“I––I was––” he began, and stopped short. The idea of loyalty had ruled his mind so long that it had become a habit, ill suited to the cause of a jealous lover; and Jeff had confided to him as a child might run to its mother. Should a man take advantage of his friend’s innocence to deprive him of that for which they both strove? Hardy fought the devil away and spoke again, quietly.
“I was going up the river to-morrow, Jeff,” he said. “Seemed to me I saw a kind of smoke, or dust, over south of Hell’s Hip Pocket this afternoon––and we can’t take any chances now. That would take all day, you know.”
He lay still after that, his brain whirling with contending emotions. Each evening as he listened to the music of her laughter he had resolved to quit his lonely watch and snatch from life the pleasure of a single day with Kitty, such days as they used to have when he was her unacknowledged lover and all the world was young. Then he could always please her. He could bend to her moods like a willow, braving the storms of her displeasure, which only drew them closer in the end, secure in the hope of her ultimate yielding. But now the two barren years lay between; years which had stiffened his jaw and left him rough in his ways; years which had wrought some change in her, he knew not what. A single day might solve the crux––nay, it might bring the great happiness of which he dreamed. But each morning as he woke with the dawn he saw that mighty army without banners, the sheep, marching upon their stronghold, the broad mesa which fed the last of Jeff’s cows, and Judge Ware’s, and Lucy’s––and sprang from his blankets. And when the sun rose and Kitty came forth he was far away. But now––
He was awakened from his dreams by the voice of Creede, low, vibrant, full of brotherly love.
“Rufe,” he was saying, “Miss Bonnair has told me a lot about you––a lot I didn’t know. She likes you, boy, and she’s a good woman. I never knowed but one like her, and that was Sallie Winship. You mustn’t let anything that’s happened stand between you. Of course she never said anything––never said a word––but I’m wise that way; I can tell by their voice, and all that. You want to let them dam’ sheep go for a day or two and git this thing patched up.”
He paused, and Hardy’s mind whirled backward, upsetting his fears, unmaking his conclusions. It was Jeff the friend who spoke, Jeff the peacemaker, who had stampeded him by the equivocation of his words. But now the voice broke in again, apologetic, solicitous, self-seeking.
“Besides, that son-of-a-gun, Bill Lightfoot, has been tryin’ to cut me out.”
God! There it hit him hard. Kitty, the immaculate, the exquisite, the friend of poets and artists, the woman he had loved and cherished in his dreams––striven for by Jeff and Bill, revelling in the homage of Mexicans and hard-drinking round-up hands, whose natural language was astench with uncleanliness. It was like beholding a dainty flower in the grime and brutality of the branding pen.
“I’m sorry, Jeff,” he said, in a far-away voice. “I––I’d do anything I could for you––but I’m afraid of those sheep.”
He dragged miserably through the remnant of their conversation and then lay staring at the stars while his hulk of a partner, this great bear who in his awkward good nature had trampled upon holy ground, slept peacefully by his side. The Pleiades fled away before Orion, the Scorpion rose up in the south and sank again, the Morning Star blinked and blazed like a distant fire, such as shepherds kindle upon the ridges, and still Hardy lay in his blankets, fighting with himself. The great blackness which precedes the first glow of dawn found him haggard and weary of the struggle. He rose and threw wood on the coals of last night’s fire, cooked and ate in silence, and rode away. There was a great burden upon his soul, a great fire and anger in his heart, and he questioned the verities of life. He rode up the river gloomily, searching the southern wilderness with frowning, bloodshot eyes, and once more, far to the east where the jagged cliffs of the Superstitions sweep down to the gorge of the Salagua and Hell’s Hip Pocket bars the river’s sweep, he saw that vague, impalpable haze––a smoke, a dust, a veil of the lightest skein, stirred idly by some wandering wind, perhaps, or marking the trail of sheep. And as he looked upon it his melancholy gaze changed to a staring, hawk-like intentness; he leaned forward in the saddle and Chapuli stepped eagerly down the slope, head up, as if he sniffed the battle.
* * *
CHAPTER XV
THE CATASTROPHE
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 Super
stitions; 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.
“No!” said Kitty, “you do not love me”
“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 anxio
usly. 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:
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