Dear Friend That Was: My heart is very sore to-night––I had trusted you so––I had depended upon you so––and now you have deliberately broken all your faith and promises. Rufus, I had thought you different from other men––more gentle, more considerate, more capable of a true friendship which I fondly hoped would last forever––but now, oh, I can never forgive you! Just when life was heaviest with disappointments, just when I was leaning upon you most as a true friend and comrade––then you must needs spoil it all. And after I had told you I could never love any one! Have you forgotten all that I told you in the balcony? Have you forgotten all that I have risked for the friendship I held so dear? And then to spoil it all! Oh, I hate you––I hate you!
He stopped and stiffened in his chair, and his eyes turned wild with horror; then he gathered his letters together blindly and crept away to bed. In the morning he arose and went about his work with mouse-like quietness, performing all things thoroughly and well, talking, even laughing, yet with a droop like that of a wounded creature that seeks only to hide and escape.
Creede watched him furtively, hung around the house for a while, then strode out to the pasture and caught up his horse.
“Be back this aft,” he said, and rode majestically away up the cañon, where he would be out of the way. For men, too, have their instincts and intuitions, and they are even willing to leave alone that which they cannot remedy and do not understand.
As Creede galloped off, leaving the ranch of a sudden lonely and quiet, Tommy poked his head anxiously out through a slit in the canvas bottom of the screen door and began to cry––his poor cracked voice, all broken from calling for help from the coyotes, quavering dismally. In his most raucous tones he continued this lament for his master until at last Hardy gathered him up and held him to his breast.
“Ah, Kitty, Kitty,” he said, and at the caressing note in his voice the black cat began to purr hoarsely, raising his scrawny head in the ecstasy of being loved. Thief and reprobate though he was, and sadly given to leaping upon the table and flying spitefully at dogs, even that rough creature felt the need of love; how much more the sensitive and high-bred man, once poet and scholar, now cowboy and sheep-wrangler, but always the unhappy slave of Kitty Bonnair.
The two letters lay charred to ashes among the glowing coals, but their words, even the kindest meant, were seared deep in his heart, fresh hurts upon older scars, and as he sat staring at the gaunt sahuaros on the hilltops he meditated gloomily upon his reply. Then, depositing Tommy on the bed, he sat down at his desk before the iron-barred window and began to write.
DEAR FRIEND THAT WAS: Your two letters came together––the one that you have just sent, and the one written on that same night, which I hope I may some day forget. It was not a very kind letter––I am sorry that I should ever have offended you, but it was not gently done. No friend could ever speak so to another, I am sure. As for the cause, I am a human being, a man like other men, and I am not ashamed. Yet that I should so fail to read your mind I am ashamed. Perhaps it was my egotism, which made me over-bold, thinking that any woman could love me. But if what I offered was nothing to you, if even for a moment you hated me, it is enough. Now for all this talk of friendship––I am not your friend and never will be; and if, after what has passed, you are my friend, I ask but one thing––let me forget. For I will never come back, I will never write, I will never submit. Surely, with all that life offers you, you can spare me the humiliation of being angry with you.
I am now engaged in work which, out of consideration for Judge Ware, I cannot leave; otherwise I would not ask you not to write to me.
Trusting that you will remember me kindly to your mother, I remain, sincerely,
Rufus Hardy.
He signed his name at the bottom, folded the sheet carefully, and thrust the sealed envelope into an inner pocket. Then for the first time, he drew out the third letter and spread its pages before him––a long letter, full of news, yet asking no questions. The tense lines about his lips relaxed as he read, he smiled whimsically as he heard of the queer doings of his old-time friends; how these two had run away and got married in order to escape a church wedding, how Tupper Browne had painted a likeness of Mather in Hades––after the “Dante” of Doré––and had been detected in the act; and then this little note, cued in casually near the end:
Kitty Bonnair has given up art for the present on account of her eyes, and has gone in for physical culture and riding lessons in the park. She dropped in at the last meeting of The Circle, and I told her how curiously father had encountered you at Bender. We all miss you very much at The Circle––in fact, it is not doing so well of late. Kitty has not attended a meeting in months, and I often wonder where we may look for another Poet, Philosopher, and Friend––unless you will come back! Father did not tell me where you had been or what you intended to do, but I hope you have not given up the Muse. To encourage you I will send down a book, now and then, and you may send me a poem. Is it a bargain? Then good-bye.
With best wishes,
Lucy Ware.
P. S.––I met your father on the street the other day, and he seemed very much pleased to hear how well you were getting along.
Hardy put the letter down and sighed.
“Now there’s a thoroughly nice girl,” he said. “I wonder why she doesn’t get married.” Then, reaching for a fresh sheet of paper, he began to write, describing the beauty of the country; the noble qualities of his horse, Chapuli, the Grasshopper; the march of the vast army of sheep; Creede, Tommy, and whatnot, with all the pent-up enthusiasm of a year’s loneliness. When it was ended he looked at the letter with a smile, wondering whether to send it by freight or express. Six cents in stamps was the final solution of the problem, and as his pocketbook contained only four he stuck them on and awaited his partner’s return.
“Say, Jeff,” he called, as Creede came in from the pasture, “have you got any stamps?”
“Any which?” inquired Creede suspiciously.
“Any postage stamps––to put on letters.”
“Huh!” exclaimed Creede. “You must think I’ve got a girl––or important business in the States. No, I’ll tell you. The only stamp I’ve got is in a glass frame, hung up on the wall––picture of George Washington, you know. Haven’t you never seen it? W’y, it’s right there in the parler––jest above the pianney––and a jim-dandy piece of steel engraving she is, too.” He grinned broadly as he concluded this running fire of jest, but his partner remained serious to the end.
“Well,” he said, “I guess I’ll go down to Moroni in the morning, then.”
“What ye goin’ down there for?” demanded Creede incredulously.
“Why, to buy a stamp, of course,” replied Hardy, “it’s only forty miles, isn’t it?” And early in the morning, true to his word, he saddled up Chapuli and struck out down the river.
From the doorway Creede watched him curiously, his lips parted in a dubious smile.
“There’s something funny goin’ on here, ladies,” he observed sagely, “something funny––and I’m dogged if I savvy what it is.” He stooped and scooped up Tommy in one giant paw. “Well, Tom, Old Socks,” he said, holding him up where he could sniff delicately at the rafters, “you’ve got a pretty good nose, how about it, now––can you smell a rat?” But even Tommy could not explain why a man should ride forty miles in order to buy a stamp.
* * *
CHAPTER IX
MORONI
The Mormon settlement of Moroni proved to belong to that large class of Western “cities” known as “string-towns”––a long line of stores on either side of a main street, brick where fires have swept away the shacks, and wood with false fronts where dynamite or a change of wind has checked the conflagration; a miscellaneous conglomeration of saloons, restaurants, general stores, and livery stables, all very satisfying to the material wants of man, but in the ensemble not over-pleasing to the eye.
At first glance, Moroni might
have been Reno, Nevada; or Gilroy, California; or Deming, New Mexico; or even Bender––except for the railroad. A second glance, however, disclosed a smaller number of disconsolate cow ponies standing in front of the saloons and a larger number of family rigs tied to the horse rack in front of Swope’s Store; there was also a tithing house with many doors, a brick church, and women and children galore. And for twenty miles around there was nothing but flowing canals and irrigated fields waving with wheat and alfalfa, all so green and prosperous that a stranger from the back country was likely to develop a strong leaning toward the faith before he reached town and noticed the tithing house.
As for Hardy, his eyes, so long accustomed to the green lawns and trees of Berkeley, turned almost wistful as he gazed away across the rich fields, dotted with cocks of hay or resounding to the whirr of the mower; but for the sweating Latter Day Saints who labored in the fields, he had nothing but the pitying contempt of the cowboy. It was a fine large country, to be sure, and produced a lot of very necessary horse feed, but Chapuli shied when his feet struck the freshly sprinkled street, and somehow his master felt equally ill at ease.
Having purchased his stamp and eaten supper, he was wandering aimlessly up and down the street––that being the only pleasure and recourse of an Arizona town outside the doors of a saloon––when in the medley of heterogeneous sounds he heard a familiar voice boom out and as abruptly stop. It was evening and the stores were closed, but various citizens still sat along the edge of the sidewalk, smoking and talking in the semi-darkness. Hardy paused and listened a moment. The voice which he had heard was that of no ordinary man; it was deep and resonant, with a rough, overbearing note almost military in its brusqueness; but it had ceased and another voice, low and protesting, had taken its place. In the gloom he could just make out the forms of the two men, sitting on their heels against the wall and engaged in a one-sided argument. The man with the Southern drawl was doing all the talking, but as Hardy passed by, the other cut in on him again.
“Well,” he demanded in masterful tones, “what ye goin’ to do about it?” Then, without waiting for an answer, he exclaimed:
“Hello, there, Mr. Hardy!”
“Hello,” responded Hardy. “Who is this, anyway?”
“Jim Swope,” replied the voice, with dignified directness. “What’re you doing in these parts?”
“Came down to buy a postage stamp,” replied Hardy, following a habit he had of telling the truth in details.
“Huh!” grunted Swope. “It’s a wonder you wouldn’t go to Bender for it––that Jew over there might make you a rate!”
“Nope,” responded Hardy, ignoring the too-evident desire of the Moroni storekeeper to draw him into an argument. “He couldn’t do it––they say the Government loses money every time it sells one. Nice town you’ve got down here,” he remarked, by way of a parting compliment; but Swope was not satisfied to let him escape so easily.
“Hold on, there!” he exclaimed, rousing up from his place. “What’s your bloody hurry? Come on back here and shake hands with Mr. Thomas––Mr. Thomas is my boss herder up in Apache County. Thinking of bringing him down here next Fall,” he added laconically, and by the subtle change in his voice Hardy realized intuitively that that move had been the subject of their interrupted argument. More than that, he felt vaguely that he himself was somehow involved in the discussion, the more so as Mr. Thomas balked absolutely at shaking hands with him.
“I hope Mr. Thomas will find it convenient to stop at the ranch,” he murmured pleasantly, “but don’t let me interfere with your business.”
“Well, I guess that’s all to-night, Shep,” remarked Swope, taking charge of the situation. “I jest wanted you to meet Hardy while you was together. This is the Mr. Hardy, of the Dos S outfit, you understand,” he continued, “and a white cowman! If you have to go across his range, go quick––and tell your men the same. I want them dam’ tail-twisters up in that Four Peaks country to know that it pays to be decent to a sheepman, and I’m goin’ to show some of ’em, too, before I git through! But any time my sheep happen to git on your range, Mr. Hardy,” he added reassuringly, “you jest order ’em off, and Mr. Thomas here will see to it that they go!”
He turned upon his boss herder with a menacing gesture, as if charging him with silence, and Thomas, whose sole contribution to the conversation had been a grunt at the end, swung about and ambled sullenly off up the street.
“Feelin’ kinder bad to-night,” explained Swope, as his mayordomo butted into the swinging doors of a saloon and disappeared, “but you remember what I said about them sheep. How do things look up your way?” he inquired. “Feed pretty good?”
“It’s getting awfully dry,” replied Hardy noncommittally. “I suppose your sheep are up on the Black Mesa by this time.”
“Ump!” responded the sheepman, and then there was a long pause. “Sit down,” he said at last, squatting upon the edge of the sidewalk, “I want to talk business with you.”
He lit a short black pipe and leaned back comfortably against a post.
“You seem to be a pretty smooth young feller,” he remarked, patronizingly. “How long have you been in these parts? Two months, eh? How’d Judge Ware come to get a-hold of you?”
“Just picked me up down at Bender,” replied Hardy.
“Oh, jest picked you up, hey? I thought mebby you was some kin to him. Ain’t interested in the cattle, are you? Well, I jest thought you might be, being put in over Jeff that way, you know. Nice boy, that, but hot-headed as a goat. He’ll be making hair bridles down in Yuma some day, I reckon. His old man was the same way. So you ain’t no kin to the judge and’ve got no int’rest in the cattle, either, eh? H’m, how long do you figure on holding down that job?”
“Don’t know,” replied Hardy; “might quit to-day or get fired to-morrow. It’s a good place, though.”
“Not the only one, though,” suggested the sheepman shrewdly, “not by a dam’ sight! Ever investigate the sheep business? No? Then you’ve overlooked something! I’ve lived in this country for nigh onto twenty years, and followed most every line of business, but I didn’t make my pile punching cows, nor running a store, neither––I made it raising sheep. Started in with nothing at the time of the big drought in ’92, herding on shares. Sheep did well in them good years that followed, and first thing I knew I was a sheepman. Now I’ve got forty thousand head, and I’m making a hundred per cent on my investment every year. Of course, if there comes a drought I’ll lose half of ’em, but did you ever sit down and figure out a hundred per cent a year? Well, five thousand this year is ten next year, and ten is twenty the next year, and the twenty looks like forty thousand dollars at the end of three years. That’s quite a jag of money, eh? I won’t say what it would be in three years more, but here’s the point. You’re a young man and out to make a stake, I suppose, like the rest of ’em. What’s the use of wasting your time and energy trying to hold that bunch of half-starved cows together? What’s the use of going into a poor business, man, when there’s a better business; and I’ll tell you right now, the sheep business is the coming industry of Arizona. The sheepmen are going to own this country, from Flag to the Mexican line, and you might as well git on the boat, boy, before it’s too late.”
He paused, as if waiting for his points to sink home; then he reached out and tapped his listener confidentially on the knee.
“Hardy,” he said, “I like your style. You’ve got a head, and you know how to keep your mouth shut. More’n that, you don’t drink. A man like you could git to be a boss sheep-herder in six months; you could make a small fortune in three years and never know you was workin’. You don’t need to work, boy; I kin git a hundred men to work––what I want is a man that can think. Now, say, I’m goin’ to need a man pretty soon––come around and see me some time.”
“All right,” said Hardy, reluctantly, “but I might as well tell you now that I’m satisfied where I am.”
“Satisfied!” ripped ou
t Swope, with an oath. “Satisfied! Why, man alive, you’re jest hanging on by your eyebrows up there at Hidden Water! You haven’t got nothin’; you don’t even own the house you live in. I could go up there to-morrow and file on that land and you couldn’t do a dam’ thing. Judge Ware thought he was pretty smooth when he euchred me out of that place, but I want to tell you, boy––and you can tell him, if you want to––that Old Man Winship never held no title to that place, and it’s public land to-day. That’s all public land up there; there ain’t a foot of land in the Four Peaks country that I can’t run my sheep over if I want to, and keep within my legal rights. So that’s where you’re at, Mr. Hardy, if you want to know!”
He stopped and rammed a cut of tobacco into his pipe, while Hardy tapped his boot meditatively. “Well,” he said at last, “if that’s the way things are, I’m much obliged to you for not sheeping us out this Spring. Of course, I haven’t been in the country long, and I don’t know much about these matters, but I tried to accommodate you all I could, thinking––”
“That ain’t the point,” broke in Swope, smoking fiercely, “I ain’t threatening ye, and I appreciate your hospitality––but here’s the point. What’s the use of your monkeying along up there on a job that is sure to play out, when you can go into a better business? Answer me that, now!”
But Hardy only meditated in silence. It was beyond contemplation that he should hire himself out as a sheep-herder, but if he said so frankly it might call down the wrath of Jim Swope upon both him and the Dos S. So he stood pat and began to fish for information.
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