Hidden Water

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 river, 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 strange 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.”

He hesitated, ended lamely, and fell suddenly into a settled silence. The hard lines about his lips deepened; his eyes, cast to the ground, glowed dully; and in every feature Lucy read the despair that was gnawing at his heart. And with it there was something more–a tacit rebuke to her for having brought Kitty there to meet him.

“We have missed you very much,” she began softly, as if reading his thoughts, “and your letters were so interesting! Ever since I showed Kitty the first one she has been crazy to come down here. Yes, she has been reading ‘The Virginian’ and O. Henry and ‘Wolfville’ until it is simply awful to hear her talk. And ride–she has been taking lessons for a year! Her saddle is out there now in the wagon, and if she could have caught one of those wild horses out in that inclosed field I really believe she would have mounted him and taken to the hills like an Indian. I had to come down to take care of father, you know, and–aren’t you glad to see us, Rufus?”

She gazed up at him anxiously, and her eyes became misty as she spoke; but Hardy was far away and he did not see.

“Yes,” he said absently, “but–I shall be very busy. Oh, where is your father?”

A light went suddenly from Lucy’s eyes and her lips quivered, but her voice was as steady as ever.

“He has gone down to the river,” she said patiently. “Would you like to see him?”

“Yes,” he replied, still impersonally; and with his head down, he walked out to where Chapuli was standing. Then, as if some memory of her voice had come to him, he dropped the bridle lash and stepped back quickly into the house.

“You mustn’t notice my rudeness, Miss Lucy,” he began abjectly. “Of course I am glad to see you; but I am a little confused, and–well, you understand.” He smiled wanly as he spoke, and held out his hand. “Is it all right?” he asked. “Good-bye, then.” And as he stepped quietly out the light came back into Lucy’s eyes.

“I am going to hunt up the judge,” he said, as he swung up on his horse; and, despite the protests of Jeff and Kitty Bonnair, who were still deep in an animated conversation, he rode off down the river.

It was not exactly like a draught of Nepenthe to go out and face the righteous indignation of Judge Ware, but Hardy’s brain was in such a whirl that he welcomed the chance to escape. Never for a moment had he contemplated the idea of Kitty’s coming to him, or of his seeing her again until his heart was whole. He had felt safe and secure forever within the walled valley of Hidden Water–but now from a cloudless sky the lightning had fallen and blinded him. Before he could raise a hand or even turn and flee she had come upon him and exacted his forgiveness. Nay, more–she had won back his love and enslaved him as before. Could it mean–what else could it mean? Nothing but that she loved him; or if not love, then she cared for him above the others. And Kitty was proud, too! Those who became her slaves must respect her whims; she would acknowledge no fault and brook no opposition; whatever she did was right. Yes, it had always been the same with her: the Queen could do no wrong–yet now she had put aside her regal prerogatives and come to him!

He hugged the thought to his bosom like a man infatuated, and then a chill misgiving came upon him. Perhaps after all it was but another of those childish whims which made her seem so lovable–always eager, always active, always striving for the forbidden and unusual, yet so dear with her laughing eyes and dancing feet that all the world gave way before her. He bowed his head in thought, following the judge’s tracks mechanically as he cantered down the trail, and when he came to the hill above the whirlpool and looked down at the empty landscape he was still wrestling with his pride. Never in the two years of his exile had he so much as mentioned her name to any one; it was a thing too sacred for confidences, this love which had changed the deep current of his life, a secret for his own soul and God–and yet, Lucy Ware might help him!

And where in all the world would he find a more faithful friend than Lucy Ware? A secret shared with her would be as safe as if still locked in his own breast–and Lucy could understand. Perhaps she understood already; perhaps–his heart stopped, and pounded against his side–perhaps Kitty had told Lucy her story already and asked her to intercede! He dwelt upon the thought again as he gazed dumbly about for his employer; and then suddenly the outer world–the plain, rough, rocks-and-cactus world that he had lived in before they came–flashed up before him in all its uncompromising clearness; the judge was nowhere in sight!

A sudden memory of Creede’s saying that he could lose his boss any time within half a mile of camp startled Hardy out of his dreams and he rode swiftly forward upon the trail. At the foot of the hill the tracks of Judge Ware’s broad shoes with their nice new hob-nails stood out like a bas-relief, pointing up the river. Not to take any chances, Hardy followed them slavishly through the fine sand until they turned abruptly up onto a ridge which broke off at the edge of the river bottom. Along the summit of this they showed again, plainly, heading north; then as the ravine swung to the west they scrambled across it and began to zigzag, working off to the east where Black Butte loomed up above the maze of brushy ridges like a guiding sentinel. At first Hardy only smiled at the circuitous and aimless trail which he was following, expecting to encounter the judge at every turn; but as the tracks led steadily on he suddenly put spurs to his horse and plunged recklessly up and down the sides of the brushy hogbacks in a desperate pursuit, for the sun was sinking low. The trail grew fresher and fresher now; dark spots where drops of sweat had fallen showed in the dry sand of the washes; and at last, half an hour before sundown, Hardy caught sight of his wandering employer, zealously ascending a particularly rocky butte.

“Hello there, Judge!” he called, and then, as Judge Ware whirled about, he inquired, with well-feigned surprise: “Where’d you drop down from?”

This was to let the old gentleman down easy–lost people having a way of waxing indignant at their rescuers–and the judge was not slow to take advantage of it.

“Why, howdy do, Rufus!” he exclaimed, sinking down upon a rock. “I was just taking a little short cut to camp. My, my, but this is a rough country. Out looking for cattle?”

“Well–yes,” responded Hardy. “I was taking a little ride. But say, it’s about my supper time. You better give up that short-cut idea and come along home with me.”

“We-ell,” said the judge, reluctantly descending the butte, “I guess I will. How far is it?”

“About two miles, by trail.”

“Two miles!” exclaimed Judge Ware, aghast. “Why, it’s just over that little hill, there. Why don’t you take a short cut?”

“The trail is the shortest cut I know,” replied Hardy, concealing a smile. “That’s the way the cattle go, and they seem to know their business. How does the country look to you?”

But the old judge was not to be led aside by persiflage–he was interested in the matter of trails.

“Cattle trails!” he exclaimed. “Do you mean to say that you do all your travelling on these crooked cow paths? Why, it is a matter of scientific observation that even on the open prairie a cow path loses nearly a quarter of its headway by constant winding in and out, merely to avoid frail bushes and infinitesimal stones. Now if you and Jeff would spend a little of your leisure in cutting trails, as they do in forestry, you would more than save yourselves the time and labor involved, I’m sure.”

“Yes?” said Hardy coldly. There was a subtle tone of fault-finding in his employer’s voice which already augured ill for their debate on the sheep question, and his nerves responded instinctively to the jab. Fate had not been so kind to him that day, that he was prepared to take very much from any man, and so he remained quiet and let the judge go the whole length.

“Why, yes, if you would stay about the ranch a little closer instead of going off on these armed forays against sheep–now just for example, how much would it cost to clear a passable trail over that ridge to the ranch?”

He pointed at the hill which in his misguided enthusiasm he had been mounting, and Hardy’s eyes glittered wickedly as he launched his barbed jest.

“About a billion dollars, I guess,” he answered, after mature consideration.

“A billion dollars!” repeated the judge. “A billion dollars! Now here, Rufus,” he cried, choking with exasperation, “I am in earnest about this matter! I don’t altogether approve of the way you and Jeff have been conducting my affairs down here, anyway, and I intend to take a hand myself, if you don’t mind. I may not know as much as you about the minor details of the cattle business, but I have been looking into forestry quite extensively, and I fail to see anything unreasonable in my suggestion of a trail. How far is it, now, over that hill to the ranch?”

“About twenty-five thousand miles,” replied Hardy blandly.

“Twenty-five thousand! Why–”

“At least, so I am informed,” explained Hardy. “Geographers agree, I believe, that that is the approximate distance around the world. The ranch is over here, you know.”

He pointed with one small, sinewy hand in a direction diametrically opposite to the one his boss had indicated, and struck out down a cow trail. It was a harsh blow to the old judge, and rankled in his bosom for some time; but after making sure that his superintendent was correct he followed meekly behind him into camp. On the way, as an afterthought, he decided not to put down his foot in the matter of the sheep until he was quite sure of the material facts.

They found Creede in the last throes of agony as he blundered through the motions of cooking supper. Half an hour of house-cleaning had done more to disarrange his kitchen than the services of two charming assistants could possibly repair. His Dutch oven was dropped into the wood box; his bread pan had been used to soak dirty dishes in; the water bucket was empty, and they had thrown his grease swab into the fire. As for the dish-rag, after long and faithful service it had been ruthlessly destroyed, and he had to make another one out of a flour sack. Add to this a hunger which had endured since early morning and a series of rapid-fire questions, and you have the true recipe for bad bread, at least.

Kitty Bonnair had taken a course in sanitation and domestic science in her college days, since which time the world had been full of microbes and every unpleasant bacillus, of which she discoursed at some length. But Jefferson Creede held steadily to his fixed ideas, and in the end he turned out some baking-powder biscuits that would have won honors in a cooking school. There was nothing else to cook, his kettle of beans having been unceremoniously dumped because the pot was black; but Kitty had the table spotlessly clean, there was an assortment of potted meats and picnic knicknacks in the middle of it, and Lucy had faithfully scoured the dishes; so supper was served with frills.