THE END OF IT ALL
There is a mocking-bird at Hidden Water that sings the songs of all
the birds and whistles for the dog. His nest is in a great cluster of
mistletoe in the mesquite tree behind the house and every morning he
polishes his long curved bill against the _ramada_ roof, preens out
his glossy feathers, and does honor to the sun. For two years, off and
on, Hardy had heard him, mimicking orioles and larks and sparrows and
whistling shrilly for the dog, but now for the first time his heart
answered to the wild joy of the bird lover. The world had taken on
light and color over night, and the breeze, sifting in through the
barred window, was sweet with the fragrance of untrampled flowers.
April had come, and the grass; the air was untainted; there was no
braying by the river--the sheep had gone. It had been bought at the
price of blood, but at last there was peace. The dreamy _quah_, _quah_
of the quail was no longer a mockery of love; their eggs would not be
broken in the nest but the mothers would lead forth their little ones;
even the ground-doves and the poor-wills, nesting in last year's
sheep tracks, would escape the myriad feet--and all because a crazy
man, hiding among the cliffs, had shot down Jasper Swope. Without hate
or pity Hardy thought of that great hairy fighting-man; the God that
let him live would judge him dead--and Bill Johnson too, when he
should die. The sheep were gone and Lucy had kissed him--these were
the great facts in the world.
They were sitting close together beneath the _ramada_, looking out
upon the sunlit valley and talking dreamily of the old days, when
suddenly Hardy edged away and pointed apologetically to the western
trail. There in single file came Judge Ware in his linen duster, a
stranger in khaki, and a woman, riding astride.
"There comes father!" cried Lucy, springing up eagerly and waving her
hand.
"And Kitty," added Hardy, in a hushed voice. Not since they had come
had he spoken of her, and Lucy had respected his silence. Except for
the vague "Perhaps" with which she had answered Bill Lightfoot's
persistent inquiries he had had no hint that Kitty might come, and yet
a vague uneasiness had held his eyes to the trail.
"Tell me, Lucy," he said, drawing her back to his side as the party
dipped out of sight in the interminable thicket of mesquites, "why
have you never spoken of Kitty? Has anything dreadful happened? Please
tell me quick, before she comes. I--I won't know what to say." He
twisted about and fixed an eye on the doorway, but Lucy held out a
restraining hand.
"It has been a great secret," she said, "and you must promise not to
tell, but Kitty has been writing a play."
"A play!" exclaimed Hardy, astounded, "why--what in the world is it
about?"
"About Arizona, of course," cried Lucy. "Don't you remember how eager
she was to hear you men talk? And she collected all those spurs and
quirts for stage properties! Why, she wrote books and books full of
notes and cowboy words while she was down here and she's been buried
in manuscript for months. When she heard that you were having the
round-up early this year she was perfectly frantic to come, but they
were right in the midst of writing it and she just couldn't get
away."
"They?" repeated Hardy, mystified. "Why who--"
"Oh, I forgot," said Lucy, biting her lip. Then in a lower voice she
added: "She has been collaborating with Tupper Browne."
"Tupper Browne! Why, what does he know about Arizona?" cried Hardy
indignantly, and then, as Lucy looked away, he stopped short.
"Oh!" he said, and then there was a long silence. "Well, Tupper's a
good fellow," he remarked philosophically. "But Lucy," he said,
starting up nervously as the sound of horses' feet came up from the
creek bed, "you'll--you'll do all the talking, won't you?"
"Talking!" repeated Lucy, pausing in her flight. "Why, yes," she
called back, laughing. "Isn't that always the woman's part?" And then
she fell upon Kitty's neck and kissed her. Hardy came forward with
less assurance, but his embarrassment was reduced to a minimum by
Judge Ware who, as soon as the first greetings were over, brought
forward the mild-mannered gentleman in khaki and introduced him.
"Mr. Shafer," he said, "this is my superintendent, Mr. Hardy. Mr.
Shafer represents the United States Forestry Service," he added
significantly.
"Ah, then you must bring us good news!" cried Hardy, holding out his
hand eagerly.
"Yes," answered the official modestly, but his speech ended with that
word.
"I am convinced," began Judge Ware, suddenly quelling all conversation
by the earnestness of his demeanor. "I am convinced that in setting
aside the Salagua watershed as a National Forest Reserve, our
President has added to the record of his good deeds an act of such
consummate statesmanship that it will be remembered long after his
detractors are forgotten. But for him, millions of acres of public
land now set aside as reserves would still be open to the devastation of
unrestricted grazing, or have passed irrevocably into the power of this
infamous land ring which has been fighting on the floor of Congress to
deprive the American people of their rights. But after both houses had
passed a bill depriving the executive of his power to proclaim Forest
Reserves--holding back the appropriations for the Forestry Service as a
threat--he baffled them by a feigned acquiescence. In exchange for
the appropriations, he agreed to sign the act--and then, after securing
the appropriations, he availed himself of the power still vested in
him to set aside this reserve and many other reserves for our children
and our children's children--and then, gentlemen, true to his word, he
signed the bill!"
Judge Ware shook hands warmly with Mr. Shafer at the end of this
speech and wished him all success in protecting the people's domain.
It was a great day for the judge, and as soon as Creede and the other
cowmen came in with the day's gather of cattle he hastened out to tell
them the news.
"And now, gentlemen," he said, holding up his hand to stop the joyous
yelling, "I wish to thank you one and all for your confidence in me
and in the good faith of our Government. It called for a high order of
manhood, I am sure; but in not offering any armed resistance to the
incoming of the sheep your loyalty has withstood its supreme test."
"How's that?" inquired Creede, scratching his head doubtfully. Then,
divining the abysmal ignorance from which the judge was speaking, he
answered, with an honest twinkle in his eye: "Oh, that's all right,
Judge. We always try to do what's right--and we're strong for the law,
when they is any."
"I'm afraid there hasn't been much law up here in the past, has
there?" inquired Mr. Shafer tactfully.
"Well, not so's you'd notice it," replied the big cowboy enigmatically.
"But say, Judge," he continued, making a point at the old gentleman's
linen duster, "excuse _me_, but that yaller letter stickin' out of your
pocket looks kinder familiar. It's for me, ain't it? Um, thanks; this
detective outfit back in St. Louie is tryin' to make me out a
millionaire, or somethin' like that, and I'm naturally interested." He
tore the letter open, extracted a second epistle from its depths and
read it over gravely. "Well, boys," he observed, grinning cheerfully
as he tucked it away in his shaps, "my luck always did run in
bunches--_I'm rich_!"
He strode briskly over to the corral, caught up a fresh horse and,
riding back to the camp, began to go through his war bag hurriedly. He
was in the midst of a feverish packing, throwing away socks and
grabbing up shirts, when a gay laugh from the house attracted his
attention. He listened for a moment abstractedly; then he flew at his
work once more, dumping everything he had out on his bed and stuffing
what he needed back into his war bag; but when there came a second
peal of laughter, he stopped and craned his neck.
"Well--I'll--be--dam'd!" he muttered, as he recognized the voice, and
then he flew at his work again, manhandling everything in sight. He
was just roping his enormous bed, preparatory to depositing it in the
bunk-house, when Kitty Bonnair stepped out of the house and came
toward him, walking like a boy in her dainty riding suit. There was a
great noise from the branding pen and as she approached he seemed very
intent upon his work, wrestling with his bundle as if he were
hog-tying a bull and using language none too choice the while, but
Kitty waited patiently until he looked up.
"Why, howdy do, Mr. Creede," she cried, smiling radiantly. "I got a
new idea for my play just from seeing you do that work."
The cowboy regarded her sombrely, took a nip or two with his rope's
end, jerked the cords tight, and sat down deliberately on the bundle.
"That's good," he said, wiping the sweat from his eyes. "How's
tricks?" There was a shadow of irony in his voice but Kitty passed it
by.
"Fine and dandy," she answered. "How are you coming?"
"Oh, pretty good," he conceded, rising up and surveying the
battlefield, "and I reckon I ain't forgot nothin'," he added
meaningly. He kicked his blanket roll, tied his war bag behind the
saddle, and hitched up his overalls regally. "Sorry I ain't goin' to
see more of you," he observed, slipping his six-shooter into his
shaps, "but--"
"What, you aren't _going_?" cried Kitty, aghast. "Why, I came all the
way down here to see you--I'm writing a play, and you're the hero!"
"Ye-es!" jeered Creede, laughing crudely. "I'm Mary's little lamb that
got snatched baldheaded to make the baby laugh."
"You're nothing of the kind," retorted Kitty stoutly. "You're the hero
in my play that's going to be _acted_ some day on the stage. You kill
a Mexican, and win a beautiful girl in the last act!"
"That's good," commented Creede, smiling grimly, "but say, that Mex.
will keep, won't he--because I'm due back in St. Louie."
"Oh!" cried Kitty, clasping her hands in despair. "St. Louis! And
won't I _ever_ see you any more?"
"Well, you might," conceded the cowboy magnanimously, "if you wait
around long enough."
"But I _can't_ wait! I've got to finish my last act, and I came clear
down here, just to hear you talk. You can't imagine how interesting
you are, after living up there in the city," she added naively.
"No," grumbled Creede, picking up his bridle lash, "but say, I've got
to be goin'!" He hooked a boot negligently into the stirrup and looked
back over his shoulder. "Anything else I can do for you?" he inquired
politely.
"Oh, you dear Jeff!" cried Kitty ecstatically, "yes! Do come back here
and let me tell you!" He kicked his foot reluctantly out of the
stirrup and stalked back, huge and commanding as ever, but with a
puzzled look in his eye.
"Bend your head down, so I can whisper it," she coaxed, and brute-like
he bowed at her bidding. She whispered a moment eagerly, added a word,
and pushed his head away. For a minute he stood there, thinking
ponderously; then very deliberately he pulled his six-shooter out of
his shaps and handed it over to her.
"All right," he said, "but say"--he beckoned her with an inexorable
jerk of the head--"what do _I_ git, now?" He looked down upon her as
he had on the morning they had parted, out behind the corral, and the
hot blood leaped into Kitty Bonnair's cheeks at the memory of that
kiss. For a moment she hesitated, twisting her trim boot into the
ground, then she drew the coveted pistol from her belt and handed it
back.
"Well, since you insist," he said, and very sternly he thrust the
redeemed weapon back into his shaps. A change came over him as he
regarded her; there was an austere tightening of his lips and his eyes
glowed with a light that Kitty had never seen before.
"That was a rough deal you gave me, girl," he said, his voice vibrant
with anger, "and I ain't forgotten it. You dropped your rope over my
horns and gave me a little run and then you took your turns and
_busted_ me like a wild steer! And then maybe you laughed a little,"
he suggested, with a searching glance. "No? Well, it's all right, as
far as I'm concerned--my hide's whole, and I'm rope-wise--but I'll
tell you, Miss Kitty, if you'd jest keep this gun of mine and shoot
some feller once in a while we'd all enjoy it more." He paused, and
as Kitty stood downcast before this sudden censure he smiled to
himself, and a twinkle of mischief crept into his masterful eyes.
"But don't mind a little thing like that, girl," he said, throwing out
his hands largely. "_You_ don't lose no friends by tryin' to educate
us a little--ump-umm! Of course I'm kinder sore over that letter, but
you look good to me yet, Kitty!"
"Why--Mr. Creede!" faltered Kitty, looking up.
"That's right," asserted Creede, lowering his voice confidentially,
"they was something about you that caught my eye the first time I saw
you." He laughed, showing all his white teeth, and at the same time
his eyes were very grave.
"Come over here," he said, "and I'll tell you what it was. No--I won't
kiss you--come on up close." Wondering at her own acquiescence, Kitty
Bonnair obeyed, and with a mysterious smile he stooped down until his
lips were close to her ear.
"You remind me of my girl," he whispered, "back in St. Louie!" And
then with a great laugh he broke away and leapt triumphantly into the
saddle.
"_Whoop-eee_!" he yelled. "_Watch me fly_!" And spreading his arms
like a bird he thundered away down the western trail.
There was a strange stillness about the old ranch house when Kitty
came back to it and she wondered vaguely where Lucy and Rufus were,
but as she stepped inside the dirt _ramada_ the quiet seemed to lay
its spell upon her and she halted by the doorway, waiting for a last
glimpse of Jeff as he went up over the western rim. The bawling of
cattle and the shrill yells of the cowboys no longer tempted her to
the _parada_ ground--she was lonely, and there was no one who cared
for her. Yet, somewhere within, she could hear the murmur of voices,
and at last when she could endure it no longer she turned and entered
quickly. The big living-room where they had so often sat together was
vacant now, but Hardy's door was open, and as she looked in she saw
them standing together--Lucy with downcast eyes, and Rufus, holding
both her hands. It was all very innocent and lover-like, but when
their lips met she turned and fled to her room.
Half an hour later Kitty emerged from her hiding, robed like a woman;
there was a new grace about her as she stood before them, a new
dignity, and she wore fresh flowers in her hair, forget-me-nots,
picked from among the rocks as she rode toward Hidden Water.
"Bless you, my children," she said, smiling and holding out her hands,
"I shall die an old maid." And then she kissed them both.