Hidden Water Part 32

The sun rose clear for the hundredth time over the shoulder of the Four Peaks; it mounted higher, glowing with a great light, and the smooth round tops of the bowlders shone like half-buried skulls along the creek-bed; it swung gloriously up to its zenith and the earth palpitated with a panting heat. Summer had come, and the long days when the lizards crawl deep into their crevices and the cattle follow the scanty shade of the box canons or gather in standing-places where the wind draws over the ridges and mitigates the flies. In the pasture at Hidden Water the horses stood head and tail together, side by side, each thrashing the flies from the other's face and dozing until hunger or thirst aroused them or perversity took them away. Against the cool face of the cliff the buzzards moped and stretched their dirty wings in squalid discomfort; the trim little sparrow-hawks gave over their hunting; and all the world lay tense and still. Only at the ranch house where Hardy kept a perfunctory watch was there any sign of motion or life.

For two weeks now he had been alone, ever since Jeff went down to Bender, and with the solitary's dread of surprise he stepped out into the _ramada_ regularly, scanning the western trail with eyes grown weary of the earth's emptiness.

At last as the sun sank low, throwing its fiery glare in his eyes, he saw the familiar figure against the sky--Creede, broad and bulky and topped by his enormous hat, and old Bat Wings, as raw-boned and ornery as ever. Never until that moment had Hardy realized how much his life was dependent upon this big, warm-hearted barbarian who clung to his native range as instinctively as a beef and yet possessed human attributes that would win him friends anywhere in the world. Often in that long two weeks he had reproached himself for abandoning Jeff in his love-making. What could be said for a love which made a man so pitiless? Was it worthy of any return? Was it, after all, a thing to be held so jealously to his heart, gnawing out his vitals and robbing him of his humanity? These and many other questions Hardy had had time to ask himself in his fortnight of introspection and as he stood by the doorway waiting he resolved to make amends. From a petty creature wrapped up in his own problems and prepossessions he would make himself over into a man worthy of the name of friend. Yet the consciousness of his fault lay heavy upon him and as Creede rode in he stood silent, waiting for him to speak. But Jeff for his part came on grimly, and there was a sombre glow in his eyes which told more than words.

"h.e.l.lo, sport," he said, smiling wantonly, "could you take a pore feller in over night?"

"Sure thing, I can," responded Hardy gayly. "Where've you been all the time?"

And Creede chanted:

"Down to Bender, On a bender, Oh, I'm a spender, You bet yer life!

"And I'm broke, too," he added, _sotto voce_, dropping off his horse and sinking into a chair.

"Well, you don't need to let that worry you," said Hardy. "I've got plenty. Here!" He went down into his pocket and tossed a gold piece to him, but Creede dodged it listlessly.

"Nope," he said, "money's nothin' to me."

"What's the matter?" asked Hardy anxiously. "Are you sick?"

"Yes," answered Creede, nodding his head wearily, "sick and tired of it all." He paused and regarded his partner solemnly. "I'm a miserable failure, Rufe," he said. "I ain't _got_ nothin' and I ain't _worth_ nothin'. I never _done_ nothin'--and I ain't got a friend in the world."

He stopped and gazed at the barren land despondently, waiting to see if his partner would offer any protests.

"Rufe," he said, at last, his voice tremulous with reproach, "if you'd only helped me out a little on that letter--if you'd only told me a few things--well, she might have let me down easy, and I could've took it. As it was, she soaked me."

Then it was that Hardy realized the burden under which his partner was laboring, the grief that clutched at his heart, the fire that burned in his brain, and he could have wept, now that it was too late.

"Jeff," he said honestly, "it don't do any good now, but I'm sorry.

I'm more than sorry--I'm ashamed. But _that_ don't do you any good either, does it?"

He stepped over and laid his hand affectionately upon his partner's shoulder, but Creede hunched it off impatiently.

"No," he said, slowly and deliberately, "not a dam' bit." There was no bitterness in his words, only an acknowledgment of the truth. "They was only one thing for me to do after I received that letter," he continued, "and I done it. I went on a h.e.l.l-roarin' drunk. That's right. I filled up on that forty-rod whiskey until I was crazy drunk, an' then I picked out the biggest man in town and fought him to a whisper."

He sighed and glanced at his swollen knuckles, which still showed the marks of combat.

"That feller was a jim-dandy sc.r.a.pper," he said, smiling magnanimously, "but I downed 'im, all right. I couldn't quite lick the whole town, but I tried; and I certainly gave 'em a run for their money, while it lasted. If Bender don't date time from Jeff Creede's big drunk I miss my guess a mile. And you know, after I got over bein' fightin'

drunk, I got cryin' drunk--but I never did get drunk enough to tell my troubles, thank G.o.d! The fellers think I'm sore over bein' sheeped out. Well, after I'd punished enough booze to start an Injun uprisin', and played the faro bank for my wad, I went to sleep; and when I woke up it seemed a lo-ong time ago and I could look back and see jest how foolish I'd been. I could see how she'd jollied me up and got me comin', playin' me off against Bill Lightfoot; and then I could see how she'd tantalized me, like that mouse the cat had when you was down in Bender; and then I could see where I had got the big-head bad, thinkin'

I was the only one--and all the time she was _laughin'_ at me! Oh, it's nothin' now--I kin laugh at it myself in a month; but I'm so dam'

_'shamed_ I could cry." He lopped down in his chair, a great hulk of a man, and shook his head gloomily.

"They ain't but one girl I ever knowed," he said solemnly, "that wasn't stringin' me, and that was Sallie Winship. Sal liked me, dam'd if she didn't. She cried when she went away, but the old lady wouldn't stand for no bow-legged cowpuncher--and so I git euchred, every time."

For lack of some higher consolation Hardy cooked up a big supper for his low-spirited partner, and after he had done the honors at the feast the irrepressible good health of the cowboy rose up and conquered his grief in spite of him. He began by telling the story of his orgy, which apparently had left Bender a wreck. The futile rage of Black Tex, the despair of the town marshal, the fight with the Big Man, the arrest by the entire _posse comitatus_, the good offices of Mr. Einstein in furnishing bail, the crying and sleeping jags--all were set forth with a vividness which left nothing to the imagination, and at the end the big man was comforted. When it was all over and his memory came down to date he suddenly recalled a package of letters that were tied up in his coat, which was still on the back of his saddle. He produced them forthwith and, like a hungry boy who sees others eat, sat down to watch Rufe read. No letters ever came for him--and when one did come it was bad. The first in the pack was from Lucy Ware and as Hardy read it his face softened, even while he knew that Creede was watching.

"Say, she's all right, ain't she?" observed Jeff, when his partner looked up.

"That's right," said Hardy, "and she says to take you on again as foreman and pay you for every day you didn't carry your gun."

"No!" cried Creede, and then he laughed quietly to himself. "Does that include them days I was prizin' up h.e.l.l down in Bender? Oh, it does, eh? Well, you can tell your boss that I'll make that up to her before the Summer's over."

He leaned back and stretched his powerful arms as if preparing for some mighty labor. "We're goin' to have a drought this Summer," he said impressively, "that will have the fish packin' water in canteens.

Yes, sir, the chaser is goin' to cost more than the whiskey before long; and they's goin' to be some dead cows along the river. Do you know what Pablo Moreno is doin'? He's cuttin' brush already to feed his cattle. That old man is a wise _hombre_, all right, when it comes to weather. He's been hollerin' '_Ano seco, ano seco_,' for the last year, and now, by Joe, we've got it! They ain't hardly enough water in the river to make a splash, and here it's the first of June. We've been kinder wropt up in fightin' sheep and sech and hain't noticed how dry it's gittin'; but that old feller has been sittin' on top of his hill watchin' the clouds, and smellin' of the wind, and measurin' the river, and countin' his cows until he's a weather sharp. I was a-ridin' up the river this afternoon when I see the old man cuttin'

down a _palo verde_ tree, and about forty head of cattle lingerin'

around to eat the top off as soon as she hit the ground; and he says to me, kinder solemn and fatherly:

"'Jeff,' he says, 'cut trees for your cattle--this is an _ano seco_."

"'Yes, I've heard that before,' says I. 'But my cows is learnin' to climb.'"

"'_Stawano_,' he says, throwin' out his hands like I was a hopeless proposition. But all the same I think I'll go out to-morrow and cut down one of them _palo verdes_ like he show'd me--one of these kind with little leaves and short thorns--jest for an expeeriment. If the cattle eat it, w'y maybe I'll cut another, but I don't want to be goin' round stuffin' my cows full of twigs for nothin'. Let 'em rustle for their feed, same as I do. But honest to G.o.d, Rufe, some of them little runty cows that hang around the river can't hardly cast a shadder, they're that ganted, and calves seems to be gittin' kinder scarce, too. But here--git busy, now--here's a letter you overlooked."

He pawed over the pile purposefully and thrust a pale blue envelope before Hardy--a letter from Kitty Bonnair. And his eyes took on a cold, fighting glint as he observed the fatal handwriting.

"By G.o.d," he cried, "I hain't figured out yet what struck me! I never spoke a rough word to that girl in my life, and she certainly gimme a nice kiss when she went away. But jest as soon as I write her a love letter, w'y she--she--W'y h.e.l.l, Rufe, I wouldn't talk that way to a sheep-herder if he didn't _know_ no better. Now you jest read that"--he fumbled in his pocket and slammed a crumpled letter down before his partner--"and tell me if I'm wrong! No, I want you to do it. Well, I'll read it to you, then!"

He ripped open the worn envelope, squared his elbows across the table, and opened the scented inclosure defiantly, but before he could read it Hardy reached out suddenly and covered it with his hand.

"Please don't, Jeff," he said, his face pale and drawn. "It was all my fault--I should have told you--but please don't read it to me. I--I can't stand it."

"Oh, I don't know," retorted Creede coldly. "I reckon you can stand it if I can. Now suppose you wrote a real nice letter--the best you knowed how--to your girl, and she handed you somethin' like this: 'My dear Mr. Creede, yore amazin' letter--' Here, what ye doin'?"

"I won't listen to it!" cried Hardy, s.n.a.t.c.hing the letter away, "it's--"

"Now lookee here, Rufe Hardy," began Creede, rising up angrily from his chair, "I want to tell you right now that you've got to read that letter or lick me--and I doubt if you can do that, the way I happen to be feelin'. You got me into this in the first place and now, by G.o.d, you'll see it out! Now you _read_ that letter and tell me if I'm wrong!"

He reared up his head as he spoke and Hardy saw the same fierce gleam in his eyes that came when he harried the sheep; but there was something beside that moved his heart to pity. It was the lurking sadness of a man deep hurt, who fights the whole world in his anguish; the protest of a soul in torment, demanding, like Job, that some one shall justify his torture.

"All right, Jeff," he said, "I will read it--only--only don't crowd me for an answer."

He spread the letter before him on the table and saw in a kind of haze the angry zigzag characters that galloped across the page, the words whose meaning he did not as yet catch, so swiftly did his thoughts rise up at sight of them. Years ago Kitty had written him a letter and he had read it at that same table. It had been a cruel letter, but unconsidered, like the tantrum of a child. Yes, he had almost forgotten it, but now like a sudden nightmare the old horror clutched at his heart. He steadied himself, and the words began to take form before him. Surely she would be gentle with Jeff, he was so big and kind. Then he read on, slowly, grasping at the meaning, and once more his eyes grew big with horror at her words. He finished, and bowed his head upon the table, while the barren room whirled before him.

From his place across the table the big cowboy looked down upon him, grim and masterful, yet wondering at his silence.

"Well, am I wrong?" he demanded, but the little man made no answer.

Upon the table before Hardy there lay another letter, written in that same woman's hand, a letter to him, and the writing was smooth and fair. Jeff had brought it to him, tied behind his saddle, and he stood before him now, waiting.

"Am I wrong?" he said again, but Hardy did not answer in words.

Holding the crumpled letter behind him he took up his own fair missive--such a one as he would have died for in years gone by--and laid it on the fire, and when the tiny flame leaped up he dropped the other on it and watched them burn together.

"Well, how about it?" inquired Creede, awed by the long silence, but the little man only bowed his head.

"Who am I, to judge?" he said.