Hidden Water Part 16

He jerked a thumb toward the house, and in the tense silence Hardy could clearly discern the sound of women's voices. Now you could ride the Four Peaks country far and wide and never hear the music of such voices, never see calico on the line, or a lace curtain across the window. There were no women in that G.o.dless land, not since the Widow Winship took Sallie and Susie and left precipitately for St. Louis, none save the Senora Moreno and certain strapping Apache squaws who wore buckskin _tewas_ and carried butcher knives in their belts. Even the heart of Rufus Hardy went pit-a-pat and stopped, at the sound of that happy chatter.

"They're rustlin' the whole dam' house," exclaimed Creede, all nerves and excitement. "Didn't you hear that pan go 'bamp'? Say, I believe they're cleanin' house! Rufe," he whispered, "I bet you money we're jumped!"

The possibility of having their ranch preempted during their absence had been spoken of in a general way, since Jim Swope had gone on the warpath, but in his secret soul Rufus Hardy had a presentiment which made claim-jumping look tame. There was a chastened gayety in the voices, a silvery ripple in the laughter, which told him what Creede with all his cunning could never guess; they were voices from another world, a world where Hardy had had trouble and sorrow enough, and which he had left forever. There was soldier blood in his veins and in two eventful years he had never weakened; but the suddenness of this a.s.sault stampeded him.

"You better go first, Jeff," he said, turning his horse away, "they might--"

But Creede was quick to intercept him.

"None o' that, now, pardner," he said, catching his rein. "You're parlor-broke--go on ahead!"

There was a wild, uneasy stare in his eye, which nevertheless meant business, and Hardy accepted the rebuke meekly. Perhaps his conscience was already beginning to get action for the subterfuge and deceit which he had practised during their year together. He sat still for a moment, 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 as straight and resolute as any soldier. But Creede jogged along more slowly, tucking in his shirt, patting down his hair, and wiping the sweat from his brow.

At the thud of hoofs a woman's face appeared at the doorway--a face sweet and innocent, with a broad brow from which the fair hair was brushed evenly back, and eyes which looked wonderingly out at the world through polished gla.s.ses. It was Lucy Ware, and when Hardy saw her he leaped lightly from his horse and advanced with hat in hand--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 you never received _any_ of my letters?"

At this Creede stared, and in that self-same moment Hardy realized how the low-down strategy which he had perpetrated upon his employer had fallen upon his own head a thousandfold. But before he could stammer his apologies, Kitty Bonnair stood before him--the same Kitty, and smiling as he had often seen her in his dreams.

She was attired in a stunning outing suit of officer's cloth, tailored for service, yet bringing out the graceful lines of her figure; and as Hardy mumbled out his greetings the eyes of Jefferson Creede, so long denied of womankind, dwelt eagerly upon her beauty. Her dainty feet, encased in tan high boots, held him in rapt astonishment; her hands fascinated him with their movements like the subtle turns of a mesmerist; and the witchery of her supple body, the mischief in the dark eyes, and the teasing sweetness of her voice smote him to the heart before he was so much as noticed.

No less absolute, for all his strivings, was the conquest of Rufus Hardy, the frozen bulwarks of whose heart burst suddenly and went out like spring ice in the radiance of her first smile.

"I knew you'd be glad to see me, too," she said, holding out her hand to 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--Miss Bonnair."

"I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Creede," said Kitty, bestowing her hand upon the embarra.s.sed 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 G.o.d 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 embarra.s.sment. "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 a.s.sault 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!