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A demon of unrest, twin devil to that which had so clutched and torn at the sensitive spirit of Rufus Hardy, seemed to rise up with the dawn of that ill-omened day and seize upon the camp at Hidden Water. It was like a touch of the north wind, which rumples the cat’s back, sets the horses to fighting in the corrals, and makes men mean and generally contrary. Bill Johnson’s hounds were the first to feel the madness. They left before sun-up, heading for the wooded heights of the Juate, and led him a weary chase. At the last moment Creede abandoned the unprofitable working of The Rolls and ordered the rodéo up onto Bronco Mesa; and Kitty Bonnair, taking advantage of his preoccupation, quietly gave him the slip at the end of their long eastern detour, and turned her pinto’s head toward the river.

As for Kitty, her will was the wind’s will, which changes with the times and seasons but is accountable to no universal law. Never in her life had she met a man who could quarrel like Rufus Hardy. Beneath her eye he was as clay in the hands of the potter; every glance spoke love, and for her alone. And yet it was something more than a smouldering resentment which made him avoid her, riding out before the dawn; more than the tremulous bashfulness which had stayed his hand when at times he might have taken hers. There was something deep, hidden, mysterious, lurking in those fawnlike eyes, and it made him insurgent against her will. It was a secret, hidden from all the world, which he must yield to her. And then she would forgive him for all the unhappiness he had caused her and teach him what a thing it is for a woman to love and be misunderstood. But first –– first she must see him alone; she must burst upon him suddenly, taking his heart by storm as she had on that first day, and leave the rest to fate. So she lingered to gather some flowers which nodded among the rocks, the shy and dainty forget-me-nots which they had picked together at home; and when Creede was over the first ridge she struck out boldly up a side cañon, tucking the miniature bouquet into the shadows of her hair.

The southern flank of Bronco Mesa breaks off sharply above the Salagua, rising slowly by slopes and terraced benches to the heights, and giving way before the river in a succession of broken ridges. Along these summits run winding trails, led high to escape the rougher ground. Urged on by the slashings of her quirt, Pinto galloped recklessly through this maze of cow paths until as if by magic the great valley lay before them. There in its deep cañon was the river and the river trail –– and a man, mounted upon a sorrel horse, savagely intent upon his way. For a minute Kitty studied him curiously as he hustled along, favoring his horse up the hills but swinging to the stirrup as he dodged bushes across the flats; then she flung out her hand impulsively, and called his name. In a flash he was up in his saddle, looking. Chapuli tossed his head and in the act caught a glimpse of the other horse –– then they both stood rigid, gazing in astonishment at the living statue against the sky. At sight of that witching figure, beckoning him from the mountain top, Hardy’s heart leaped within him and stopped. Once more the little hand was thrown out against the sky and a merry voice floated down to him from the sun-touched heights.

“Hello, Rufus!” it called teasingly, and still he sat gazing up at her. All the untamed passions of his being surged up and choked his voice –– he could not answer. His head turned and he gazed furtively over his shoulder to the east, where his duty lay. Then of his own accord Chapuli stepped from the trail and began to pick his way soberly up the hill.

From the high summit of the butte all the world lay spread out like a panorama, –– the slopes and cañons of Bronco Mesa, picketed with giant sahuaros; the silvery course of the river flowing below; the unpeopled peaks and cliffs of the Superstitions; and a faint haze-like zephyr, floating upon the eastern horizon. And there at last the eyes of Rufus Hardy and Kitty Bonnair met, questioning each other, and the world below them took on a soft, dreamy veil of beauty.

“Why, how did you come here?” he asked, looking down upon her wonderingly. “Were you lost?”

And Kitty smiled wistfully as she answered:

“Yes –– till I found you.”

“Oh!” said Hardy, and he studied her face warily, as if doubtful of her intent.

“But how could you be lost,” he asked again, “and travel so far? This is a rough country, and you got here before I did.”

He swung down from his horse and stood beside her, but Kitty only laughed mischievously and shook her head –– at which, by some lover’s magic, the dainty forget-me-nots fell from her hair in a shower of snowy blossoms.

“I was lost,” she reiterated, smiling into his eyes, and in her gaze Hardy could read –– “without you.”

For a moment the stern sorrow of the night withheld him. His eyes narrowed, and he opened his lips to speak. Then, bowing his head, he knelt and gathered up the flowers.

“Yes,” he said gently, “I understand. I –– I have been lost, too.”

They smiled and sat down together in the shadow of a great rock, gazing out over the peaks and pinnacles of the mountains which wall in Hidden Water and talking placidly of the old days –– until at last, when the spell of the past was on him, Kitty fell silent, waiting for him to speak his heart.

But instantly the spell of her laughter was broken an uneasy thought came upon Hardy, and he glanced up at the soaring sun.

“Jeff will be worried about you,” he said at last. “He will think you are lost and give up the rodéo to hunt for you. We must not stay here so long.”

He turned his head instinctively as he spoke, and Kitty knew he was thinking of the sheep.

“Cattle and sheep –– cattle and sheep,” she repeated slowly. “Is there nothing else that counts, Rufus, in all this broad land? Must friendship, love, companionship, all go down before cattle and sheep? I never knew before what a poor creature a woman was until I came to Arizona.”

She glanced at him from beneath her drooping lashes, and saw his jaws set tense.

“And yet only yesterday,” he said, with a sombre smile, “you had twenty men risking their lives to give you some snake-tails for playthings.”

“But my old friend Rufus was not among them,” rejoined Kitty quietly; and once more she watched the venom working in his blood.

“No,” he replied, “he refuses to compete with Bill Lightfoot at any price.”

“Oh, Rufus,” cried Kitty, turning upon him angrily, “aren’t you ashamed? I want you to stop being jealous of all my friends. It is the meanest and most contemptible thing a man can do. I –– I won’t stand it!”

He glanced at her again with the same set look of disapproval still upon his face.

“Kitty,” he said, “if you knew what lives some of those men lead –– the thoughts they think, the language they speak –– you –– you would not –– ” He stopped, for the sudden tears were in her eyes. Kitty was crying.

“Oh, Rufus,” she sobbed, “if –– if you only knew! Who else could I go with –– how –– how else –– Oh, I cannot bear to be scolded and –– I only did it to make you jealous!” She bowed her head against her knees and Hardy gazed at her in awe, shame and compassion sweeping over him as he realized what she had done.

“Kitty –– dear,” he stammered, striving to unlock the twisted fingers, “I –– I didn’t understand. Look, here are your flowers and –– I love you, Kitty, if I am a brute.” He took one hand and held it, stroking the little fingers which he had so often longed to caress. But with a sudden wilfulness she turned her face away.

“Don’t you love me, Kitty?” he pleaded. “Couldn’t you, if I should try to be good and kind? I –– I don’t understand women –– I know I have hurt you –– but I loved you all the time. Can’t you forgive me, Kitty?”

But Kitty only shook her head. “The man I love must be my master,” she said, in a far-away voice, not looking at him. “He must value me above all the world.”

“But, Kitty,” protested Hardy, “I do –– ”

“No,” said Kitty, “you do not love me.”

There was a lash to the words that cut him –– a scorn half-spoken, half-expressed by the slant of her eye. As he hesitated he felt the hot blood burn at his brow.

“Rufus,” she cried, turning upon him quickly, “do you love me? Then take me in your arms and kiss me!” She spoke the words fiercely, almost as a command, and Hardy started back as if he had been shot.

“Take me in your arms and kiss me!” she repeated evenly, a flash of scorn in her eyes. But the man who had said he loved her faltered and looked away.

“Kitty,” he said gently, “you know I love you. But –– ”

“But what?” she demanded sharply.

“I –– I have never –– ”

“Well,” said Kitty briefly, “it’s all over –– you don’t have to! I just wanted to show you –– ” She paused, and her lip curled as she gazed at him from a distance. “Look at my horse,” she exclaimed suddenly, pointing to where Pinto was pawing and jerking at his bridle rein. When Hardy leapt up to free his foot she frowned again, for that is not the way of lovers.

He came back slowly, leading the horse, his face very pale, his eyes set.

“You were right,” he said. “Shall we go?”

There was no apology in his voice, no appeal. It had grown suddenly firm and resonant, and he fixed her with his great honest eyes steadfastly. Something in the man seemed to rise up suddenly and rebuke her –– nay, to declare her unworthy of him. The thought of those two years –– two years without a word –– came upon Kitty and left her sober, filled with misgivings for the future. She cast about for some excuse, some reason for delay, and still those masterful eyes were fixed upon her –– sad, wistful, yet steadfast; and like a child she obeyed them.

It was a long ride to camp, long for both of them. When he had turned her horse into the corral Hardy wheeled and rode off up the cañon, where the hold-up herd was bellowing and there was a man’s work to do. There was wild riding that day, such as Judge Ware and Lucy had never seen before, and more than one outlaw, loping for the hills, was roped and thrown, and then lashed back to his place in the herd. The sensitive spirit of Chapuli responded like a twin being to the sudden madness of his master, and the lagging rodéo hands were galvanized into action by his impetuous ardor. And at the end, when the roping and branding were over, Hardy rode down to the pasture for a fresh mount, his eyes still burning with a feverish light and his lips close-drawn and silent.

The outfit was huddled about the fire eating greedily after the long day, when Creede, furtively watching his partner, saw his eyes fixed curiously upon some object in the outer darkness. He followed the glance and beheld a hound –– gaunt, lame, beseeching –– limping about among the mesquite trees which lined the edge of the flat.

“There’s one of Bill’s dogs,” he remarked sociably, speaking to the crowd in general. “Must’ve got sore-footed and come back. Here, Rock! Here, Rye! Here, Ring!” he called, trying the most likely names. “Here, puppy –– come on, boy!” And he scraped a plate in that inviting way which is supposed to suggest feed to a dog. But Hardy rose up quietly from his place and went out to the dog. A moment later he called to Jeff and, after a hurried conference, the two of them brought the wanderer up to the fire.

“Hey!” called Bill Lightfoot, “that ain’t one of Bill’s pack –– that’s old Turco, his home dog.”

“Don’t you think I know Bill’s dogs yet?” inquired Creede scathingly. “Now if you’ll jest kindly keep your face shet a minute, I’ll see what’s the matter with this leg.”

He clamped Turco between his knees and picked up his fore leg, while the old dog whined and licked his hands anxiously. There was a stain of blood from the shoulder down, and above it, cut neatly through the muscles, a gaping wound.

“That was a thirty-thirty,” said Creede grimly, and every man looked up. Thirty-thirty was a sinister number on the range –– it was the calibre of a sheep-herder’s carbine.

“Aw, go on,” scoffed Bill Lightfoot, rushing over to examine the wound. “Who could have shot him –– away over in Hell’s Hip Pocket?”

“Um –– that’s it,” observed Creede significantly. “What you goin’ to do, Rufe?”

“I’m going over there,” answered Hardy, throwing the saddle on his horse. He looked over his shoulder as he heaved on the cinch. “That’s where that dust was,” he said, and as the outfit stood gaping he swung up and was off into the darkness.

“Hey, take my gun!” yelled Jeff, but the clatter of hoofs never faltered –– he was going it blind and unarmed. Late that night another horseman on a flea-bitten gray dashed madly after him over the Pocket trail. It was Old Bill Johnson, crazed with apprehension; and behind him straggled his hounds, worn from their long chase after the lion, but following dutifully on their master’s scent. The rest of the outfit rode over in the morning –– the punchers with their pistols thrust into the legs of their shaps; Creede black and staring with anger; the judge asking a thousand unanswered questions and protesting against any resort to violence; the women tagging along helplessly, simply because they could not be left alone. And there, pouring forth from the mouth of Hell’s Hip Pocket, came the sheep, a solid phalanx, urged on by plunging herders and spreading out over the broad mesa like an invading army. Upon the peaks and ridges round about stood groups of men, like skirmishers –– camp rustlers with their packs and burros; herders, whose sheep had already passed through –– every man with his gun in his hand. The solid earth of the trail was worn down and stamped to dust beneath the myriad feet, rising in a cloud above them as they scrambled through the pass; and above all other sounds there rose the high, sustained tremolo of the sheep:

“Blay-ay-ay-ay! Blay-ay-ay-ay! Blay-ay-ay-ay!”

To the ears of the herders it was music, like the thunder of stamps to a miner or the rumble of a waterfall to a lonely fisher; the old, unlistened music of their calling, above which the clamor of the world must fight its way. But to the cowmen it was like all hell broken loose, a confusion, a madness, a babel which roused every passion in their being and filled them with a lust to kill.

Without looking to the right or to the left, Jefferson Creede fixed his eyes upon one man in that riot of workers and rode for him as a corral hand marks down a steer. It was Jasper Swope, hustling the last of a herd through the narrow defile, and as his Chihuahuanos caught sight of the burly figure bearing down upon the padron they abandoned their work to help him. From the hill above, Jim Swope, his face set like iron for the conflict, rode in to back up his brother; and from far down the cañon Rufus Hardy came spurring like the wind to take his place by Creede.

In the elemental clangor of the sheep they faced each other, Creede towering on his horse, his face furious with rage; Swope gray with the dust of his driving but undaunted by the assault.

“Stop where you are!” shouted Swope, holding out a warning hand as the cowman showed no sign of halting. But Creede came straight on, never flinching, until he had almost ridden him down.

“You low-lived, sheep-eatin’ hound,” he hissed, piling in the wickedest of his range epithets, “you and me have had it comin’ fer quite a while, and now I’ve got you. I’ve never yet seen a sheepman that would fight in the open, but you’ve got to or take that!” He leaned over suddenly and slapped him with his open hand, laughing recklessly at the Mexicans as they brandished their guns and shouted.

“Quite se, cabrones,” he jeered, sorting out the worst of his fighting Spanish for their benefit, “you are all gutter pups –– you are afraid to shoot!”

“Here,” rasped out Jim Swope, spurring his horse in between them, “what are you fellers tryin’ to do? Git out of here, umbre –– go on now! Never mind, Jasp, I’ll do the talkin’. You go on away, will ye! Now what’s the matter with you, Mr. Creede, and what can I do for you?”

Jasper Swope had whirled back from the blow as a rattler throws his coils. His gray eyes gleamed and he showed all his broken teeth as he spat back hate and defiance at Creede; but Jim was his elder brother and had bested him more than once since the days of their boyish quarrels. Slowly and grudgingly he made way, backing sullenly off with his Mexicans; and Jim stood alone, opposing his cold resolution to the white-hot wrath of Creede.

“You can turn back them sheep and git off my range!” yelled Creede. “Turn ’em back, I say, or I’ll leave my mark on some of you!”

“How can I turn ’em back?” argued Swope, throwing out his hands. “They’s ninety thousand more behind me, and all headin’ through this pass.”

“You know very well that this is a put-up job,” retorted Creede hotly. “You sheepmen have been crawlin’ around on your bellies for a month to get a chanst to sheep us out, and now you say you can’t help yourself! You’re the crookedest, lyingest sheep-puller in the bunch, Jim Swope. You’d rob a graveyard and show up for prayers the next mornin’. I can lick you, you big Mormon-faced stiff, with one hand tied behind me, and what’s more –– ”

“Here now –– here no-ow –– ” protested Swope, holding out his hand for peace, “they ain’t no call for no such talk. Mebbe you can lick me, and mebbe you can’t, but it won’t do you any good to try. My sheep is here, and here they’ll stay, until I git good and ready to move ’em. This is a free range and a free country, and the man ain’t born that can make me stop.”

He paused, and fixed his keen eyes upon Creede, searching him to the heart; and before that cold, remorseless gaze the fighting frenzy in his brain died away. Meanwhile Hardy had come up from where he had been turning back sheep, and as he rode in Jeff instinctively made way for him.

“No,” replied Hardy, fastening his stern eyes upon the iron visage of the sheepman, “not if the lives of a thousand cattle and the last possessions of a dozen men lay in your way. You and your legal rights! It is men like you who make the law worse than nothing and turn honest cowmen into criminals. If there is anything in it you will lie to the assessor or rob a poor man’s cabin with the best of them, but when it comes to your legal right to sheep us out you are all for law and order. Sure, you will uphold the statutes with your life! Look at those renegade Mexicans, every man armed by you with a rifle and a revolver! Is that the way to come onto another man’s range? If you are going to sheep us out, you can try it on; but for God’s sake cut it out about your sacred rights!”

He rose up in his saddle, haranguing the assembly as he spoke, and once more Jim Swope felt his cause being weakened by the attacks of this vehement little cowman.

“Well, what kin I do about it?” he cried, throwing out his hands in virtuous appeal. “My sheep has got to eat, hain’t they?”

“Sure,” assented Hardy, “and so have our cattle. But I tell you what you can do –– you can go out through that pass yonder!”

He pointed at the cañon down which the sheep had come in the Fall, the great middle fork which led up over the Four Peaks; but the sheepman’s only reply was a snarl of refusal.

“Not if I know myself,” he muttered spitefully. “How’d do, Judge!” He fixed his eyes eagerly upon Judge Ware, who was hastening to join in the struggle. “You’re just the man I want to see,” he continued, advancing briskly to meet him, “and I want to ask you, here and now before these witnesses, do you claim any right to the exclusive use of this land?”

“Why, certainly not, certainly not,” answered the judge warmly, “but at the same time I do claim an equity which rises from prior and undisputed possession, and which has always and ought now to protect my range from any outside invasion.”

“Very likely, very likely,” remarked Swope dryly. “And now, Judge, I want to ask you another question before these witnesses. Did you or did you not authorize your superintendent and foreman to threaten and intimidate my men and me, with the idea of driving us off this public land?”

“I did not,” replied the judge, his mind suddenly filled with visions of criminal proceedings. “On the contrary, I have repeatedly warned them against any such action.”

“At the same time,” echoed Swope, quick to follow up his advantage, “these men, who are your agents and employees, have systematically moved my herders off this range by armed violence, and your foreman has just now struck my brother, besides threatening to kill some of us if we don’t turn back. I want to tell you right now, Mr. Ware, that I have consulted the best lawyers in this Territory as to my rights on public lands, and you will be held personally responsible for any acts of violence on the part of your employees. Now I want to ask you one more question: Do you deny my right to pass through this range on my way to the Sierra Blancas? You don’t? Well then, call off these men!”

He paused and jerked his thumb toward Creede and Hardy, grinning evilly, and as he spoke Creede crowded forward, his brow black as a thunder cloud.

“I don’t take orders from nobody,” he cried vehemently, “not now, and never will. I’ve got a few hundred head of cows on this range myself and I intend to protect ’em if I have to kill somebody. You’ll have to git another foreman, Judge, –– I’ve quit.”

He shot a glance of pitying contempt at the man who had so stupidly marred their fortunes, then he turned and fixed his burning eyes upon his archenemy.

“Jim,” he said, speaking quietly at last, “my father had ten thousand head of cattle on this range before you sheepmen came –– and that’s all I’ve got left. If you think you can sheep me out, go to it!”

He turned his horse’s head toward Hidden Water, never looking back at the sheep; and the cowmen fell in behind him, glad of an excuse to retreat. What were a bunch of cowboys, armed with six-shooters, to half a hundred sheepmen armed with repeating rifles and automatic revolvers? No, it was better to let the sheep come, let them spread out and scatter, and then jump the herders at night, if it came to that. But what, reasoned the cautious ones, were a few hundred head of cows anyhow, in a losing fight against the law itself? What was a petty revenge upon some low-browed Mexican to the years of imprisonment in Yuma which might follow? There were some among that little band of cowmen who yelled for action, others who were disgusted enough to quit, and others yet who said nothing, riding by themselves or exchanging furtive glances with Creede. The Clark boys, Ben Reavis, and Juan Ortega –– these were the men whom the rodéo boss knew he could trust, and none of them spoke a word.

Worn and haggard from his night’s riding, Rufus Hardy rode along with Judge Ware and the ladies, explaining the situation to them. The sheep had come in from the far east, crossing where sheep had never crossed before, at the junction of Hell’s Hip Pocket Creek and the drought-shrunk Salagua. They had poured into the Pocket in solid columns, sheeping it to the rocks, and had taken the pass before either he or Bill Johnson could get to it. All through the night the sheepmen had been crowding their flocks through the defile until there were already twenty or thirty thousand on Bronco Mesa, with fifty thousand to follow. Bill Johnson had shot his way through the jam and disappeared into the Pocket, but he could do nothing now –– his little valley was ruined. There would not be a spear of grass left for his cattle, and his burros had already come out with the pack animals of the sheepmen. No one knew what had happened when he reached his home, but the Mexican herders seemed to be badly scared, and Johnson had probably tried to drive them out of the valley.

All this Hardy explained in a perfectly matter-of-fact way, free from apprehension or excitement; he listened in respectful silence to Judge Ware’s protests against violence and threats of instant departure; and even humored Kitty’s curiosity by admitting that Mr. Johnson, who was apparently out of his head when he shot the sheep, had probably taken a shot or two at the herders, as well. But Lucy Ware was not deceived by his repose; she saw the cold light in his eyes, the careful avoidance of any allusion to his own actions, and the studied concealment of his future intent. But even then she was not prepared when, after supper, her father came into the ranch house and told her that Mr. Hardy had just resigned.

“I can’t imagine why he should leave me at this time,” exclaimed the judge, mopping the sweat from his brow, and groaning with vexation, “but a man who will desert his own father in the way he has done is capable of anything, I suppose. Just because he doesn’t approve of my policies in regard to these sheep he coolly says he won’t embarrass me further by staying in my employ! I declare, Lucy, I’m afraid I’m going to lose everything I have down here if both he and Creede desert me. Don’t you think you could persuade Rufus to stay? Go out and see him and tell him I will consent to anything –– except this unlawful harrying of the sheep.”

The old judge, still perspiring with excitement, sank wearily down into a chair and Lucy came over and sat upon his knee.

“Father,” she said, “do you remember that you once told me you would give me this ranch if I wanted it? Well, I want it now, and perhaps if you give it to me Rufus will consent to stay.”

“But, daughter –– ” protested the judge, and then he sat quiet, pondering upon the matter.

“Perhaps you are right,” he said at last. “But tell me one thing –– there is nothing between you and Rufus, is there?”

He turned her face so that he could look into her honest eyes, but Lucy twisted her head away, blushing.

“No,” she said faintly. “He –– he is in love with Kitty.”

“With Kitty!” cried Judge Ware, outraged at the idea. “Why, he –– but never mind, never mind, darling. I am glad at least that it is not with you. We must be going home soon now, anyway, and that will break off this –– er –– But I don’t remember having seen them together much!”

“No,” said Lucy demurely, “he has been very discreet. But you haven’t answered my question, father. Will you give me the ranch if I get Rufus to stay? Oh, you’re a dear! Now you just leave everything in my hands and see what a good business woman I am!”

She skipped lightly out the door and hurried over to where Hardy and Jefferson Creede were sitting under a tree, talking gravely together. They stopped as she approached and Hardy looked up a little sullenly from where he sat. Then he rose, and took off his hat.

“May I have a few words with you on a matter of business, Rufus?” she asked, with her friendliest smile. “No, don’t go, Mr. Creede; you are interested in this, too. In fact,” she added mysteriously, “I need your assistance.”

A slow smile crept into the rough cowboy’s eyes as he sat watching her.

“What can I do for you?” he inquired guardedly.

“Well,” answered Lucy, “the situation is like this –– and I’m not trying to rope you in on anything, as you say, so you needn’t look suspicious. My father has become so discouraged with the way things are going that he has given the entire Dos S Ranch to me –– if I can manage it. Now I know that you both have quit because you don’t approve of my father’s orders about the sheep. I don’t know what your plans are but I want to get a new superintendent, and that’s where I need your assistance, Mr. Creede.”

She paused long enough to bestow a confiding smile upon the rodéo boss, and then hurried on to explain her position.

“Of course you understand how it is with father. He has been a judge, and it wouldn’t do for a man in his position to break the laws. But I want you two men to tell me before you go just what you think I ought to do to save my cattle, and you can say whatever you please. Mr. Creede, if you were a woman and owned the Dos S outfit, what would you do about the sheep?”

For a minute Creede sat silent, surveying the little lady from beneath his shaggy hair.

“Well,” he said judicially, “I think I’d do one of two things: I’d either marry some nice kind man whose judgment I could trust, and turn the job over to him,” –– he glanced sideways at Hardy as he spoke, –– “or I’d hire some real mean, plug-ugly feller to wade in and clean ’em out. Failin’ in that, I think I’d turn the whole outfit over to Rufe here and go away and fergit about it.”

He added these last words with a frank directness which left no doubt as to his own convictions in the matter, and Lucy turned an inquiring eye upon Hardy. He was busily engaged in pounding a hole in the ground with a rock, and Lucy noted for the first time a trace of silver in his hair. The setting sun cast deep shadows in the set lines of his face and when he finally looked up his eyes were bloodshot and haggard.

“There’s no use in talking to me about that job,” he said morosely. “I’ve got tired of taking orders from a man that doesn’t know what he’s talking about, and I want to use my own judgment for a while. We won’t let anything happen to your cattle, Miss Lucy, and I thank you very much, but I’m afraid I can’t do it.”

He stopped, and bowed his head, hammering moodily away at his hole in the rocky ground.

“Excuse me a minute, Miss Ware,” said Creede, rising to his feet as the silence became oppressive. “Come over here, Rufe, I want to talk with you.”

They stood with their heads together, Jeff tapping the little man on the chest with every word, and still there was the same dogged resistance. “Well, come on and let’s find out,” protested Creede at last, impatiently dragging him back.

“Miss Ware,” he said politely, “what do you expect of this here supe? I might want that job myself, later on,” he observed importantly.

Lucy smiled at the bare-faced fraud and hastened to abet it.

“I expect him to look after my cattle,” she responded promptly, “and to protect my best interests according to his own judgment. The only thing I insist upon is that he leave his gun at home.”

“I’m sorry,” said Creede briefly. “And I needed the job, too,” he added lugubriously. “How about your foreman?” he inquired, as if snatching at a straw. “Same thing, eh? Well, I’ll go you –– next month.”

He laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and crowded his big black sombrero down over his eyes until it gave him a comical air of despair.

“Luck’s gone,” he remarked, reaching parenthetically for a cigarette paper. “See you later.” And, with a last roguish twinkle at Miss Lucy, he slouched off toward the fire.

His luck indeed had gone, but somewhere in that giant carcass which harbored the vindictive hate of an Apache, and the restless energy of a Texano, there still lingered the exuberant joyousness of a boy, the indomitable spirit of the pioneer, resigned to any fate so long as there is a laugh in it. As he drifted into the crowd Lucy’s heart went out to him; he was so big and strong and manly in this, the final eclipse of his waning fortunes.

“Mr. Creede is a noble kind of a man, isn’t he?” she said, turning to where Hardy was still standing. “Won’t you sit down, Rufus, and let’s talk this over for a minute. But before you decide anything, I want you to get a good night’s sleep. You are a free man now, you know, and if there’s any worrying to be done it’s my funeral –– isn’t it?”

If he heard her at all Hardy made no response to the jest. He stood before her, swaying dizzily as he groped about for his hat, which had fallen from his hand. Then at last a faint smile broke through the drawn lines in his face.

“That’s right,” he said, sinking down at her side, and as he settled back against the tree his eyes closed instantly, like a child whose bedtime has come. “I’m –– I’m so dead tired I can’t talk straight, Lucy –– to say nothing of think. But –– I’ll take care of you. We aren’t sheeped out yet. Only –– only I can’t –– I forget what I’m going to say.” His head fell forward as he spoke, his hands hung heavy, and he slipped slowly to the ground, fast asleep.

After two days and nights of turmoil and passion his troubles were ended, suddenly; and as she raised him up Lucy Ware bent down quickly under cover of the dusk and kissed his rumpled hair.