On the Cowboy's Trail: Western Boxed-Set. Coolidge Dane
faltering to the end. Then impulsively he reached for a fair sheet of paper to begin a letter to Kitty, a letter which should breathe the old gentleness and love, yet “for love’s sake only.” But while he sat dreaming, thinking with what words to begin, his partner lounged in, and Hardy put aside his pen and waited, while the big man hung around and fidgeted.
“Well, I’ll be in town to-morrer,” he said, drearily.
“Aha,” assented Hardy.
“What ye got there?” inquired Creede, after a long silence. He picked up the book, griming the dainty pages as he turned them with his rough fingers, glancing at the headings.
“Um-huh,” he grunted, “‘Sonnets from the Portegees,’ eh? I never thought them Dagos could write –– what I’ve seen of ’em was mostly drivin’ fish-wagons or swampin’ around some slaughterhouse. How does she go, now,” he continued, as his schooling came back to him, “see if I can make sense out of it.” He bent down and mumbled over the first sonnet, spelling out the long words doubtfully.
“I thought once how The-o-crite-us had sung
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,
Who each one in a gracious hand appears
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:
And as I mused it in his an –– ”
“Well say, what’s he drivin’ at, anyway?” demanded the rugged cowboy. “Is that Dago talk, or is he jest mixed in his mind? Perfectly clear, eh? Well, maybe so, but I fail to see it. Wish I could git aholt of some good po’try.” He paused, waiting for Hardy to respond.
“Say,” he said, at last, “do me a favor, will ye, Rufe?”
The tone of his voice, now soft and diffident, startled Hardy out of his dream.
“Why sure, Jeff,” he said, “if I can.”
“No, no ‘ifs’ and ‘ands’ about it!” persisted Creede. “A lucky feller like you with everythin’ comin’ his way ought to be able to say ‘Yes’ once in a while without hangin’ a pull-back on it.”
“Huh,” grunted Hardy suspiciously, “you better tell me first what you want.”
“Well, I want you to write me a letter,” blurted out Creede. “I can keep a tally book and order up the grub from Bender; but, durn the luck, when it comes to makin’ love on paper I’d rather wrastle a bear. Course you know who it is, and you savvy how them things is done. Throw in a little po’try, will you, and –– and –– say, Rufe, for God’s sake, help me out on this!”
He laid one hand appealingly upon his partner’s shoulder, but the little man squirmed out from under it impatiently.
“Who is it?” he asked doggedly. “Sallie Winship?”
“Aw, say,” protested Creede, “don’t throw it into a feller like that –– Sal went back on me years ago. You know who I mean –– Kitty Bonnair.”
“Kitty Bonnair!” Hardy had known it, but he had tried to keep her name unspoken. Battle as he would he could not endure to hear it, even from Jeff.
“What do you want to tell Miss Bonnair?” he inquired, schooling his voice to a cold quietness.
“Tell her?” echoed Creede ecstatically. “W’y, tell her I’m lonely as hell now she’s gone –– tell her –– well, there’s where I bog down, but I’d trade my best horse for another kiss like that one she give me, and throw in the saddle for pelon. Now, say, Rufe, don’t leave me in a hole like this. You’ve made your winnin’, and here’s your nice long letter to Miss Lucy. My hands are as stiff as a burnt rawhide and I can’t think out them nice things to say; but I love Kitty jest as much as you love Miss Lucy –– mebbe more –– and –– and I wanter tell her so!”
He ended abjectly, gazing with pleading eyes at the stubborn face of his partner whose lips were drawn tight.
“We –– every man has to –– no, I can’t do it, Jeff,” he stammered, choking. “I’d –– I’d help you if I could, Jeff –– but she’d know my style. Yes, that’s it. If I’d write the letter she’d know it was from me –– women are quick that way. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is –– every man has to fight out his own battle, in love.”
He paused and fumbled with his papers.
“Here’s a good pen,” he said, “and –– and here’s the paper.” He shoved out the fair sheet upon which he had intended to write and rose up dumbly from the table.
“I’m going to bed,” he said, and slipped quietly out of the room. As he lay in his blankets he could see the gleam of light from the barred window and hear Jeff scraping his boots uneasily on the floor. True indeed, his hands were like burnt rawhide from gripping at ropes and irons, his clothes were greasy and his boots smelled of the corral, and yet –– she had given him a kiss! He tried to picture it in his mind: Kitty smiling –– or startled, perhaps –– Jeff masterful, triumphant, laughing. Ah God, it was the same kiss she had offered him, and he had run away!
In the morning, there was a division between them, a barrier which could not be overcome. Creede lingered by the door a minute, awkwardly, and then rode away. Hardy scraped up the greasy dishes and washed them moodily. Then the great silence settled down upon Hidden Water and he sat alone in the shadow of the ramada, gazing away at the barren hills.
CHAPTER XIX
THE BIG DRUNK
The sun rose clear for the hundredth time over the shoulder of the Four Peaks; it mounted higher, glowing with a great light, and the smooth round tops of the bowlders shone like half-buried skulls along the creek-bed; it swung gloriously up to its zenith and the earth palpitated with a panting heat. Summer had come, and the long days when the lizards crawl deep into their crevices and the cattle follow the scanty shade of the box cañons or gather in standing-places where the wind draws over the ridges and mitigates the flies. In the pasture at Hidden Water the horses stood head and tail together, side by side, each thrashing the flies from the other’s face and dozing until hunger or thirst aroused them or perversity took them away. Against the cool face of the cliff the buzzards moped and stretched their dirty wings in squalid discomfort; the trim little sparrow-hawks gave over their hunting; and all the world lay tense and still. Only at the ranch house where Hardy kept a perfunctory watch was there any sign of motion or life.
For two weeks now he had been alone, ever since Jeff went down to Bender, and with the solitary’s dread of surprise he stepped out into the ramada regularly, scanning the western trail with eyes grown weary of the earth’s emptiness.
At last as the sun sank low, throwing its fiery glare in his eyes, he saw the familiar figure against the sky –– Creede, broad and bulky and topped by his enormous hat, and old Bat Wings, as raw-boned and ornery as ever. Never until that moment had Hardy realized how much his life was dependent upon this big, warm-hearted barbarian who clung to his native range as instinctively as a beef and yet possessed human attributes that would win him friends anywhere in the world. Often in that long two weeks he had reproached himself for abandoning Jeff in his love-making. What could be said for a love which made a man so pitiless? Was it worthy of any return? Was it, after all, a thing to be held so jealously to his heart, gnawing out his vitals and robbing him of his humanity? These and many other questions Hardy had had time to ask himself in his fortnight of introspection and as he stood by the doorway waiting he resolved to make amends. From a petty creature wrapped up in his own problems and prepossessions he would make himself over into a man worthy of the name of friend. Yet the consciousness of his fault lay heavy upon him and as Creede rode in he stood silent, waiting for him to speak. But Jeff for his part came on grimly, and there was a sombre