Hidden Water

by Coolidge, Dane

  “‘What’s the use of bein’ the yaller dog?’ he says. ‘You can’t buck the whole Association. But we’ve got room for you,’ he says, ‘so git on and ride.’ And here I am, by Joe, leadin’ the procession.”

  The sheepman paused and gazed at the band of sheep as they stood in a solid mass, their heads tucked under each other’s bellies to escape the sun.

  “Some of them sheep used to be mine,” he observed, and laughed slyly. “That’s the only thing between me and the boss. He’s begged and implored, and cursed and said his prayers, tryin’ to git me interested in the sheep business again; but like the pore, dam’ fool I am I keep that five thousand dollars in the bank.” His shoulders heaved for a moment with silent laughter, and then his face turned grave.

  “Well, Mr. Hardy,” he said, “business is business, and I’ve got to be movin’ along pretty soon. I believe you said you’d like to talk matters over for a minute.”

  “Yes,” answered Hardy promptly, “I’d like to make arrangements to have you turn out through that pass yonder and leave us a little feed for next Winter.”

  The sheepman cocked his head to one side and shut one eye knowingly.

  “Oh, you would, would you? And what word shall I take back to the boss, then?”

  “I expect I’ll see him before you do,” said Hardy, “but if you get ahead of me you can just say that I asked you to move, and so you followed out your orders.”

  “Yes,” responded Thomas, smiling satirically, “that’d be lovely. But how long since I’ve been takin’ orders off of you?”

  “Oh, I’m not trying to give you any orders,” protested Hardy. “Those come straight from Jim Swope.”

  “How’s that?” inquired the sheepman, with sudden interest.

  “Why, don’t you remember what he said when he introduced me to you, down in Moroni? ‘This is Mr. Hardy,’ he said, ‘a white cowman. If you have to go across his range, go quick, and tell your men the same.’ You may have forgotten, but it made a great impression on me. And then, to show there was no mistake about it, he told me if I found any of his sheep on my range to order them off, and you would see that they went. Isn’t that straight?”

  He leaned over and looked the sheepman in the eye but Thomas met his glance with a sardonic smile. “Sure, it’s right. But I’ve received other orders since then. You know Jim claims to be religious––he’s one of the elders in the church down there––and he likes to keep his word good. After you was gone he come around to me and said: ‘That’s all right, Shep, about what I said to that cowman, but there’s one thing I want you always to remember––feed my sheep!’ Well, them’s my orders.”

  “Well,” commented Hardy, “that may be good Scripture, but what about my cows? There’s plenty of feed out on The Rolls for Jim’s sheep, but my cows have got to drink. We cowmen have been sheeped out of all the lower country down there, and here we are, crowded clear up against the rocks. You’ve stolen a march on us and of course you’re entitled to some feed, but give us a chance. You’ve been sheeped out yourself, and you know what it feels like. Now all I ask of you is that you turn out through this pass and go down onto The Rolls. If you’ll do that I can turn all the rest of the sheep and keep my cows from starving, but if you go through me they’ll all go through me, and I’m done for. I don’t make any threats and I can’t offer any inducements, but I just ask you, as a white man, to go around.”

  As he ended his appeal he stood with his hands thrown out, and the sheepman looked at him, smiling curiously.

  “Well,” he said, at last, “you’re a new kind of cowman on me, pardner, but I’ll go you, if Jim throws a fit.”

  He advanced, and held out his hand, and Hardy took it.

  “If all sheepmen were like you,” he said, “life would be worth living in these parts.” And so, in a friendship unparalleled in the history of the Four Peaks country, a sheepman and a cowman parted in amity––and the sheep went around.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XI

  JUMPED

  Winter, the wonted season of torrential rains, six weeks’ grass, and budding flowers, when the desert is green and the sky washed clean and blue, followed close in the wake of the sheep, which went drifting past Hidden Water like an army without banners. But alas for Hidden Water and the army of sheep!––in this barren Winter the torrential rains did not fall, the grass did not sprout, and the flowers did not bloom. A bleak north wind came down from the mountains, cold and dry and crackling with electricity, and when it had blown its stint it died down in a freezing, dusty silence.

  Then the mighty south––the rain––wind that blows up out of Papaguería, rose up, big with promise, and whirled its dust clouds a thousand feet high against the horizon. But, after much labor, the keen, steely, north wind rushed suddenly down upon the black clouds, from whose edges the first spatter of rain had already spilled, and swept them from the horizon, howling mournfully the while and wrestling with the gaunt trees at night. In shaded places the icicles from slow-seeping waters clung for days unmelted, and the migrant ducks, down from the Arctic, rose up from the half-frozen sloughs and winged silently away to the far south. Yet through it all the Dos S cattle came out unscathed, feeding on what dry grass and browse the sheep had left on Bronco Mesa; and in the Spring, when all hope seemed past, it rained.

  Only those who have been through a drought know what music there is hidden in rain. It puts a wild joy into the heart of every creature, the birds sing, the rabbits leap and caper, and all the cattle and wild horses take to roaming and wandering out of pure excess of spirits. It was early in March when the first showers came, and as soon as the new feed was up Creede began his preparations for the spring rodéo. The Winter had been a hard one, and not without its worries. In an interview, which tended on both sides to become heated and personal, Jim Swope had denounced Hardy for misrepresenting his orders to his mayordomo, and had stated in no uncertain terms his firm intention of breaking even in the Spring, if there was a blade of grass left on the upper range.

  The season had been a bad one for his sheep, windy and cold, with sand storms which buried the desert in a pall and drove many flocks to the hills; and as the feed became shorter and shorter vagrant bands began to drift in along the Salagua. In the battle for the range that followed herders and punchers greeted each other with angry snarls which grew more wolfish every day, and old Pablo Moreno, shaking his white head over their quarrels, uttered gloomy prophecies of greater evils to come. Sheep would die, he said, cattle would die––it was only a question now of how many, and of which. It was a coming año seco; nay, the whole country was drying up. In Hermosillo, so they said, the women stood by the public well all night, waiting to fill their ollas; not for nine years had the rains fallen there, and now the drought was spreading north. Arizona, California, Nevada, all were doomed, yet paciencia, perhaps––and then came the rain. Yes, it was a good rain but––and then it rained again. Que bueno, who would not be made a liar for rain? But cuidado––behold, the ground was still dry; it drank up the water as it fell and was thirsty again; the river fell lower and lower and the water was clear; a bad sign, a very bad sign!

  But if the young should wait upon the advice of the old there would be no more miracles. Creede and Hardy passed up the weather, strapped on their six-shooters, and began to patrol the range, “talking reason” to the stray Mexicans who thought that, because their sheep were getting poor, they ought to move them to better feed.

  The time for friendship and diplomacy was past, as Hardy politely informed his employer by letter––after which he told Rafael to keep away from the post office and not bring him any more corréo, if he valued his job. But though he had made his note to Judge Ware brief, it had said too much. He had suggested that if the judge did not like his change of policy he had better come down and see the actual conditions for himself––and the old judge came.

  It was midafternoon of that fateful day when Creede and Hardy, riding in from up the ri
ver, saw Rafael’s wagon in front of the house. This was not surprising in itself as he had been down to Bender for round-up supplies, but as the two partners approached the house Creede suddenly grabbed Hardy’s rein and drew back as if he were on top of a rattlesnake.

  “For God’s sake,” he said, “what’s that? Listen!”

  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 godless land, not since the Widow Winship took Sallie and Susie and left precipitately for St. Louis, none save the Señora Moreno and certain strapping Apache squaws who wore buckskin téwas 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 preëmpted 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 assault 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 glasses. 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 embarrassed 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 God 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 embarrassment. “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 stran
ge you look, Rufus!” exclaimed Lucy, as Kitty Bonnair began her assault 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.”