her and rode like her, straddle, that way. But I wanter tell you,
boy," he added mournfully, "_Sal_ had a heart."
He sank once more into sombre contemplation, grumbling as he nursed
his wounds, and at last Hardy asked him a leading question about
Sallie Winship.
"Did I ever hear from 'er?" repeated Creede, rousing up from his
reverie. "No, and it ain't no use to try. I wrote to her three times,
but I never got no answer--I reckon the old lady held 'em out on her.
She wouldn't stand for no bow-legged cowpuncher--and ye can't blame
her none, the way old man Winship used to make her cook for them
_rodeo_ hands--but Sallie would've answered them letters if she'd got
'em."
"But where were they living in St. Louis?" persisted Hardy. "Maybe you
got the wrong address."
"Nope, I got it straight--Saint Louie, Mo., jest the way you see it in
these money-order catalogues."
"But didn't you give any street and number?" cried Hardy, aghast.
"Why, for Heaven's sake, Jeff, there are half a million people in St.
Louis--she'd never get it in the world."
"No?" inquired Creede apathetically. "Well, it don't make no
difference, then. I don't amount to a dam', anyhow--and this is no
place for a woman--but, by God, Rufe, I do git awful lonely when I
see you writin' them letters to the boss. If I only had somebody that
cared for me I'd prize up hell to make good. I'd do anything in God's
world--turn back them sheep or give up my six-shooter, jest as she
said; but, nope, they's no such luck for Jeff Creede--he couldn't make
a-winnin' with a squaw."
"Jeff," said Hardy quietly, "how much would you give to get a letter
from Sallie?"
"What d'ye mean?" demanded Creede, looking up quickly. Then, seeing
the twinkle in his partner's eye, he made a grab for his money. "My
whole wad," he cried, throwing down the roll. "What's the deal?"
"All right," answered Hardy, deliberately counting out the bills,
"there's the ante--a hundred dollars. The rest I hold back for that
trip to St. Louis. This hundred goes to the Rinkerton Detective
Agency, St. Louis, Missouri, along with a real nice letter that I'll
help you write; and the minute they deliver that letter into the hands
of Miss Sallie Winship, formerly of Hidden Water, Arizona, and return
an answer, there's another hundred coming to 'em. Is it a go?"
"Pardner," said Creede, rising up solemnly from his place, "I want to
shake with you on that."
The next morning, with a package of letters in the crown of his black
hat, Jefferson Creede swam Bat Wings across the swift current of the
Salagua, hanging onto his tail from behind, and without even stopping
to pour the water out of his boots struck into the long trail for
Bender.
One week passed, and then another, and at last he came back, wet and
dripping from his tussle with the river, and cursing the very name of
detectives.
"W'y, shucks!" he grumbled. "I bummed around in town there for two
weeks, hatin' myself and makin' faces at a passel of ornery sheepmen,
and what do I git for my trouble? 'Dear Mister Creede, your letter of
umpty-ump received. We have detailed Detective Moriarty on this case
and will report later. Yours truly!' That's all--keep the change--we
make a livin' off of suckers--and they's one born every minute. To
hell with these detectives! Well, I never received nothin' more and
finally I jumped at a poor little bandy-legged sheep-herder, a cross
between a gorilla and a Digger Injun--scared him to death. But I
pulled my freight quick before we had any international complications.
Don't mention Mr. Allan Q. Rinkerton to me, boy, or I'll throw a fit.
Say," he said, changing the subject abruptly, "how many hundred
thousand sheep d'ye think I saw, comin' up from Bender? Well, sir,
they was sheep as far as the eye could see--millions of 'em--and
they've got that plain et down to the original sand and cactus,
already. W'y, boy, if we let them sheepmen in on us this Spring we'll
look like a watermelon patch after a nigger picnic; we'll be cleaned
like Pablo Moreno; they won't be pickin's for a billy goat! And Jim
'n' Jasp have been ribbin' their herders on scandalous. This little
bandy-legged son-of-a-goat that I jumped at down in Bender actually
had the nerve to say that I killed Juan Alvarez myself. Think of that,
will ye, and me twenty miles away at the time! But I reckon if you
took Jasp to pieces you'd find out he was mad over them three thousand
wethers--value six dollars per--that I stompeded. The dastard! D'ye
see how he keeps away from me? Well, I'm goin' to call the _rodeo_
right away and work that whole upper range, and when the river goes
down you'll find Jeff Creede right there with the goods if Jasp is
lookin' for trouble. Read them letters, boy, and tell me if I'm goin'
to have the old judge on my hands, too."
According to the letters, he was; and the boss was also looking
forward with pleasure to her visit in the Spring.
"Well, wouldn't that jar you," commented Creede, and then he laughed
slyly. "Cheer up," he said, "it might be worse--they's nothin' said
about Kitty Bonnair."
Sure enough--not a word about Kitty, and the year before Lucy had
spoken about her in every letter! There was something mysterious about
it, and sinister; they both felt it.
And when at last the wagon came in, bearing only Judge Ware and Lucy,
somehow even Jeff's sore heart was touched by a sense of loss. But
while others might dissemble, Bill Lightfoot's impulsive nature made
no concealment of its chiefest thought.
"Where's Miss Bunnair?" he demanded, as soon as Lucy Ware was free,
and there was a sudden lull in the conversation roundabout as the
cowboys listened for the answer.
"I'm sorry," said Miss Ware, politely evasive, "but she wasn't able to
come with me."
"She'll be down bimeby, though, won't she?" persisted Lightfoot; and
when Lucy finally answered with a vague "Perhaps" he turned to the
assembled cowboys with a triumphant grin. "Um, now, what'd I tell
you!" he said; and one and all they scowled and stabbed him with their
eyes.
The _rodeo_ camp was already established beneath the big mesquite, and
while three or four careless cowmen held the day herd over against the
mesa the rest of the outfit was busy raking The Rolls. It was all very
different from what Judge Ware and Lucy had anticipated. There was no
sign of excitement in their midst, no ostentatious display of arms or
posting of patrols, and what surprised the judge most of all was that
in their friendly gatherings around the fire there was no one, save
Hardy, who would argue against the sheep.
The judge had been on to Washington and was possessed of all the
material facts, but nobody was interested any more in the Salagua
Forest Reserve; he had consulted with the Chief Forester and even with
the President himself, laying before them the imminence of the danger,
and they had assured him that everything possible would be done to
relieve the situation. Did it not, then, he demanded, behoove the
law-abiding residents of prospective forest reserves to cooperate with
such an enlightened administration, even at the risk of some temporary
personal loss? And with one voice the Four Peaks cowmen agreed that it
did. There was something eerie about it--the old judge was dazed by
their acquiescence.
Of all the cowmen at Hidden Water, Rufus Hardy was the only man who
would discuss the matter at length. A change had come over him now; he
was very thin and quiet, with set lines along his jaw, but instead of
riding nervously up and down the river as he had the year before he
lingered idly about the ranch, keeping tally at the branding and
entertaining his guests. No matter how pedantic or polemical the old
judge became, Hardy was willing to listen to him; and Lucy, hovering
in the background, would often smile to hear them argue, the judge
laying down the law and equity of the matter and Rufus meeting him
like an expert swordsman with parry and thrust. Day by day, his
prejudice wearing away from lack of any real opposition, Judge Ware
became more and more pleased with his daughter's superintendent; but
Lucy herself was troubled. There was a look in his eyes that she had
never seen before, a set and haggard stare that came when he sat
alone, and his head was always turned aside, as if he were listening.
The sheep came trooping in from the south, marching in long lines to
the river's edge, and still he sat quiet, just inside the door,
listening.
"Tell me, Rufus," she said, one day when her father was inspecting the
upper range with Creede, "what is it that made you so sad? Is
it--Kitty?"
For a minute he gazed at her, a faint smile on his lips.
"No," he said, at last, "it is not Kitty." And then he lapsed back
into silence, his head turned as before.
The wind breathed through the _corredor_, bringing with it a distant,
plaintive bleating--the sheep, waiting beyond the turbid river to
cross.
"I have forgotten about Kitty," he said absently. "For me there is
nothing in the world but sheep. Can't you hear them bleating down
there?" he cried, throwing out his hands. "Can't you smell them? Ah,
Lucy, if you knew sheep as I do! I never hear a sheep now that I don't
think of that day last year when they came pouring out of Hell's Hip
Pocket with a noise like the end of the world. If I had been there to
stop them they might never have taken the range--but after that, all
through the hot summer when the cattle were dying for feed, every time
the wind came up and roared in my ears I would hear sheep--_baaa_,
_baaa_--and now I hear them again."
He paused and looked up at her intently.
"Do you know what that noise means to me?" he demanded, almost
roughly. "It means little calves dying around the water hole; mothers
lowing for their little ones that they have left to starve; it means
long lines of cows following me out over the mesa for brush, and all
the trees cut down. Ah, Lucy, how can your father talk of waiting when
it means as much as that?"
"But last year was a drought," protested Lucy pitifully. "Will it be
as bad this year?"
"Every bit! Did you notice that plain between Bender and the river? It
will be like that in a week if we let them cross the river."
"Oh," cried Lucy, "then you--do you mean to turn them back?"
"The river is very high," answered Hardy sombrely. "They cannot
cross." And then as a quail strikes up leaves and dust to hide her
nest, he launched forth quickly upon a story of the flood.
The Salagua was long in flood that Spring. Day after day, while the
sheep wandered uneasily along its banks rearing up to strip the last
remnants of browse from the tips of willows and burro bushes, it
rolled ponderously forth from its black-walled gorge and flowed past
the crossing, deep and strong, sucking evenly into the turbid
whirlpool that waited for its prey. At the first approach of the
invaders the unconsidered zeal of Judge Ware overcame him; he was for
peace, reason, the saner judgment that comes from wider views and a
riper mind, and, fired by the hope of peaceful truce, he rode
furtively along the river waving a white handkerchief whenever he saw
a sheep-herder, and motioning him to cross. But however anxious he was
for an interview the desires of the sheepmen did not lean in that
direction, and they only stared at him stolidly or pretended not to
see.
Thwarted in his efforts for peace the judge returned to camp deep in
thought. The sheep were at his very door and nothing had been done to
stay them; a deadly apathy seemed to have settled down upon the
cowmen; after all their threats there were no preparations for
defence; the river was not even patrolled; and yet if quick action was
not taken the upper range might be irreparably ruined before the
reserve was proclaimed. Not that he would countenance violence, but a
judicious show of resistance, for instance, might easily delay the
crossing until the President could act, or even so daunt the invaders
that they would go around. It was not strictly legal, of course, but
the judge could see no harm in suggesting it, and as soon as the
cowmen were gathered about their fire that evening he went out and sat
down by Creede, who lay sprawled on his back, his head pillowed on his
hands, smoking.
"Well, Jefferson," he began, feeling his way cautiously, "I see that
the sheep have come down to the river--they will be making a crossing
soon, I suppose?"
Creede sucked studiously upon his cigarette, and shifted it to a
corner of his mouth.
"W'y yes, Judge," he said, "I reckon they will."
"Well--er--do you think they intend to invade our upper range this
year?"
"Sure thing," responded Creede, resuming his smoke, "that's what they
come up here for. You want to take a last long look at this grass."
"Yes, but, Jefferson," protested the judge, opening up his eyes, "what
will our cattle feed upon then?"
"Same old thing," answered Creede, "_palo verde_ and giant cactus.
I've got most of mine in the town herd."
"What!" exclaimed Judge Ware, astounded at the suggestion, "you don't
mean to say that you are preparing to go out of business? Why, my dear
Jefferson, this country may be set aside as a forest reserve at any
minute--and think of the privileges you will be giving up! As an owner
of cattle already grazing upon the range you will be entitled to the
first consideration of the Government; you will be granted the first
grazing permit; there will be forest rangers to protect you; the
sheep, being transient stock and known to be very destructive to
forest growth, will undoubtedly be confined to a narrow trail far
below us; by the payment of a nominal grazing fee you will be
absolutely guaranteed in all your rights and watched over by the
Federal Government!"
"Oh, hell!" exclaimed the big cowboy, rising up suddenly from his
place, "don't talk Government to me, whatever you do! W'y, Judge," he
cried, throwing out his hands, "they ain't no Government here. They
ain't no law. I could go over and kill one of them sheep-herders and
you wouldn't see an officer in two days. I've lived here for nigh onto
twenty-six years and the nearest I ever come to seein' the Government
was a mule branded 'U. S.'"
He stopped abruptly and, striding out into the darkness, picked up a
log of wood and laid it carefully upon the fire.
"Judge," he said, turning suddenly and wagging an accusing finger at
his former employer, "I've heard a lot from you about this reserve,
how the President was goin' to telegraph you the news the minute he
signed the proclamation, and send a ranger in to protect the range,
and all that, but I ain't seen you _do_ nothin'! Now if you're goin'
to make good you've got jest about three days to do it in--after that
the sheep will have us dished. Maybe you could use your pull to kinder
hurry things up a little--do a little telegraphin', or somethin' like
that."
"I'll do it!" cried the judge, taking the bait like a fish, "I'll do
it at once! I want your best horse, Jeff, and a guide. I'll wire the
chief forester from Bender!"
"Keno!" said Creede sententiously, "and give my regards to Teddy."
As the old judge disappeared over the western rim the next morning
the _rodeo_ boss smiled grimly behind his hand, and glanced
significantly at Hardy. Then, with the outfit behind him, he rode
slowly up the canyon, leaving his partner to his steady job as
"family man"--entertaining the boss.
For two days the sheepmen watched the river eagerly, waiting for a
drop; then suddenly, as the snow water ran by and a cool day checked
the distant streams, it fell, and the swift pageant of the crossing
began. At sun-up a boss herder rode boldly out into the current and
swam it with his horse; brawny Mexicans leapt into the thicket of
_palo verdes_ that grew against the cliff and cut branches to build a
chute; Jasper Swope in his high sombrero and mounted on his black mule
galloped down from the hidden camp and urged his men along. Still the
same ominous silence hung about the shore where Juan Alvarez lay
buried beneath the cross. There was no watcher on Lookout Point, no
horsemen lurking in the distance; only the lowing of the day herd, far
up the canyon, and the lapping of muddy waters. Across the river the
low _malpai_ cliffs rose up like ramparts against them and Black Butte
frowned down upon them like a watch tower, but of the men who might be
there watching there was no sign.
The sheepman studied upon the situation for a while; then he sent a
messenger flying back to camp and soon a hardy band of wethers came
down, led by an advance guard of goats, and their plaintive bleating
echoed in a confused chorus from the high cliffs as they entered the
wings of the chute. Already the camp rustlers had driven them out
on the slanting rock and encircled the first cut with their canvas
wagon cover, when Jasper Swope held up his hand for them to stop. At
the last moment and for no cause he hesitated, touched by some
premonition, or suspicious of the silent shore. One after another
the herders clambered back and squatted idly against the cool
cliff, smoking and dangling their polished carbines; the sheep, left
standing upon the rock, huddled together and stood motionless; the
goats leapt nimbly up on adjacent bowlders and gazed across the
river intently; then, throwing up his hand again, the sheepman
spurred his black mule recklessly into the water, waving his big hat
as he motioned for the sheep to cross.
As the long hours of that portentous morning wore on, palpitating to
the clamor of the sheep, a great quiet settled upon Hidden Water.
Sitting just within the door Hardy watched Lucy as she went about her
work, but his eyes were wandering and haggard and he glanced from time
to time at the Black Butte that stood like a sentinel against the
crossing. In the intervals of conversation the bleating of the sheep
rose suddenly from down by the river, and ceased; he talked on,
feverishly, never stopping for an answer, and Lucy looked at him
strangely, as if wondering at his preoccupation. Again the deep
tremolo rose up, echoing from the cliffs, and Hardy paused in the
midst of a story to listen. He was still staring out the doorway when
Lucy Ware came over and laid her hand on his shoulder.
"Rufus," she said, "what is it you are always listening for? Day after
day I see you watching here by the door, and when I talk you listen
for something else. Tell me--is it--are you watching for Kitty?"
"Kitty?" repeated Hardy, his eyes still intent. "Why no; why should I
be watching for her?"
At his answer, spoken so impassively, she drew away quickly, but he
caught her hand and stopped her.
"Ah no," he said, "if I could only listen for something else it would
be better--but all I hear is sheep. I'm like old Bill Johnson; I can
still shoot straight and find my way in the mountains, but every time
I hear a sheep blat I change. Poor old Bill, he's over across the
river there now; the boys have heard his hounds baying up in the high
cliffs for a week. I've seen him a time or two since he took to the
hills and he's just as quiet and gentle with me as if he were my
father, but if anybody mentions sheep he goes raving crazy in a
minute. Jeff says he's been that way himself for years, and now it's
got me, too. If I get much worse," he ended, suddenly glancing up at
her with a wistful smile, "you'll have to take me away."
"Away!" cried Lucy eagerly, "would you go? You know father and I have
talked of it time and again, but you just stick and stick, and nothing
will make you leave. But listen--what was that?"
A succession of rifle shots, like the popping of wet logs over a fire,
came dully to their ears, muffled by the bleating of sheep and the
echoing of the cliffs. Hardy leapt to his feet and listened intently,
his eyes burning with suppressed excitement; then he stepped
reluctantly back into the house and resumed his seat.
"I guess it's only those Mexican herders," he said. "They shoot that
way to drive their sheep."
"But look!" cried Lucy, pointing out the door, "the Black Butte is
afire! Just see that great smoke!"
Hardy sprang up again and dashed out into the open. The popping of
thirty-thirtys had ceased, but from the summit of the square-topped
butte a signal fire rose up to heaven, tall and straight and black.
"Aha!" he muttered, and without looking at her he ran out to the
corral to saddle Chapuli. But when he came back he rode slowly,
checking the impatience of his horse, until at last he dismounted
beside her. For days his eyes had been furtive and evasive, but now at
last they were steady.
"Lucy," he said, "I haven't been very honest with you, but I guess you
know what this means--the boys are turning back the sheep." His voice
was low and gentle, and he stood very straight before her, like a
soldier. Yet, even though she sensed what was in his mind, Lucy
smiled. For a month he had been to her like another man, a man without
emotion or human thought, and now in a moment he had come back, the
old Rufus that she had known in her heart so long.
"Yes," she said, holding out her hand to him, "I knew it. But you are
working for me, you know, and I cannot let you go. Listen, Rufus," she
pleaded, as he drew away, "have I ever refused you anything? Tell me
what you want to do."
"I want to go down there and help turn back those sheep," he said,
bluntly. "You know me, Lucy--my heart is in this fight--my friends are
in it--and I must go."
He waited for some answer, but Lucy only turned away. There were tears
in her eyes when she looked back at him and her lips trembled, but she
passed into the house without a word. Hardy gazed wonderingly after
her and his heart smote him; she was like some sensitive little child
to whom every rough word was a blow, and he had hurt her. He glanced
at the signal fire that rolled up black and sombre as the watcher
piled green brush upon it, then he dropped his bridle rein and stepped
quickly into the house.
"You must forgive me, Lucy," he said, standing humbly at the door.
"I--I am changed. But do not think that I will come to any harm--this
is not a battle against men, but sheep. No one will be killed. And now
may I go?" Once more his voice became low and gentle and he stood
before her like some questing knight before his queen, but she only
sat gazing at him with eyes that he could not understand.
"Listen, Lucy," he cried, "I will not go unless you tell me--and now
may I go?"
A smile came over Lucy's face but she did not speak her thoughts.
"If you will stay for my sake," she said, "I shall be very happy, but
I will not hold you against your will. Oh, Rufus, Rufus!" she cried,
suddenly holding out her hands, "can't you understand? I can't set
myself against you, and yet--think what it is to be a woman!" She rose
up and stood before him, the soft light glowing in her eyes, and Hardy
stepped forward to meet her; but in that moment a drumming of hoofs
echoed through the doorway, there was a rush of horsemen leaning
forward as they rode, and then Jefferson Creede thundered by, glancing
back as he spurred down the canyon to meet the sheep.
"My God!" whispered Hardy, following his flight with startled eyes,
and as the rout of cowboys flashed up over the top of Lookout Point
and were gone he bowed his head in silence.
"Lucy," he said, at last, "my mind has been far away. I--I have not
seen what was before me, and I shall always be the loser. But look--I
have two friends in all the world, you and Jeff, and you are the
dearer by far. But you could see as Jeff went by that he was mad. What
he will do at the river I can only guess; he is crazy, and a crazy man
will do anything. But if I am with him I can hold him back--will you
let me go?" He held out his hands and as Lucy took them she saw for
the first time in his shy eyes--love. For a moment she gazed at him
wistfully, but her heart never faltered. Whatever his will might be
she would never oppose it, now that she had his love.
"Yes, Rufus," she said, "you may go, but remember--me."