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 rodéo 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 439 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 coöperate 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 440 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. 441 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 443 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 rodéo boss smiled grimly behind his hand, and glanced significantly at Hardy. Then, with the outfit behind him, he rode slowly up the cañon, leaving his partner to his steady job as “family man”––entertaining the boss.
For two days the sheepmen watched the river 446 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 cañon, 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 447 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 448 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? 449 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 450 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 451 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 cañon 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.”
The rush and thunder of cow ponies as they hammered over the trail and plunged down through the rocks and trees had hardly lost its echoes in the cliffs when, with a flash of color and a dainty pattering of hoofs, Chapuli came flying over the top of Lookout Point and dashed up the river after them. The cowmen had left their horses in the deep ravine at the end of the malpai bluffs and were already crouched behind the rampart of the rim rocks as close as Indian fighters, each by some loophole in the blackened malpai, with a rifle in his hand. As Hardy crept in from behind, Jeff Creede motioned him to a place at his side greeting him at the same time with a broad grin.
“Hello, sport,” he said, “couldn’t keep out of it, eh? Well, we need ye, all right. Here, you can hold straighter than I can; take my gun and shoot rainbows around the leaders when they start to come across.”
“Not much,” answered Hardy, waving the gun away, “I just came down to keep you out of trouble.”
“Ye-es!” jeered Creede, “first thing I know you’ll 454 be down there fightin’ ’em back with rocks. But say,” he continued, “d’ye notice anything funny up on that cliff? Listen, now!”
Hardy turned his head, and soon above the clamor of the sheep he made out the faint “Owwp! Owwwp!” of hounds.
“It’s Bill Johnson, isn’t it?” he said, and Creede nodded significantly.
“God help them pore sheepmen,” he observed, “if Bill has got his thirty-thirty. Listen to ’em sing, will ye! Ain’t they happy, though? And they don’t give a dam’ for us––ump-um––they’re comin’ across anyway. Well, that’s what keeps hell crowded––let ’er go!”
There was a glitter of carbines against the opposite cliffs where the spare herders had taken to cover, but out on the rocky point where the chute led into the river a gang of Mexicans and two Americans were leading their wagon cover around a fresh cut of goats and sheep. On the sand bar far below the stragglers from the first cut, turned back in the initial rush, were wandering aimlessly about or plodding back to the herd, but the sheepmen with bullheaded persistence were preparing to try again. Chief among them towered the boss, Jasper Swope, wet to the waist from swimming across the river; and as he motioned to the herders to go ahead he ran back and mounted his mule 455 again. With a barbaric shout the Mexicans surged forward on the tarpaulin, sweeping their cut to the very edge; then, as the goats set their feet and held back, a swarthy herder leapt into the midst and tumbled them, sheep and goats alike, into the water. Like plummets they went down into the slow-moving depths, some headfirst, some falling awkwardly on their backs or slipping like beavers on a slide; there was a prolonged and mighty splash and then, one by one the heads bobbed up and floated away until, led by the high-horned goats, they struck out for the opposite shore. Below, yelling and throwing stones to frighten them, a line of Mexicans danced up and down along the rocky shore, and to keep them from drifting into the whirlpool Jasper Swope plunged boldly into the water on his mule.
Sink or swim, the sheep were in the water, and for a minute there was a tense silence along the river; then, as the goats lined out, a rifle shot echoed from the cliffs and a white column of water rose up before the leader. He shook his head, hesitated and looked back, and once more the water splashed in his face, while the deep ploomp of the bullet answered to the shot. Fighting away from the sudden stroke the goat lost his headway and, drifting, fouled those below him; a sudden confusion fell upon the orderly ranks of the invaders and, like a flock of geese whose leader 456 is killed, they jostled against one another, some intent on the farther shore and some struggling to turn back. Instantly a chorus of savage shouts rose up from along the river, the shrill yells of the cowboys mingling with the whooping and whistling of the sheepmen, until at last, overcome by the hostile clamor, the timid sheep turned back toward the main herd, drawing with them the goats. For a minute Jasper Swope fought against them, waving his hat and shouting; then, rather than see them drift too far and be drawn into the clutch of the whirlpool, he whipped his mule about and led them back to the shore.
A second time, calling out all his men to help, the boss sheepman tried to cross the goats alone, intending to hold them on the shore for a lure; but just as they were well lined out the same careful marksman behind the malpai threw water in their faces and turned them back. But this time Jasper Swope did not lead the retreat. Slapping his black mule over the ears with his hat he held straight for the opposite shore, cursing and brandishing his gun.
“You dam’, cowardly passel of tail-twisters!” he cried, shaking his fist at the bluffs, “why don’t you come out into the open like men?”
But a grim silence was his only answer.
“Hey, you bold bad man from Bitter Creek, Texas!” he shouted, riding closer to the beach. “Why 457 don’t you come down and fight me like a man?” His big voice was trembling with excitement and he held his pistol balanced in the air as if awaiting an attack, but Jefferson Creede did not answer him.
“I’ll fight you, man to man, you big blowhard!” thundered Swope, “and there goes my pistol to prove it!” He rose in his stirrups as he spoke and hurled it away from him, throwing his cartridge belt after it. “Now,” he yelled, “you’ve been sayin’ what you’d do; come out of your hole, Jeff Creede, I want ye!”
“Well, you won’t git me, then,” answered Creede, his voice coming cold and impassive from over the rim. “I’ll fight you some other time.”
“Ahrr!” taunted Swope, “hear the coward talk! Here I stand, unarmed, and he’s afraid to come out! But if there’s a man amongst you, send him down, and if he licks me I’ll go around.”
“You’ll go around anyhow, you Mormon-faced wool-puller!” replied the cowman promptly, “and we’re here to see to it, so you might as well chase yourself.”
“No, I like this side,” said the sheepman, pretending to admire the scenery. “I’ll jest stay here a while, and then I’ll cross in spite of ye. If I can’t cross here,” he continued, “I’ll wait for the river to fall and cross down below––and then I’ll sheep you to the rocks, you low-lived, skulkin’ murderers! It’s a 458 wonder some of you don’t shoot me the way you did Juan Alvarez, down there.” He waved his hand toward the point where the wooden cross rose against the sky, but no one answered the taunt.
“Murderers, I said!” he shouted, rising up in his saddle. “I call you murderers before God A’mighty and there ain’t a man denies it! Oh, my Mexicans can see that cross––they’re lookin’ at it now––and when the river goes down they’ll come in on you, if it’s only to break even for Juan.”
He settled back in his saddle and gazed doubtfully at the bluff, and then at the opposite shore. Nature had placed him at a disadvantage, for the river was wide and deep and his sheep were easy to turn, yet there was still a chance.
“Say,” he began, moderating his voice to a more conciliatory key, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. There’s no use shooting each other over this. Send down your best man––if he licks me I go around; if I lick him I come across. Is it a go?”
There was a short silence and then an argument broke out along the bluff, a rapid fire of exhortation and protest, some urging Creede to take him up, others clamoring for peace.
“No!” shouted Jefferson Creede, raising his voice angrily above the uproar. “I won’t do it! I wouldn’t trust a sheepman as far as I could throw a 459 bull by the tail! You’d sell your black soul for two bits, Jasp Swope,” he observed, peering warily over the top of the rock, “and you’d shoot a man in the back, too!”
“But look at me!” cried Swope, dropping off his mule, “I’m stripped to my shirt; there goes my gun into the water––and I’m on your side of the river! You’re a coward, Jeff Creede, and I always knowed it!”
“But my head ain’t touched,” commented Creede dryly. “I’ve got you stopped anyhow. What kind of a dam’ fool would I be to fight over it?”
“I’ll fight ye for nothin’, then!” bellowed the sheepman. “I’ll––” He stopped abruptly and a great quiet fell upon both shores. From the mouth of the hidden ravine a man had suddenly stepped into the open, unarmed, and now he was coming out across the sands to meet him. It was Rufus Hardy, dwarfed like David before Goliath in the presence of the burly sheepman, but striding over the hard-packed sand with the lithe swiftness of a panther.
“I’ll fight you,” he said, raising his hand in challenge, but Swope’s answer was drowned in a wild yell from Creede.
“Come back here, Rufe, you durn’ fool!” he called. “Come back, I tell ye! Don’t you know better than to trust a sheepman?”
“Never mind, now,” answered Hardy, turning austerely to the bluff. “I guess I can take care of myself.”
He swung about and advanced to the stretch of level sand where Swope was standing. “What guarantee do I get,” he demanded sharply, “that if I lick you in a fair fight the sheep will go around?”
“You––lick––me!” repeated the sheepman, showing his jagged teeth in a sardonic grin. “Well, I’ll tell ye, Willie; if you hit me with that lily-white hand of yourn, and I find it out the same day, I’ll promise to stay off’n your range for a year.”
“All right,” replied Hardy, suddenly throwing away his hat. “You noticed it when I hit you before, didn’t you?” he inquired, edging quickly in on his opponent and beginning an amazing bout of shadow boxing. “Well, come on, then!” He laughed as Swope struck out at him, and continued his hectoring banter. “As I remember it your head hit the ground before your heels!”
Then in a whirlwind of blows and feints they came together. It was the old story of science against brute strength. Jasper Swope was a rough-and-tumble fighter of note; he was quick, too, in spite of his weight, and his blows were like the strokes of a sledge; but Hardy did not attempt to stand up against him. For the first few minutes it was more of a chase than 461 a fight, and in that the sheepman was at his worst, cumbered by his wet clothes and the water in his shoes. Time and again he rushed in upon his crouching opponent, who always seemed in the act of delivering a blow and yet at the moment only sidestepped and danced away. The hard wet sand was ploughed and trampled with their tracks, the records of a dozen useless plunges, when suddenly instead of dodging Hardy stepped quickly forward, his “lily-white hand” shot out, and Jasper Swope’s head went back with a jerk.
“You son-of-a-goat!” he yelled, as the blood ran down his face, and lowering his head he bored in upon Hardy furiously. Once more Hardy sidestepped, but the moment his enemy turned he flew at him like a tiger, raining blows upon his bloody face in lightning succession.
“Huh!” grunted the sheepman, coughing like a wood-chopper as he struck back through the storm, and the chance blow found its mark. For a moment Hardy staggered, clutching at his chest; but as Swope sprang forward to finish his work he ducked and slipped aside, stumbling like a man about to drop.
A shrill yell went up from the farther shore as Hardy stood swaying in his tracks, and a fierce shout of warning from the bluff; but Jasper Swope was implacable. Brushing the blood from his eyes he stepped deliberately forward and aimed a blow that 462 would have felled an ox, straight at his enemy’s head. It missed; the drooping head snapped down like Judy before Punch and rose up again, truculently; then before the sheepman could regain his balance Hardy threw his whole strength into a fierce uppercut that laid Swope sprawling on his back.
A howl of triumph and derision rose up from the rim of the bluff as the burly sheepman went down, but it changed to a sudden shout of warning as he scrambled back to his feet again. There was something indescribably vengeful about him as he whirled upon his enemy, and his hand went inside his torn shirt in a gesture not to be mistaken.
Threw the sand full in his face
“Look out there, Rufe!” yelled Creede, leaping up from behind his rock pile. “Run! Jump into the river!” But instead Hardy grabbed up a handful of sand and ran in upon his adversary. The pistol stuck for a moment in its hidden sling and as Swope wrenched it loose and turned to shoot, Hardy made as if to close with him and then threw the sand full in his face. It was only an instant’s respite but as the sheepman blinked and struck the dirt from his eyes the little cowman wheeled and made a dash for the river. “Look out!” screamed Creede, as the gun flashed out and came to a point, and like a bullfrog Hardy hurled himself far out into the eddying water. Then like the sudden voice of Nemesis, protesting against such treachery, a rifle shot rang out from the towering crags that overshadowed the river and Jasper Swope fell forward, dead. His pistol smashed against a rock and exploded, but the man he had set himself to kill was already buried beneath the turbid waters. So swiftly did it all happen that no two men saw the same––some were still gazing at the body of Jasper Swope; others were staring up at the high cliff whence the shot had come; but Jeff Creede had eyes only for the river and when he saw Hardy’s head bob up, halfway to the whirlpool, and duck again to escape the bullets, he leapt up and ran for his horse. Then Bill Johnson’s rifle rang out again from the summit of his high cliff, and every man scrambled for cover.
A Mexican herder dropped his gun suddenly and slipped down behind a rock; and his compadres, not knowing from whence the hostile fire came, pushed out their carbines and began to shoot wildly; the deep cañon reverberated to the rattle of thirty-thirtys and the steady crack, crack of the rifle above threw the sheep camp into confusion. There was a shout as Creede dashed recklessly out into the open and the sand leapt up in showers behind him, but Bat Wings was running like the wind and the bullets went wide of their mark.
Swinging beneath the mesquite trees and scrambling madly over stones and bushes he hammered up the 463 slope of Lookout Point and disappeared in a cloud of dirt, but as Hardy drifted around the bend and floated toward the whirlpool there was a crash of brush from down the river and Creede came battering through the trees to the shore. Taking down his reata as he rode he leapt quickly off his horse and ran out on the big flat rock from which they had often fished together. At his feet the turbid current rolled ponderously against the solid wall of rock and, turning back upon itself, swung round in an ever-lessening circle until it sucked down suddenly into a spiral vortex that spewed up all it caught in the boiling channel below. There in years past the lambs and weaklings from the herds above had drifted to their death, but never before had the maelstrom claimed a man.
Swimming weakly with the current Hardy made a last ineffectual effort to gain the bank; then fixing his eyes upon his partner he resigned himself to the drag of the whirlpool, staking his life on a single throw of the rope. Once the plaited rawhide was wetted it would twist and bind in the honda and before Creede could beat it straight and coil it his partner would be far out in the centre of the vortex. Planting his feet firmly on the rock the big cowboy lashed the kinks out of his reata and coiled it carefully; then as the first broad swirl seized its plaything and swung him slowly around Creede let out a big loop and began to 464 swing it about his head, his teeth showing in a tense grin as he fixed his eyes upon the mark. At each turn his wrist flexed and his back swayed with a willowy suppleness but except for that he was like a herculean statue planted upon the point.
The maelstrom heaved and rocked as it swung its victim nearer and like a thing with life seemed suddenly to hurry him past; then as Hardy cried out and held up a hand for help the rope cut through the air like a knife and the loop shot far out across the boiling water. It was a long throw, fifty feet from the rock, and the last coil had left his tense fingers before the noose fell, but it splashed a circle clean and true about the uplifted hand. For a moment the cowboy waited, watching; then as the heavy rope sank behind his partner’s shoulders he took in his slack with a jerk. The noose tightened beneath Hardy’s arms and held him against the insistent tug of the river; and while the whirlpool roared and foamed against his body Creede hauled him forth roughly, until, stooping down, he gathered him into his arms like a child.
“My God, boy,” he said, “you’re takin’ big chances, for a family man––but say, what did I tell you about sheepmen?”
The Mexicans were still firing random shots along the river when Creede lifted his partner up on Bat 465 Wings and carried him back to Hidden Water. Long before they reached the house they could see Lucy standing in the doorway, and Hardy held himself painfully erect in the saddle, with Creede steadying him from behind; but when Bat Wings halted before the ramada Jeff broke rudely in on the play acting by taking the little man in his arms and depositing him on a bed.
“Fell into the river,” he said, turning with a reassuring smile to Lucy, “but he ain’t hurt none––only kinder weak, you know. I reckon a little hot tea would help some, bein’ as we’re out of whiskey, and while you’re brewin’ it I’ll git these wet clothes off. Yes’m, we’re havin’ a little trouble, but that’s only them locoed Mexicans shootin’ off their spare ammunition.” He dragged up a cot as he spoke and was hurriedly arranging a bed when Lucy interposed.
“Oh, but don’t leave him out here!” she protested, “put him back in his own room, where I can take care of him.”
“All right,” said Creede, and picking him up from his bare cot beneath the ramada he carried Hardy into the little room where he had lived before Lucy Ware came. “I guess your troubles are over for a while, pardner,” he remarked, as he tucked him into the clean white bed, and then with a wise look at Lucy he slipped discreetly out the door.
As she entered with the tea Hardy was lying very limp and white against the pillow, but after the hot drink he opened his big gray eyes and looked up at her sombrely.
“Sit down,” he said, speaking with elaborate exactness, “I want to tell you something.” He reached out and took her hand, and as he talked he clung to it appealingly. “Lucy,” he began, “I didn’t forget about you when I went down there, but––well, when Jasper Swope came out and challenged us my hair began to bristle like a dog’s––and the next thing I knew I was fighting. He said if I licked him he’d go round––but you can’t trust these sheepmen. When he saw he was whipped he tried to shoot me, and I had to jump into the river. Oh, I’m all right now, but––listen, Lucy!” He drew her down to him, insistently. “Can’t you forgive me, this time?” he whispered, and when she nodded he closed his heavy eyes and fell asleep.
When he awoke in the morning there was nothing to show for his fierce fight with Swope or his battle with the river––nothing but a great weariness and a wistful look in his eyes. But all day while the boys rode back and forth from the river he lay in bed, looking dreamily out through the barred window or following Lucy with furtive glances as she flitted in and out. Whenever she came near he smiled, and often 467 the soft light crept into his eyes, but when by chance he touched her hand or she brushed back his hair a great quiet settled upon him and he turned his face away.
It was Creede who first took notice of his preoccupation and after a series of unsatisfactory visits he beckoned Lucy outside the door with a solemn jerk of the head.
“Say,” he said, “that boy’s got something on his mind––I can tell by them big eyes of his. Any idee what it is?”
“Why, no,” answered Lucy, blushing before his searching gaze, “unless it’s the sheep.”
“Nope,” said Creede, “it ain’t that. I tried to talk sheep and he wouldn’t listen to me. This here looks kinder bad,” he observed, shaking his head ominously. “I don’t like it––layin’ in bed all day and thinkin’ that way. W’y, that’d make me sick!”
He edged awkwardly over to where she was standing and lowered his voice confidentially.
“I’ll tell you, Miss Lucy,” he said, “I’ve known Rufe a long time now, and he’s awful close-mouthed. He’s always thinkin’ about something away off yonder, too––but this is different. Now of course I don’t know nothin’ about it, but I think all that boy needs is a little babyin’, to make him fergit his troubles. Yes’m, that boy’s lonely. Bein’ sick this way has 468 took the heart out of ’im and made ’im sorry for himself, like a kid that wants his mother. And so––well,” he said, turning abruptly away, “that’s all, jest thought I’d tell you.” He pulled down his hat, swung dexterously up on Bat Wings and galloped away down the valley, waving his hand at the barred window as he passed.
Long after the clatter of hoofs had ceased Lucy stood in the shade of the ramada, gazing pensively at the fire-blasted buttes and the tender blue mountains beyond. How could such rugged hillsides produce men who were always gentle, men whose first thought was always of those who loved them and never of fighting and blood? It was a land of hardships and strife and it left its mark on them all. The Rufus that she had known before had seemed different from all other men, and she had loved him for it, even when all his thought was for Kitty; but now in two short years he had become stern and headstrong in his ways; his eyes that had smiled up at her so wistfully when he had first come back from the river were set and steady again like a soldier’s, and he lay brooding upon some hidden thing that his lips would never speak. Her mutinous heart went out to him at every breath, now that he lay there so still; at a word she could kneel at his side and own that she had always loved him; but his mind was far away and he took 469 no thought of her weakness. He was silent––and she must be a woman to the end, a voiceless suppliant, a slave that waits, unbidden, a chip on the tide that carries it to some safe haven or hurries it out to sea.
With downcast eyes she turned back into the house, going about her work with the quiet of a lover who listens for some call, and as she passed to and fro she felt his gaze upon her. At last she looked up and when she met his glance she went in and stood beside his bed.
“What is it you want, Rufus?” she asked, and his face lit up suddenly as he answered with his eloquent eyes, but he could not speak the word.
“Who am I?” he murmured, musingly, “to ask for all the world?” But he held close to the little hands and as he felt their yielding his breath came hard and he gazed up at her with infinite tenderness.
“Dear Lucy,” he said, “you do not know me. I am a coward––it was born in me––I cannot help it. Not with men!” he cried, his eyes lighting up. “Ah, no; my father was a soldier, and I can fight––but––”
He paused and his vehemence died away suddenly. “Lucy,” he began again, still clinging to her hands for courage, “you have never laughed at me––you have always been gentle and patient––I will tell you something. You know how I ran away 470 from Kitty, and how when she came down here I avoided her. I was afraid, Lucy, and yet––well, it is all over now.” He sighed and turned restlessly on his pillow. “One day I met her up the river and she––she called me a coward. Not by the word––but I knew. That was the day before the sheep came in through Hell’s Hip Pocket, and even Jeff doesn’t know of the fights I had that night. I went out yesterday and fought Jasper Swope with my bare hands to wipe the shame away––but it’s no use, I’m a coward yet.” He groaned and turned his face to the wall but Lucy only sighed and brushed back his hair. For a minute he lay there, tense and still; then as her hand soothed him he turned and his voice became suddenly soft and caressing, as she had always liked it best.
“Don’t laugh at me for it, Lucy,” he said, “I love you––but I’m afraid.” He caught her hands again, gazing up wistfully into her eyes, and when she smiled through her tears he drew her nearer.
“Lucy,” he whispered, “you will understand me. I have never kissed any one since my mother died––could––could you kiss me first?”
“Ah, yes, Rufus,” she answered, and as their lips met he held her gently in his arms.