Hidden Water

“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Creede,” said Kitty, bestowing her hand upon the embarrassed cowboy. “Of course you know Miss Ware!”

“Howdy do, Miss,” responded Creede, fumbling for his hat, and as Miss Lucy took his hand the man who had put the fear of God into the hearts of 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, in anger or in jest, when it called for the ready word; but Kitty Bonnair had so stolen his wits that he could only stand and sweat like a trick-broken horse. As for Hardy he saw rainbows and his heart had gone out of business, but still he was “parlor-broke.”

“I am afraid you didn’t find the house very orderly,” he observed, as Creede backed off and the conversation sagged; and the two girls glanced at each other guiltily. “Of course you’re just as welcome,” he added 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 how pale we looked?” he asked, to mask his embarrassment. “But you were right, Jeff,” he continued enigmatically.

“Does he always defer to you that way, Mr. Creede?” inquired Kitty Bonnair, with an engaging smile. “We used to find him rather perverse.” She glanced roguishly at Hardy as she gave this veiled rebuke. “But what was it that you were right about?–I’m just dying to ask you questions!”

She confessed this with a naive frankness which quite won the big cowboy’s heart, and, his nerve coming back, he grinned broadly at his former suspicions.

“Well,” he said, “I might as well come through with it–I told him I bet we’d been jumped.”

“Jumped?” repeated Miss Kitty, mystified. “Oh, is that one of your cowboy words? Tell me what it means!”

“W’y, it means,” drawled Creede, “that two young fellers like me and Rufe goes out to ride the range and when we come back some other outfit has moved into our happy home and we’re orphans. We’ve been havin’ a little trouble with the sheep lately, and when I heard them pots and kittles rattlin’ around in here I thought for sure some Mormon 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 the heavy 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 the saddle.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Kitty, disappointed, “and didn’t you ever shoot anybody?”

Creede blushed for her, in spite of himself. “Well,” he replied evasively, “I don’t know how it would be up where you come from, but that’s kind of a leadin’ question, ain’t it?”

“Oh, you have, then!” exclaimed Kitty Bonnair ecstatically. “Oh, I’m so glad to see a really, truly cowboy!” She paused, and gazed up at him 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 have hesitated, infatuated as he was. Every land has its symbolism and though the language of flowers has not struck root in the cow country–nor yet the amorous Mexican system of “playing the bear”–to give 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 was pulled off unnoticed, Hardy and Lucy Ware being likewise deep in confidences.

“How strange you look, Rufus!” exclaimed Lucy, as Kitty Bonnair began her assault upon the happiness of Jefferson Creede. “What have you been doing to yourself in these two years?”

“Why, nothing,” protested Hardy, a little wan from his encounter with Kitty. “Perhaps you have forgotten how I used to look–our hair gets pretty long up here,” he added apologetically, “but–”

“No,” said Lucy firmly. “It isn’t a matter of hair, although I will admit 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 time trying to keep the sheep out–and he’s very much displeased with you for disobeying his directions, too. He gave up some important business to come down here and see you, and I hope he scolds you well. Have you been 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, “do take your mind from those dreadful sheep. I asked you if you have been doing any writing lately–you promised to send me some poems, don’t you remember? And I haven’t received a thing!”

“Oh!” said Hardy, blushing at his mistake. “Well, I acknowledge that I haven’t done right–and you have been very kind, too, Miss Lucy,” he added gently. “But somehow I never finish anything down here–and the sheep have been pretty bad lately. I have to do my work first, you know. I’ll tell you, though,” he said, lowering his voice confidentially, “if I can see you when no one is around I’ll give you what little I’ve written–at least, some of the best. A poet at his worst, you know,” he added, smiling, “is the poorest man in the world. He’s like a woman who tells everything–no one could respect him. 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 was gnawing at his heart. And with it there was something more–a tacit rebuke to her for having brought Kitty there to meet him.

“We have missed you very much,” she began softly, as if reading his thoughts, “and your letters were so interesting! Ever since I showed Kitty the first one she has been crazy to come down here. Yes, she has been reading ‘The Virginian’ and O. Henry and ‘Wolfville’ until it is simply awful to hear her talk. And ride–she has been taking lessons for a year! Her saddle is out there now in the wagon, and if she could have caught one of those wild horses out in that inclosed field I really believe she would have mounted him and taken to the hills like an 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 your father?”

A light went suddenly from Lucy’s eyes and her lips quivered, but her voice was as steady as ever.

“He has gone down to the river,” she said patiently. “Would you like to see him?”

“Yes,” he replied, still impersonally; and with his head down, he walked out to where Chapuli was standing. Then, as if some memory of her voice had come to him, he dropped the bridle lash and stepped back quickly into the house.

“You mustn’t notice my rudeness, Miss Lucy,” he began abjectly. “Of course 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 stepped quietly out the light came back into Lucy’s eyes.

“I am going to hunt up the judge,” he said, as he swung up on his horse; and, despite the protests of Jeff and Kitty Bonnair, who were still 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 the righteous indignation of Judge Ware, but Hardy’s brain was in such a whirl that he welcomed the chance to escape. Never for a moment had he contemplated the idea of Kitty’s coming to him, or of his seeing her again until his heart was whole. He had felt safe and secure forever within the walled valley of Hidden Water–but now from a cloudless sky the lightning had fallen and blinded him. Before he could raise a hand or even turn and flee she had come upon him and exacted his forgiveness. Nay, more–she had won back his love and enslaved him as before. Could it mean–what else could it mean? Nothing but that she loved him; or if not love, then she cared for him above the others. And Kitty was proud, too! Those who became her slaves must respect her whims; 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 regal prerogatives and come to him!

He hugged the thought to his bosom like a man infatuated, and then a chill misgiving came upon him. Perhaps after all it was but another of those childish whims which made her seem so lovable–always eager, always active, always striving for the forbidden and unusual, yet so dear with her laughing eyes and dancing feet that all the world gave way before her. He bowed his head in thought, following the judge’s tracks mechanically as he cantered down the trail, and when he came to the hill above the whirlpool and looked down at the empty landscape he was still wrestling with his pride. Never in the two years of his exile had he so much as mentioned her name to any one; it was a thing too sacred for confidences, this love which had changed the deep current of his life, a secret for his own soul and God–and yet, Lucy Ware might help him!

And where in all the world would he find a more faithful friend than Lucy Ware? A secret shared with her would be as safe as if still locked in his own breast–and Lucy could understand. Perhaps she understood already; perhaps–his heart stopped, and pounded against his side–perhaps Kitty had told Lucy her story already and asked her to intercede! He dwelt upon the thought again as he gazed dumbly about for his employer; and then suddenly the outer world–the plain, rough, rocks-and-cactus world that he had lived in before they came–flashed up before him in all its uncompromising clearness; the judge was nowhere in sight!

A sudden memory of Creede’s saying that he could lose his boss any time within half a mile of camp startled Hardy out of his dreams and he rode swiftly forward upon the trail. At the foot of the hill the tracks of Judge Ware’s broad shoes with their nice new hob-nails stood out like a bas-relief, pointing up the river. Not to take any chances, Hardy followed them slavishly through the fine sand until they turned abruptly up onto a ridge which broke off at the edge of the river bottom. Along the summit of this they showed again, plainly, heading north; then as the ravine swung to the west they scrambled across it and began to zigzag, working off to the east where Black Butte loomed up above the maze of brushy ridges like a guiding sentinel. At first Hardy only smiled at the circuitous and aimless trail which he was following, expecting to encounter the judge at every turn; but as the tracks led steadily on he suddenly put spurs to his horse and plunged recklessly up and down the sides of the brushy hogbacks in a desperate pursuit, for the sun was sinking low. The trail grew fresher and fresher now; dark spots where drops of sweat had fallen showed in the dry sand of the washes; and at last, half an hour before sundown, Hardy caught sight of his wandering employer, zealously ascending a particularly rocky butte.

“Hello there, Judge!” he called, and then, as Judge Ware whirled about, he inquired, with well-feigned surprise: “Where’d you drop down from?”

This was to let the old gentleman down easy–lost people having a way of waxing indignant at their rescuers–and the judge was not slow to take advantage of it.

“Why, howdy do, Rufus!” he exclaimed, sinking down upon a rock. “I was just taking a little short cut to camp. My, my, but this is a rough country. 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 and come along home with me.”

“We-ell,” said the judge, reluctantly descending the butte, “I guess I will. How far is it?”

“About two miles, by trail.”

“Two miles!” exclaimed Judge Ware, aghast. “Why, it’s just over that little hill, there. Why don’t you take a short cut?”

“The trail is the shortest cut I know,” replied Hardy, concealing a smile. “That’s the way the cattle go, and they seem to know their business. How does the country look to you?”

But the old judge was not to be led aside by persiflage–he was interested in the matter of trails.

“Cattle trails!” he exclaimed. “Do you mean to say that you do all your travelling on these crooked cow paths? Why, it is a matter of scientific observation that even on the open prairie a cow path loses nearly a quarter of its headway by constant winding in and out, merely to avoid frail bushes and infinitesimal stones. Now if you and Jeff would spend a little of your leisure in cutting trails, as they do in forestry, you would more than save yourselves the time and labor involved, I’m sure.”

“Yes?” said Hardy coldly. There was a subtle tone of fault-finding in his employer’s voice which already augured ill for their debate on the sheep question, and his nerves responded instinctively to the jab. Fate had not been so kind to him that day, that he was prepared to take very much from any man, and so he remained quiet and let the judge go the whole length.

“Why, yes, if you would stay about the ranch a little closer instead of going off on these armed forays against sheep–now just for example, how much would it cost to clear a passable trail over that ridge to the ranch?”

He pointed at the hill which in his misguided enthusiasm he had been mounting, and Hardy’s eyes glittered wickedly as he launched his barbed jest.

“About a billion dollars, I guess,” he answered, after mature consideration.

“A billion dollars!” repeated the judge. “A billion dollars! Now here, Rufus,” he cried, choking with exasperation, “I am in earnest about this matter! I don’t altogether approve of the way you and Jeff have been conducting my affairs down here, anyway, and I intend to take a hand myself, if you don’t mind. I may not know as much as you about the minor details of the cattle business, but I have been looking into forestry quite extensively, and I fail to see anything unreasonable in my suggestion of a trail. How far is it, now, over that hill to the ranch?”

“About twenty-five thousand miles,” replied Hardy blandly.

“Twenty-five thousand! Why–”