Hidden Water

“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 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 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 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 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.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE END OF IT ALL

There is a mocking-bird at Hidden Water that sings the songs of all the birds and whistles for the dog. His nest is in a great cluster of mistletoe in the mesquite tree behind the house and every morning he polishes his long curved bill against the ramada roof, preens out his glossy feathers, and does honor to the sun. For two years, off and on, Hardy had heard him, mimicking orioles and larks and sparrows and whistling shrilly for the dog, but now for the first time his heart answered to the wild joy of the bird lover. The world had taken on light and color over night, and the breeze, sifting in through the barred window, was sweet with the fragrance of untrampled flowers.

April had come, and the grass; the air was untainted; there was no braying by the river–the sheep had gone. It had been bought at the price of blood, but at last there was peace. The dreamy quah, quah of the quail was no longer a mockery of love; their eggs would not be broken in the nest but the mothers would lead forth their little ones; even the ground-doves and the poor-wills, nesting in last year’s sheep tracks, would escape the myriad feet–and all because a crazy man, hiding among the cliffs, had shot down Jasper Swope. Without hate or pity Hardy thought of that great hairy fighting-man; the God that let him live would judge him dead–and Bill Johnson too, when he should die. The sheep were gone and Lucy had kissed him–these were the great facts in the world.

They were sitting close together beneath the ramada, looking out upon the sunlit valley and talking dreamily of the old days, when suddenly Hardy edged away and pointed apologetically to the western trail. There in single file came Judge Ware in his linen duster, a stranger in khaki, and a woman, riding astride.

“There comes father!” cried Lucy, springing up eagerly and waving her hand.

“And Kitty,” added Hardy, in a hushed voice. Not since they had come had he spoken of her, and Lucy had respected his silence. Except for the vague “Perhaps” with which she had answered Bill Lightfoot’s persistent inquiries he had had no hint that Kitty might come, and yet a vague uneasiness had held his eyes to the trail.

“Tell me, Lucy,” he said, drawing her back to his side as the party dipped out of sight in the interminable thicket of mesquites, “why have you never spoken of Kitty? Has anything dreadful happened? Please tell me quick, before she comes. I–I won’t know what to say.” He twisted about and fixed an eye on the doorway, but Lucy held out a restraining hand.

“It has been a great secret,” she said, “and you must promise not to tell, but Kitty has been writing a play.”

“A play!” exclaimed Hardy, astounded, “why–what in the world is it about?”

“About Arizona, of course,” cried Lucy. “Don’t you remember how eager she was to hear you men talk? And she collected all those spurs and quirts for stage properties! Why, she wrote books and books full of notes and cowboy words while she was down here and she’s been buried in manuscript for months. When she heard that you were having the round-up early this year she was perfectly frantic to come, but they were right in the midst of writing it and she just couldn’t get away.”

“They?” repeated Hardy, mystified. “Why who–”

“Oh, I forgot,” said Lucy, biting her lip. Then in a lower voice she added: “She has been collaborating with Tupper Browne.”

“Tupper Browne! Why, what does he know about Arizona?” cried Hardy indignantly, and then, as Lucy looked away, he stopped short.

“Oh!” he said, and then there was a long silence. “Well, Tupper’s a good fellow,” he remarked philosophically. “But Lucy,” he said, starting up nervously as the sound of horses’ feet came up from the creek bed, “you’ll–you’ll do all the talking, won’t you?”

“Talking!” repeated Lucy, pausing in her flight. “Why, yes,” she called back, laughing. “Isn’t that always the woman’s part?” And then she fell upon Kitty’s neck and kissed her. Hardy came forward with less assurance, but his embarrassment was reduced to a minimum by Judge Ware who, as soon as the first greetings were over, brought forward the mild-mannered gentleman in khaki and introduced him.

“Mr. Shafer,” he said, “this is my superintendent, Mr. Hardy. Mr. Shafer represents the United States Forestry Service,” he added significantly.

“Ah, then you must bring us good news!” cried Hardy, holding out his hand eagerly.

“Yes,” answered the official modestly, but his speech ended with that word.

“I am convinced,” began Judge Ware, suddenly quelling all conversation by the earnestness of his demeanor. “I am convinced that in setting aside the Salagua watershed as a National Forest Reserve, our President has added to the record of his good deeds an act of such consummate statesmanship that it will be remembered long after his detractors are forgotten. But for him, millions of acres of public land now set aside as reserves would still be open to the devastation of unrestricted grazing, or have passed irrevocably into the power of this infamous land ring which has been fighting on the floor of Congress to deprive the American people of their rights. But after both houses had passed a bill depriving the executive of his power to proclaim Forest Reserves–holding back the appropriations for the Forestry Service as a threat–he baffled them by a feigned acquiescence. In exchange for the appropriations, he agreed to sign the act–and then, after securing the appropriations, he availed himself of the power still vested in him to set aside this reserve and many other reserves for our children and our children’s children–and then, gentlemen, true to his word, he signed the bill!”

Judge Ware shook hands warmly with Mr. Shafer at the end of this speech and wished him all success in protecting the people’s domain. It was a great day for the judge, and as soon as Creede and the other cowmen came in with the day’s gather of cattle he hastened out to tell them the news.

“And now, gentlemen,” he said, holding up his hand to stop the joyous yelling, “I wish to thank you one and all for your confidence in me and in the good faith of our Government. It called for a high order of manhood, I am sure; but in not offering any armed resistance to the incoming of the sheep your loyalty has withstood its supreme test.”

“How’s that?” inquired Creede, scratching his head doubtfully. Then, divining the abysmal ignorance from which the judge was speaking, he answered, with an honest twinkle in his eye: “Oh, that’s all right, Judge. We always try to do what’s right–and we’re strong for the law, when they is any.”

“I’m afraid there hasn’t been much law up here in the past, has there?” inquired Mr. Shafer tactfully.

“Well, not so’s you’d notice it,” replied the big cowboy enigmatically. “But say, Judge,” he continued, making a point at the old gentleman’s linen duster, “excuse me, but that yaller letter stickin’ out of your pocket looks kinder familiar. It’s for me, ain’t it? Um, thanks; this detective outfit back in St. Louie is tryin’ to make me out a millionaire, or somethin’ like that, and I’m naturally interested.” He tore the letter open, extracted a second epistle from its depths and read it over gravely. “Well, boys,” he observed, grinning cheerfully as he tucked it away in his shaps, “my luck always did run in bunches–I’m rich!”

He strode briskly over to the corral, caught up a fresh horse and, riding back to the camp, began to go through his war bag hurriedly. He was in the midst of a feverish packing, throwing away socks and grabbing up shirts, when a gay laugh from the house attracted his attention. He listened for a moment abstractedly; then he flew at his work once more, dumping everything he had out on his bed and stuffing what he needed back into his war bag; but when there came a second peal of laughter, he stopped and craned his neck.

“Well–I’ll–be–dam’d!” he muttered, as he recognized the voice, and then he flew at his work again, manhandling everything in sight. He was just roping his enormous bed, preparatory to depositing it in the bunk-house, when Kitty Bonnair stepped out of the house and came toward him, walking like a boy in her dainty riding suit. There was a great noise from the branding pen and as she approached he seemed very intent upon his work, wrestling with his bundle as if he were hog-tying a bull and using language none too choice the while, but Kitty waited patiently until he looked up.

“Why, howdy do, Mr. Creede,” she cried, smiling radiantly. “I got a new idea for my play just from seeing you do that work.”

The cowboy regarded her sombrely, took a nip or two with his rope’s end, jerked the cords tight, and sat down deliberately on the bundle.

“That’s good,” he said, wiping the sweat from his eyes. “How’s tricks?” There was a shadow of irony in his voice but Kitty passed it by.