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 289 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 290 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 anxiously. 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 291 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?”