Like two souls haled from the world without a word of explanation or confession, Kitty and Lucy both sat down under duress to pen a last appeal to the little man who, despite his stern disregard, somehow held a place in their hearts. Kitty could have wept with vexation at the thought of not seeing him again––and after she had brought her mind to forgive him, too! She wrote blindly, she knew not what, whether it was accusation or entreaty, and sealed the envelope with a bang of her tiny fist––and even then he did not awaken. Lucy wrote carefully, wrestling to turn the implacable one from his purpose and yet feeling that he would have his will. She sealed her note and put it upon his desk hesitatingly; then, as 315 Kitty turned away, she dropped her handkerchief beside it. It was a time-worn strategy, such as only the innocent and guileless think of in their hour of adversity. When she ran back to recover it Lucy drew a dainty book from her bosom––Mrs. Browning’s “Sonnets from the Portuguese”––and placed it across her note as if to save it from the wind, and between two leaves she slipped the forget-me-nots which he had given her at Hidden Water.
As the thud of horses’ hoofs died away silence settled down upon the Dos S ranch house, the sombre silence of the desert, unbroken by the murmur of women’s voices or the echo of merry laughter, and the sleeping man stirred uneasily on his bed. An hour passed, and then from the ramada there came a sound of wailing. Hardy rose up on his bed suddenly, startled. The memory of the past came to him vaguely, like fragments of an eerie dream; then the world came right and he found himself in the bunk-house, alone––and Tommy outside, crying as if for the dead. Leaping up from his blankets Hardy opened the door and called him in––hoarse, black, distorted, yet overflowing with love and affection. Poor little Tommy! He took him in his arms to comfort him, and bedded him down on the pillow. But when he stepped outside he found that his world too was vacant––the house deserted, the corrals 316 empty, the rodéo camp a smouldering fireplace, surrounded by a wilderness of tin cans.
As the slow grief of the forsaken came upon him he turned and went to his room, where the atmosphere of womankind still lingered to suggest the dear hands that were gone, and suddenly his eyes leaped to the letters left upon the table. It was Kitty’s which he opened first, perhaps because it was nearest; but the torrent of inconsequential words confused him by their unreason and he turned to Lucy’s, reading it over thoughtfully.
“Dear Rufus:
“We have waited a long time for you to wake up, and now father says we must go. You were so tired last night that I doubt if you heard a word I said, although I thought I was making a great impression in my new role as a business woman. I asked father to give me the ranch, not because I wanted to own it but to save you from your madness. The cattle are all mine now and I leave them in your care. Whatever you do I will consent to, if you will leave your guns at home. Is that too much for a friend to ask? I know that Mr. Creede is your friend too, and I admire your devotion to his cause, but I think you can do just as much for him and more by not risking your life in a battle against the sheep. They are so many, Rufus, and they have their rights, too. Father is confident that the Forest Reserve will be declared next Winter and then the sheep will be debarred forever. Can’t you give over the fight for my sake? And I will pay you any price––I will do anything you ask; but if you should 317 be killed or kill some other man, I could never be happy again, though I gained the whole world. Dear Rufus, please––but I leave it for you to decide––”
The note ended abruptly, it was not even signed, and Hardy could imagine the agitation in which it was written. Dear little Lucy, always thinking of others, always considerate, always honest and reasonable. If only Kitty––But no––in her own right as Queen of Love and of his heart, she was above all criticism and blame. It was a madness, deeper than his anger against the sheep, mightier than his fiercest resentment––he could not help it; he loved her. Changeable, capricious, untamed, she held him by her faults where virtues would hardly have sufficed in another. He had tried, and failed; so long as she was in the world he must love her. But what a life! He cast the letter from him and his heart turned to Jeff and the big fight, the battle that they had planned to wage together. In the rush and struggle of that combat he could forget the pangs which tortured him; he could have his revenge on life, which had treated him so shabbily! And yet––and yet––could he desert a friend like Lucy––Lucy who would give her life to make him happier, who had always by every act tried to make him forget his sorrows?
For a long time he sat with his head bowed, thinking. 318 Then he rose up and took down his long-barrelled Colt’s, fingered it lovingly, and thrust it, scabbard and all, into the depths of his war bag.
As he rode down the hill into the camp that afternoon Creede came out to meet him, and when his eyes fell upon the empty belt, he smiled knowingly.
“Well, you woke up, did you?” he inquired, laying one hand carelessly on the bulge in Hardy’s right shap, where modest cowboys sometimes secrete their guns. “Um-huh!” he grunted, slapping the left shap to make sure. “I suspected as much. Well, I congratulate you, supe––if my girl had asked me I reckon I’d’ve give up my gun too. But she gimme a kiss, anyway,” he added, tossing his head triumphantly.
“Who did?” demanded Hardy, coming suddenly out of his dream.
“Why, Kitty, sure,” returned Creede artlessly; and then, noting the look of incredulity on his partner’s face, he slapped him on the leg and laughed consumedly.