Hidden Water

“At least, so I am informed,” explained Hardy. “Geographers agree, I believe, that that is the approximate distance around the world. The ranch is over here, you know.”

He pointed with one small, sinewy hand in a direction diametrically opposite to the one his boss had indicated, and struck out down a cow trail. It was a harsh blow to the old judge, and rankled in his bosom for some time; but after making sure that his superintendent was correct he followed meekly behind him into camp. On the way, as an afterthought, he decided not to put down his foot in the matter of the sheep until he was quite sure of the material facts.

They found Creede in the last throes of agony as he blundered through the motions of cooking supper. Half an hour of house-cleaning had done more to disarrange his kitchen than the services of two charming assistants could possibly repair. His Dutch oven was dropped into the wood box; his bread pan had been used to soak dirty dishes in; the water bucket was empty, and they had thrown his grease swab into the fire. As for the dish-rag, after long and faithful service it had been ruthlessly destroyed, and he had to make another one out of a flour sack. Add to this a hunger which had endured since early morning and a series of rapid-fire questions, and you have the true recipe for bad bread, at least.

Kitty Bonnair had taken a course in sanitation and domestic science in her college days, since which time the world had been full of microbes and every unpleasant bacillus, of which she discoursed at some length. But Jefferson Creede held steadily to his fixed ideas, and in the end he turned out some baking-powder biscuits that would have won honors in a cooking school. There was nothing else to cook, his kettle of beans having been unceremoniously dumped because the pot was black; but Kitty had the table spotlessly clean, there was an assortment of potted meats and picnic knicknacks in the middle of it, and Lucy had faithfully scoured the dishes; so supper was served with frills.

If the ladies had taken hold a little strong in the first spasms of house-cleaning, Jeff and Rufus were far too polite to mention it; and while the dishes were being washed they quietly gathered up their belongings, and moved them into the storeroom. Their beds being already spread beneath the ramada, it was not difficult to persuade the girls to accept Hardy’s room, which for a man’s, was clean, and the judge fell heir to Jeff’s well-littered den. All being quickly arranged and the beds made, Creede threw an armful of ironwood upon the fire and they sat down to watch it burn.

Three hours before, Hidden Water had been the hangout of two sheep-harrying barbarians, bushy-headed and short of speech; now it was as bright and cheerful as any home and the barbarians were changed to lovers. Yet, as they basked in the warmth of the fireside there was one absent from his accustomed place–a creature so fierce and shy that his wild spirit could never become reconciled to the change. At the first sound of women’s voices little Tommy had dashed through his cat-hole and fled to the bowlder pile at the foot of the cliff, from whose dank recesses he peered forth with blank and staring eyes.

But now, as the strange voices grew quiet and night settled down over the valley, he crept forth and skulked back to the house, sniffing about the barred windows, peeking in through his hole in the door; and at last, drawing well away into the darkness, he raised his voice in an appealing cry for Jeff.

As the first awful, raucous outburst broke the outer silence Kitty Bonnair 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 he grows. Aw, say, that’s just my cat. Here, pussy, pussy, pussy! D’ye hear 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 his breast, blacker, wilder, and scrawnier than ever, but purring and working his claws.

“How’s this for a mountain lion?” said Creede, stopping just inside the 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’s dismay. “He uses that to climb cliffs with. That’s right–he’s a new kind of cat. Sure, they used to be lots of ’em around here, but the coyotes 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 he sank every available hook and claw into his master’s arm; but when Kitty reached out a hand he exploded in a storm of spits and hisses and 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 ever saw in his life. W’y, sure! They ain’t no women around here. I got him off a cowman over on the Verde. He had a whole litter of ’em–used to pinch Tom’s tail to make him fight–so when I come away I jest quietly slipped Mr. Tommy into my shaps.”

“Oh, the poor little thing,” said Kitty; and then she added, puckering up her lips, “but I don’t like cats.”

“Oh, I do!” exclaimed Lucy Ware quickly, as Creede’s face changed, and for a moment the big cowboy stood looking at them gravely.

“That’s good,” he said, smiling approvingly at Lucy; and then, turning to 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 know cats–jest think you do, maybe. W’y, Tommy was the only friend I had here for two years. D’ye think he could fool me all that time? Rufe here will tell you how he follows after me for miles–and cryin’, too–when the coyotes might git ’im anytime. And he sleeps with me every night,” he added, lowering his voice.

“Well, you can have him,” said Kitty lightly. “Do they have any real mountain 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 about it!”

Jefferson Creede moved over toward the door with a far-away look in his 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 stop and tell me about Bill Johnson, and, yes–Hell’s Hip Pocket!”

“Why, Kitty!” exclaimed Lucy Ware innocently, and while they were discussing the morals of geographical swearing Hardy made his bow, and passed out into the night.

The bitter-sweet of love was upon him again, making the stars more beautiful, the night more mysterious and dreamy; but as he crept into his blankets he sighed. In the adjoining cot he could hear Jeff stripping slivers from a length of jerked beef, and Tommy mewing for his share.

“Want some jerky, Rufe?” asked Creede, and then, commenting upon their late supper, he remarked:

“A picnic dinner is all right for canary birds, but it takes good hard grub to feed a man. I’m goin’ to start the rodér camp in the mornin’ 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 a little?”

“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 I learned somethin’,” he added philosophically, “and when I want somebody to tell my troubles to, I’ll know where to go. Say, she’s all right, 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.”

CHAPTER XII

THE GARDEN IN THE DESERT

The sun was well up over the cañon rim when the tired visitors awoke from their dreams. Kitty Bonnair was the first to open her eyes and peep forth upon the fairy world which promised so much of mystery and delight. The iron bars of their window, deep set in the adobe walls, suggested the dungeon of some strong prison where Spanish maidens languished for sight of their lovers; a rifle in the corner, overlooked in the hurried moving, spoke eloquently of the armed brutality of the times; the hewn logs which supported the lintels completed the picture of primitive life; and a soft breeze, breathing in through the unglazed sills, whispered of dark cañons and the wild, free out-of-doors.

As she lay there drinking it all in a murmur of voices came to her ears; and, peering out, she saw Creede and Rufus Hardy squatting by a fire out by the giant mesquite tree which stood near the bank of the creek. Creede was stirring the contents of a frying-pan with a huge iron spoon, and Rufus was cooking strips of meat on a stick which he turned above a bed of coals. There was no sign of hurry or anxiety about their preparations; they seemed to be conversing amiably of other things. Presently Hardy picked up a hooked stick, lifted the cover from the Dutch oven, and dumped a pile of white biscuits upon a greasy cloth. Then, still deep in their talk, they filled their plates from the fry-pan, helped themselves to meat, wrapped the rest of the bread in the cloth, and sat comfortably back on their heels, eating with their fingers and knives.

It was all very simple and natural, but somehow she had never thought of men in that light before. They were so free, so untrammelled and self-sufficient; yes, and so barbarous, too. Rufus Hardy, the poet, she had known–quiet, soft-spoken, gentle, with dreamy eyes and a doglike eagerness to please–but, lo! here was another Rufus, still gentle, but with a stern look in his eyes which left her almost afraid–and those two lost years lay between. How he must have changed in all that time! The early morning was Kitty’s time for meditation and good resolutions, and she resolved then and there to be nice to Rufus, for he was a man and could not understand.

As the sound of voices came from the house Jefferson Creede rose up from his place and stalked across the open, rolling and swaying in his high-heeled boots like a huge, woolly bear.

“Well, Judge,” he said, after throwing a mountain of wood on the fire as a preliminary to cooking breakfast for his guests, “I suppose now you’re here you’d like to ride around a little and take stock of what you’ve got. The boys will begin comin’ in for the rodér to-day, and after to-morrow I’ll be pretty busy; but if you say so I’ll jest ketch up a gentle horse, and show you the upper range before the work begins.”

“Oh, won’t you take me, too?” cried Kitty, skipping in eagerly. “I’ve got the nicest saddle–and I bet I can ride any horse you’ve got.”