CHAPTER XVI
THE DEPARTURE
The gentle hand of sleep, which held Hardy in a grip that was akin to death, blotting out the past and dispelling all remembrance of his sorrows, failed utterly to abate the fighting spirit of Jefferson Creede or sap the Spartan grimness of his purpose. Worn by the destroying anger of the previous day, thwarted and apparently defeated, he rose up at the first glow of dawn and set about his preparations with an unemotional directness which augured ill for Jasper Swope. Before the sun was an hour high he had the town herd on the trail for Bender, entrusted to the care of Bill Lightfoot and several others of whom he wanted to be rid. The camp was dismantled, the packs were loaded upon the spare horses, and the outfit was ready to start for Carrizo Creek before breakfast was more than finished in the ranch house. After a final survey to make sure that nothing had been overlooked in the scuffle, the rodéo boss waved his hand to the leaders; then, as the train strung out up the cañon, he rode over to 309 the house to say good-bye. The last farewell is a formality often dispensed with in the Far West; but in this case the boss had business to attend to, and––well, he had something to say to Kitty Bonnair, too.
Very quietly, in order not to awaken his partner––whom he had picked up like a tired baby and stored away in the darkened bunk-room the evening before––Creede opened the door of the living-room, greeted his lady-love with a cheerful grin, and beckoned Miss Lucy outside by a backward jerk of the head.
“Sorry to disturb you, Miss Ware,” he said, “but we’re movin’ camp this mornin’ and before I go I want to tell you about them cattle I’m just sendin’ to town. If I didn’t have other business on hand I’d go down with you gladly and sell ’em for you, but when you git to Bender you go to Chris Johansen, the cattle buyer, and give him this list. You won’t savvy what it is but Chris will, and you tell him that if he don’t give you the best market price for them cows he’ll have to––lick––me! This is a dry year and feeders ain’t much nohow, but I don’t want to see no friend of mine robbed. Well, so-long, Miss Ware. Hope you have a good trip.”
He gripped her hand awkwardly, picked up his bridle lash, and thrust one boot thoughtfully into the stirrup. Then, as if suddenly cognizant of a 310 neglected duty, he snapped his foot out and threw the lash back on the ground.
“I’ll say good-bye to the judge,” he drawled, “so’s to show they ain’t no hard feelin’. Your old man don’t exactly fit in these parts,” he observed apologetically, “but he means well, I reckon. You can tell ’im some time that I was kind of excited when I quit.”
His farewell was a sober and dignified affair, after the courtly school of the South––no allusions to the past, no references to the future, merely a gentlemanly expression of regret that his guest’s visit should have been so suddenly terminated. But when he turned to Miss Kitty his masterful eyes began to glow and waver and he shifted his feet uneasily.
“Kin I speak with you a minute outside?” he said at last; and Kitty, still eager to read the heart of Man, the Unfinished, followed after him, laughing as he stooped to pass his high hat through the door.