On the Cowboy's Trail: Western Boxed-Set. Coolidge Dane
“Oh, yes; Bill Johnson over in Hell’s Hip Pocket makes a business of huntin’ ’em. Twenty dollars bounty, you know.”
“Oh, oh!” cried Kitty. “Will he take me with him? Tell me all about it!”
Jefferson Creede moved over toward the door with a far-away look in his eyes.
“That’s all,” he said indifferently. “He runs ’em with hounds. Well, I’ll have to bid you good-night.”
He ducked his head, and stepped majestically out the door; and Hardy, who was listening, could hear him softly calling to his cat.
“Oh, Rufus!” cried Kitty appealingly, as he rose to follow, “do stop and tell me about Bill Johnson, and, yes –– Hell’s Hip Pocket!”
“Why, Kitty!” exclaimed Lucy Ware innocently, and while they were discussing the morals of geographical swearing Hardy made his bow, and passed out into the night.
The bitter-sweet of love was upon him again, making the stars more beautiful, the night more mysterious and dreamy; but as he crept into his blankets he sighed. In the adjoining cot he could hear Jeff stripping slivers from a length of jerked beef, and Tommy mewing for his share.
“Want some jerky, Rufe?” asked Creede, and then, commenting upon their late supper, he remarked:
“A picnic dinner is all right for canary birds, but it takes good hard grub to feed a man. I’m goin’ to start the rodér camp in the mornin’ and cook me up some beans.” He lay for a while in silence, industriously feeding himself on the dry meat, and gazing at the sky.
“Say, Rufe,” he said, at last, “ain’t you been holdin’ out on me a little?”
“Um-huh,” assented Hardy.
“Been gettin’ letters from Miss Lucy all the time, eh?”
“Sure.”
“Well,” remarked Creede, “you’re a hell of a feller! But I reckon I learned somethin’,” he added philosophically, “and when I want somebody to tell my troubles to, I’ll know where to go. Say, she’s all right, ain’t she?”
“Yeah.”
“Who’re you talkin’ about?”
“Who’re you?”
“Oh, you know, all right, all right –– but, say!”
“Well?”
“It’s a pity she don’t like cats.”
CHAPTER XII
THE GARDEN IN THE DESERT
The sun was well up over the cañon rim when the tired visitors awoke from their dreams. Kitty Bonnair was the first to open her eyes and peep forth upon the fairy world which promised so much of mystery and delight. The iron bars of their window, deep set in the adobe walls, suggested the dungeon of some strong prison where Spanish maidens languished for sight of their lovers; a rifle in the corner, overlooked in the hurried moving, spoke eloquently of the armed brutality of the times; the hewn logs which supported the lintels completed the picture of primitive life; and a soft breeze, breathing in through the unglazed sills, whispered of dark cañons and the wild, free out-of-doors.
As she lay there drinking it all in a murmur of voices came to her ears; and, peering out, she saw Creede and Rufus Hardy squatting by a fire out by the giant mesquite tree which stood near the bank of the creek. Creede was stirring the contents of a frying-pan with a huge iron spoon, and Rufus was cooking strips of meat on a stick which he turned above a bed of coals. There was no sign of hurry or anxiety about their preparations; they seemed to be conversing amiably of other things. Presently Hardy picked up a hooked stick, lifted the cover from the Dutch oven, and dumped a pile of white biscuits upon a greasy cloth. Then, still deep in their talk, they filled their plates from the fry-pan, helped themselves to meat, wrapped the rest of the bread in the cloth, and sat comfortably back on their heels, eating with their fingers and knives.
It was all very simple and natural, but somehow she had never thought of men in that light before. They were so free, so untrammelled and self-sufficient; yes, and so barbarous, too. Rufus Hardy, the poet, she had known –– quiet, soft-spoken, gentle, with dreamy eyes and a doglike eagerness to please –– but, lo! here was another Rufus, still gentle, but with a stern look in his eyes which left her almost afraid –– and those two lost years lay between. How he must have changed in all that time! The early morning was Kitty’s time for meditation and good resolutions, and she resolved then and there to be nice to Rufus, for he was a man and could not understand.
As the sound of voices came from the house Jefferson Creede rose up from his place and stalked across the open, rolling and swaying in his high-heeled boots like a huge, woolly bear.
“Well, Judge,” he said, after throwing a mountain of wood on the fire as a preliminary to cooking breakfast for his guests, “I suppose now you’re here you’d like to ride around a little and take stock of what you’ve got. The boys will begin comin’ in for the rodér to-day, and after to-morrow I’ll be pretty busy; but if you say so I’ll jest ketch up a gentle horse, and show you the upper range before the work begins.”
“Oh, won’t you take me, too?” cried Kitty, skipping in eagerly. “I’ve got the nicest saddle –– and I bet I can ride any horse you’ve got.”
She assumed a cowboy-like strut as she made this assertion, shaking her head in a bronco gesture which dashed the dark hair from her eyes and made her look like an unbroken thoroughbred. Never in all his life, even in the magazine pictures of stage beauties which form a conspicuous mural decoration in those parts, had Creede seen a woman half so charming, but even in his love blindness he was modest.
“We’ll have to leave that to the judge,” he said deferentially, “but they’s horses for everybody.” He glanced inquiringly at Lucy, who was busily unpacking her sketching kit; but she only smiled, and shook her head.
“The home is going to be my sphere for some time,” she remarked, glancing about at the half-cleaned room, “and then,” she added, with decision, “I’m going to make some of the loveliest water colors in the world. I think that big giant cactus standing on that red-and-gray cliff over there is simply wonderful.”
“Um, pretty good,” observed Creede judicially. “But you jest ought to see ’em in the gorge where Hidden Water comes out! Are ye goin’ along, Rufe?” he inquired, bending his eyes upon Hardy with a knowing twinkle. “No? Well, you can show her where it is! Didn’t you never hear why they call this Hidden Water?” he asked, gazing benignly upon the young ladies. “Well, listen.
“They’s a big spring of water right up here, not half a mile. It’s an old landmark –– the Mexicans call it Agua Escondida –– but I bet neither one of you can find it and I’ll take you right by the gulch where it comes out. They can’t nobody find it, unless they’re wise enough to follow cow tracks –– and of course, we don’t expect that of strangers. But if you ever git lost and you’re within ten miles of home jest take the first cow trail you see and follow it downhill and you’ll go into one end or the other of Hidden Water cañon. Sure, it’s what you might call the Hello-Central of the whole Four Peaks country, with cow paths instead of wires. The only thing lackin’ is the girls, to talk back, and call you down for your ungentlemanly language, and –– well, this country is comin’ up every day!”
He grinned broadly, wiping his floury hands on his overalls in defiance of Miss Kitty’s most rudimentary principles; and yet even she, for all her hygiene, was compelled to laugh. There was something about Creede that invited confidence and feminine badgering, he was so like a big, good-natured boy. The entire meal was enlivened by her efforts, in the person of a hello girl, to expurgate his language, and she ended by trying to get him