CHAPTER XI
JUMPED
Winter, the wonted season of torrential rains, six weeks' grass, andbudding flowers, when the desert is green and the sky washed clean andblue, followed close in the wake of the sheep, which went driftingpast Hidden Water like an army without banners. But alas for HiddenWater and the army of sheep!--in this barren Winter the torrentialrains did not fall, the grass did not sprout, and the flowers did notbloom. A bleak north wind came down from the mountains, cold and dryand crackling with electricity, and when it had blown its stint itdied 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 feethigh against the horizon. But, after much labor, the keen, steely,north wind rushed suddenly down upon the black clouds, from whoseedges the first spatter of rain had already spilled, and swept themfrom the horizon, howling mournfully the while and wrestling with thegaunt trees at night. In shaded places the icicles from slow-seepingwaters clung for days unmelted, and the migrant ducks, down from theArctic, rose up from the half-frozen sloughs and winged silently awayto the far south. Yet through it all the Dos S cattle came outunscathed, feeding on what dry grass and browse the sheep had left onBronco Mesa; and in the Spring, when all hope seemed past, it rained.
Only those who have been through a drought know what music there ishidden 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 andwild horses take to roaming and wandering out of pure excess ofspirits. It was early in March when the first showers came, and assoon as the new feed was up Creede began his preparations for thespring _rodeo_. The Winter had been a hard one, and not without itsworries. In an interview, which tended on both sides to become heatedand personal, Jim Swope had denounced Hardy for misrepresenting hisorders to his _mayordomo_, and had stated in no uncertain terms hisfirm intention of breaking even in the Spring, if there was a blade ofgrass left on the upper range.
The season had been a bad one for his sheep, windy and cold, with sandstorms which buried the desert in a pall and drove many flocks to thehills; and as the feed became shorter and shorter vagrant bands beganto drift in along the Salagua. In the battle for the range thatfollowed herders and punchers greeted each other with angry snarlswhich grew more wolfish every day, and old Pablo Moreno, shaking hiswhite head over their quarrels, uttered gloomy prophecies of greaterevils to come. Sheep would die, he said, cattle would die--it was onlya 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, thewomen stood by the public well all night, waiting to fill their_ollas_; not for nine years had the rains fallen there, and now thedrought was spreading north. Arizona, California, Nevada, all weredoomed, yet _paciencia_, perhaps--and then came the rain. Yes, it wasa good rain but--and then it rained again. _Que bueno_, who would notbe made a liar for rain? But _cuidado_--behold, the ground was stilldry; it drank up the water as it fell and was thirsty again; the riverfell lower and lower and the water was clear; a bad sign, a very badsign!
But if the young should wait upon the advice of the old there would beno more miracles. Creede and Hardy passed up the weather, strapped ontheir six-shooters, and began to patrol the range, "talking reason" tothe stray Mexicans who thought that, because their sheep were gettingpoor, they ought to move them to better feed.
The time for friendship and diplomacy was past, as Hardy politelyinformed his employer by letter--after which he told Rafael to keepaway from the post office and not bring him any more _correo_, if hevalued 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 likehis change of policy he had better come down and see the actualconditions for himself--and the old judge came.
It was midafternoon of that fateful day when Creede and Hardy, ridingin from up the river, saw Rafael's wagon in front of the house. Thiswas not surprising in itself as he had been down to Bender forround-up supplies, but as the two partners approached the house Creedesuddenly grabbed Hardy's rein and drew back as if he were on top of arattlesnake.
"For God's sake," he said, "what's that? Listen!"
He jerked a thumb toward the house, and in the tense silence Hardycould clearly discern the sound of women's voices. Now you could ridethe Four Peaks country far and wide and never hear the music of suchvoices, never see calico on the line, or a lace curtain across thewindow. There were no women in that godless land, not since the WidowWinship took Sallie and Susie and left precipitately for St. Louis,none save the Senora Moreno and certain strapping Apache squaws whowore buckskin _tewas_ and carried butcher knives in their belts. Eventhe heart of Rufus Hardy went pit-a-pat and stopped, at the sound ofthat happy chatter.
"They're rustlin' the whole dam' house," exclaimed Creede, all nervesand excitement. "Didn't you hear that pan go 'bamp'? Say, I believethey're cleanin' house! Rufe," he whispered, "I bet you money we'rejumped!"
The possibility of having their ranch preempted during their absencehad been spoken of in a general way, since Jim Swope had gone on thewarpath, but in his secret soul Rufus Hardy had a presentiment whichmade claim-jumping look tame. There was a chastened gayety in thevoices, a silvery ripple in the laughter, which told him what Creedewith all his cunning could never guess; they were voices from anotherworld, a world where Hardy had had trouble and sorrow enough, andwhich he had left forever. There was soldier blood in his veins and intwo eventful years he had never weakened; but the suddenness of thisassault stampeded him.
"You better go first, Jeff," he said, turning his horse away, "theymight--"
But Creede was quick to intercept him.
"None o' that, now, pardner," he said, catching his rein. "You'reparlor-broke--go on ahead!"
There was a wild, uneasy stare in his eye, which nevertheless meantbusiness, and Hardy accepted the rebuke meekly. Perhaps his consciencewas already beginning to get action for the subterfuge and deceitwhich he had practised during their year together. He sat still for amoment, 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 asstraight and resolute as any soldier. But Creede jogged along moreslowly, tucking in his shirt, patting down his hair, and wiping thesweat from his brow.
At the thud of hoofs a woman's face appeared at the doorway--a facesweet and innocent, with a broad brow from which the fair hair wasbrushed evenly back, and eyes which looked wonderingly out at theworld through polished glasses. It was Lucy Ware, and when Hardy sawher he leaped lightly from his horse and advanced with hat inhand--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 younever received _any_ of my letters?"
At this Creede stared, and in that self-same moment Hardy realized howthe low-down strategy which he had perpetrated upon his employer hadfallen upon his own head a thousandfold. But before he could stammerhis apologies, Kitty Bonnair stood before him--the same Kitty, andsmiling as he had often seen her in his dreams.
She was attired in a stunning outing suit of officer's cloth, tailoredfor service, yet bringing out the graceful lines of her figure; and asHardy mumbled out his greetings the eyes of Jefferson Creede, so longdenied of womankind, dwelt eagerly upon her beauty. Her dainty feet,encased in tan high boots, held him in rapt astonishment; her handsfascinated him with their movements like the subtle turns of amesmerist; and the witchery of her supple body, the mischief in thedark eyes, and the teasing sweetness of her voice smote him to theheart before he was so much as noticed.
No less absolute, for all his strivings, was the conquest of RufusHardy, the frozen bulwarks of whose heart burst suddenly and went outlike spring ice in the radiance of her first smile.
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br /> "I knew you'd be glad to see me, too," she said, holding out her handto 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--MissBonnair."
"I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Creede," said Kitty, bestowing her handupon the embarrassed cowboy. "Of course you know Miss Ware!"
"Howdy do, Miss," responded Creede, fumbling for his hat, and as MissLucy took his hand the man who had put the fear of God into the heartsof 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, inanger or in jest, when it called for the ready word; but Kitty Bonnairhad so stolen his wits that he could only stand and sweat like atrick-broken horse. As for Hardy he saw rainbows and his heart hadgone out of business, but still he was "parlor-broke."
"I am afraid you didn't find the house very orderly," he observed, asCreede backed off and the conversation sagged; and the two girlsglanced at each other guiltily. "Of course you're just as welcome," headded 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 howpale we looked?" he asked, to mask his embarrassment. "But you wereright, Jeff," he continued enigmatically.
"Does he always defer to you that way, Mr. Creede?" inquired KittyBonnair, with an engaging smile. "_We_ used to find him ratherperverse." She glanced roguishly at Hardy as she gave this veiledrebuke. "But what was it that you were right about?--I'm just dying toask you questions!"
She confessed this with a naive frankness which quite won the bigcowboy's heart, and, his nerve coming back, he grinned broadly at hisformer suspicions.
"Well," he said, "I might as well come through with it--I told him Ibet we'd been jumped."
"Jumped?" repeated Miss Kitty, mystified. "Oh, is that one of yourcowboy words? Tell me what it means!"
"W'y, it means," drawled Creede, "that two young fellers like me andRufe goes out to ride the range and when we come back some otheroutfit has moved into our happy home and we're orphans. We've beenhavin' a little trouble with the sheep lately, and when I heard thempots and kittles rattlin' around in here I thought for sure someMormon 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 theheavy 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 thesaddle."
"Oh!" exclaimed Kitty, disappointed, "and didn't you ever shoot_anybody_?"
Creede blushed for her, in spite of himself. "Well," he repliedevasively, "I don't know how it would be up where you come from, butthat's kind of a leadin' question, ain't it?"
"Oh, you have, then!" exclaimed Kitty Bonnair ecstatically. "Oh, I'mso glad to see a really, truly cowboy!" She paused, and gazed up athim 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 havehesitated, infatuated as he was. Every land has its symbolism andthough the language of flowers has not struck root in the cowcountry--nor yet the amorous Mexican system of "playing the bear"--togive 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 waspulled off unnoticed, Hardy and Lucy Ware being likewise deep inconfidences.
"How strange you look, Rufus!" exclaimed Lucy, as Kitty Bonnair beganher assault upon the happiness of Jefferson Creede. "What have youbeen doing to yourself in these two years?"
"Why, nothing," protested Hardy, a little wan from his encounter withKitty. "Perhaps you have forgotten how I used to look--our hair getspretty long up here," he added apologetically, "but--"
"No," said Lucy firmly. "It isn't a matter of hair, although I willadmit 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 timetrying to keep the sheep out--and he's very much displeased with youfor disobeying his directions, too. He gave up some important businessto come down here and see you, and I hope he scolds you well. Have youbeen 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, "dotake your mind from those dreadful sheep. I asked you if you have beendoing any _writing_ lately--you promised to send me some poems, don'tyou remember? And I haven't received a thing!"
"Oh!" said Hardy, blushing at his mistake. "Well, I acknowledge thatI haven't done right--and you have been very kind, too, MissLucy," he added gently. "But somehow I never finish anything downhere--and the sheep have been pretty bad lately. I have to do my workfirst, you know. I'll tell you, though," he said, lowering his voiceconfidentially, "if I can see you when no one is around I'll give youwhat little I've written--at least, some of the best. A poet athis worst, you know," he added, smiling, "is the poorest man in theworld. He's like a woman who tells everything--no one could respecthim. 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 wasgnawing at his heart. And with it there was something more--a tacitrebuke to her for having brought Kitty there to meet him.
"We have missed you very much," she began softly, as if reading histhoughts, "and your letters were so interesting! Ever since I showedKitty the first one she has been crazy to come down here. Yes, she hasbeen reading 'The Virginian' and O. Henry and 'Wolfville' until it issimply awful to hear her talk. And ride--she has been taking lessonsfor a year! Her saddle is out there now in the wagon, and if she couldhave caught one of those wild horses out in that inclosed field Ireally believe she would have mounted him and taken to the hills likean 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 yourfather?"
A light went suddenly from Lucy's eyes and her lips quivered, but hervoice was as steady as ever.
"He has gone down to the river," she said patiently. "Would you liketo see him?"
"Yes," he replied, still impersonally; and with his head down, hewalked out to where Chapuli was standing. Then, as if some memory ofher voice had come to him, he dropped the bridle lash and stepped backquickly into the house.
"You mustn't notice my rudeness, Miss Lucy," he began abjectly. "Ofcourse 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 steppedquietly out the light came back into Lucy's eyes.
"I am going to hunt up the judge," he said, as he swung up on hishorse; and, despite the protests of Jeff and Kitty Bonnair, who werestill 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 therighteous indignation of Judge Ware, but Hardy's brain was in such awhirl that he welcomed the chance to escape. Never for a moment had hecontemplated the idea of Kitty's coming to him, or of his seeing heragain until his heart was whole. He had felt safe and secure foreverwithin the walled valley of Hidden Water--but now from a cloudless skythe lightning had fallen and blinded him. Before he could raise a handor even turn and flee she had come upon him and exacted hisforgiveness. Nay, more--she had won back his love and enslaved him asbefore. Could it mean--what else could it mean? Nothing but that sheloved him; or if not love, then she cared for him above the others.And Kit
ty was proud, too! Those who became her slaves must respect herwhims; 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 regalprerogatives and come to him!
He hugged the thought to his bosom like a man infatuated, and then achill misgiving came upon him. Perhaps after all it was but another ofthose childish whims which made her seem so lovable--always eager,always active, always striving for the forbidden and unusual, yet sodear with her laughing eyes and dancing feet that all the world gaveway before her. He bowed his head in thought, following the judge'stracks mechanically as he cantered down the trail, and when he came tothe hill above the whirlpool and looked down at the empty landscape hewas still wrestling with his pride. Never in the two years of hisexile had he so much as mentioned her name to any one; it was a thingtoo sacred for confidences, this love which had changed the deepcurrent of his life, a secret for his own soul and God--and yet, LucyWare might help him!
And where in all the world would he find a more faithful friend thanLucy Ware? A secret shared with her would be as safe as if stilllocked in his own breast--and Lucy could understand. Perhaps sheunderstood already; perhaps--his heart stopped, and pounded againsthis side--perhaps Kitty had told Lucy her story already and asked herto intercede! He dwelt upon the thought again as he gazed dumbly aboutfor his employer; and then suddenly the outer world--the plain, rough,rocks-and-cactus world that he had lived in before they came--flashedup before him in all its uncompromising clearness; the judge wasnowhere in sight!
A sudden memory of Creede's saying that he could lose his boss anytime within half a mile of camp startled Hardy out of his dreams andhe rode swiftly forward upon the trail. At the foot of the hill thetracks of Judge Ware's broad shoes with their nice new hob-nails stoodout like a bas-relief, pointing up the river. Not to take any chances,Hardy followed them slavishly through the fine sand until they turnedabruptly up onto a ridge which broke off at the edge of the riverbottom. Along the summit of this they showed again, plainly, headingnorth; then as the ravine swung to the west they scrambled across itand began to zigzag, working off to the east where Black Butte loomedup above the maze of brushy ridges like a guiding sentinel. At firstHardy only smiled at the circuitous and aimless trail which he wasfollowing, expecting to encounter the judge at every turn; but as thetracks led steadily on he suddenly put spurs to his horse and plungedrecklessly up and down the sides of the brushy hogbacks in a desperatepursuit, for the sun was sinking low. The trail grew fresher andfresher now; dark spots where drops of sweat had fallen showed in thedry sand of the washes; and at last, half an hour before sundown,Hardy caught sight of his wandering employer, zealously ascending aparticularly rocky butte.
"Hello there, Judge!" he called, and then, as Judge Ware whirledabout, he inquired, with well-feigned surprise: "Where'd you drop downfrom?"
This was to let the old gentleman down easy--lost people having a wayof waxing indignant at their rescuers--and the judge was not slow totake advantage of it.
"Why, howdy do, Rufus!" he exclaimed, sinking down upon a rock. "I wasjust taking a little short cut to camp. My, my, but this is a roughcountry. 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 andcome along home with me."
"We-ell," said the judge, reluctantly descending the butte, "I guess Iwill. How far is it?"
"About two miles, by trail."
"Two miles!" exclaimed Judge Ware, aghast. "Why, it's just over thatlittle hill, there. Why don't you take a short cut?"
"The trail is the shortest cut I know," replied Hardy, concealing asmile. "That's the way the cattle go, and they seem to know theirbusiness. How does the country look to you?"
But the old judge was not to be led aside by persiflage--he wasinterested in the matter of trails.
"Cattle trails!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean to say that you do allyour travelling on these crooked cow paths? Why, it is a matter ofscientific observation that even on the open prairie a cow path losesnearly a quarter of its headway by constant winding in and out, merelyto avoid frail bushes and infinitesimal stones. Now if you and Jeffwould spend a little of your leisure in cutting trails, as they do inforestry, you would more than save yourselves the time and laborinvolved, I'm sure."
"Yes?" said Hardy coldly. There was a subtle tone of fault-finding inhis employer's voice which already augured ill for their debate on thesheep question, and his nerves responded instinctively to the jab.Fate had not been so kind to him that day, that he was prepared totake very much from any man, and so he remained quiet and let thejudge go the whole length.
"Why, yes, if you would stay about the ranch a little closer insteadof going off on these armed forays against sheep--now just forexample, how much would it cost to clear a passable trail over thatridge to the ranch?"
He pointed at the hill which in his misguided enthusiasm he had beenmounting, and Hardy's eyes glittered wickedly as he launched hisbarbed jest.
"About a billion dollars, I guess," he answered, after matureconsideration.
"A billion dollars!" repeated the judge. "A billion dollars! Now here,Rufus," he cried, choking with exasperation, "I am in earnest aboutthis matter! I don't altogether approve of the way you and Jeff havebeen conducting my affairs down here, anyway, and I intend to take ahand myself, if you don't mind. I may not know as much as you aboutthe minor details of the cattle business, but I have been looking intoforestry quite extensively, and I fail to see anything unreasonable inmy suggestion of a trail. How far is it, now, over that hill to theranch?"
"About twenty-five thousand miles," replied Hardy blandly.
"Twenty-five thousand! Why--"
"At least, so I am informed," explained Hardy. "Geographers agree, Ibelieve, that that is the approximate distance around the world. Theranch is over here, you know."
He pointed with one small, sinewy hand in a direction diametricallyopposite to the one his boss had indicated, and struck out down a cowtrail. It was a harsh blow to the old judge, and rankled in his bosomfor some time; but after making sure that his superintendent wascorrect he followed meekly behind him into camp. On the way, as anafterthought, he decided not to put down his foot in the matter of thesheep until he was quite sure of the material facts.
They found Creede in the last throes of agony as he blundered throughthe motions of cooking supper. Half an hour of house-cleaning had donemore to disarrange his kitchen than the services of two charmingassistants could possibly repair. His Dutch oven was dropped into thewood box; his bread pan had been used to soak dirty dishes in; thewater bucket was empty, and they had thrown his grease swab into thefire. As for the dish-rag, after long and faithful service it had beenruthlessly destroyed, and he had to make another one out of a floursack. Add to this a hunger which had endured since early morning and aseries of rapid-fire questions, and you have the true recipe for badbread, at least.
Kitty Bonnair had taken a course in sanitation and domestic science inher college days, since which time the world had been full of microbesand every unpleasant bacillus, of which she discoursed at some length.But Jefferson Creede held steadily to his fixed ideas, and in the endhe turned out some baking-powder biscuits that would have won honorsin a cooking school. There was nothing else to cook, his kettle ofbeans having been unceremoniously dumped because the pot was black;but Kitty had the table spotlessly clean, there was an assortment ofpotted meats and picnic knicknacks in the middle of it, and Lucy hadfaithfully scoured the dishes; so supper was served with frills.
If the ladies had taken hold a little strong in the first spasms ofhouse-cleaning, Jeff and Rufus were far too polite to mention it; andwhile the dishes were being washed they quietly gathered up theirbelongings, and moved them into the storeroom. Their beds beingalready spread beneath the _ramada_, it was not difficult to persuadethe girls to accept Hardy's room, which
for a man's, was clean, andthe judge fell heir to Jeff's well-littered den. All being quicklyarranged and the beds made, Creede threw an armful of ironwood uponthe fire and they sat down to watch it burn.
Three hours before, Hidden Water had been the hangout of twosheep-harrying barbarians, bushy-headed and short of speech; now itwas as bright and cheerful as any home and the barbarians were changedto lovers. Yet, as they basked in the warmth of the fireside there wasone absent from his accustomed place--a creature so fierce and shythat his wild spirit could never become reconciled to the change. Atthe first sound of women's voices little Tommy had dashed through hiscat-hole and fled to the bowlder pile at the foot of the cliff, fromwhose dank recesses he peered forth with blank and staring eyes.
But now, as the strange voices grew quiet and night settled down overthe valley, he crept forth and skulked back to the house, sniffingabout the barred windows, peeking in through his hole in the door; andat last, drawing well away into the darkness, he raised his voice inan appealing cry for Jeff.
As the first awful, raucous outburst broke the outer silence KittyBonnair 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 hegrows. Aw, say, that's just my cat. Here, pussy, pussy, pussy! D'yehear 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 hisbreast, blacker, wilder, and scrawnier than ever, but purring andworking his claws.
"How's this for a mountain lion?" said Creede, stopping just insidethe 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'sdismay. "He uses that to climb cliffs with. That's right--he's a newkind of cat. Sure, they used to be lots of 'em around here, but thecoyotes 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 hesank every available hook and claw into his master's arm; but whenKitty reached out a hand he exploded in a storm of spits and hissesand 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 eversaw in his life. W'y, sure! They ain't no women around here. I got himoff a cowman over on the Verde. He had a whole litter of 'em--used topinch Tom's tail to make him fight--so when I come away I jest quietlyslipped Mr. Tommy into my shaps."
"Oh, the poor little thing," said Kitty; and then she added, puckeringup her lips, "but I don't like cats."
"Oh, I do!" exclaimed Lucy Ware quickly, as Creede's face changed, andfor a moment the big cowboy stood looking at them gravely.
"That's good," he said, smiling approvingly at Lucy; and then, turningto 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 knowcats--jest think you do, maybe. W'y, Tommy was the only friend I hadhere for two years. D'ye think he could fool me all that time? Rufehere will tell you how he follows after me for miles--and cryin',too--when the coyotes might git 'im anytime. And he sleeps with meevery night," he added, lowering his voice.
"Well, you can have him," said Kitty lightly. "Do they have any realmountain 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 aboutit!"
Jefferson Creede moved over toward the door with a far-away look inhis 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_ stopand tell me about Bill Johnson, and, yes--Hell's Hip Pocket!"
"Why, Kitty!" exclaimed Lucy Ware innocently, and while they werediscussing the morals of geographical swearing Hardy made his bow, andpassed out into the night.
The bitter-sweet of love was upon him again, making the stars morebeautiful, the night more mysterious and dreamy; but as he crept intohis blankets he sighed. In the adjoining cot he could hear Jeffstripping slivers from a length of jerked beef, and Tommy mewing forhis share.
"Want some jerky, Rufe?" asked Creede, and then, commenting upon theirlate supper, he remarked:
"A picnic dinner is all right for canary birds, but it takes goodhard grub to feed a man. I'm goin' to start the _roder_ camp in themornin' 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 alittle?"
"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 Ilearned somethin'," he added philosophically, "and when I wantsomebody to tell my troubles to, I'll know where to go. Say, she's allright, 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."