As the Rio Salagua, swollen with winter rains, rose up like a writhing yellow serpent and cast itself athwart the land, it drew a line from east to west which neither sheep nor cattle could cross, and the cowmen who had lingered about Hidden Water rode gayly back to their distant ranches, leaving the peaceful Dos S where Sallie Winship had hung her cherished lace curtains and Kitty Bonnair and Lucy Ware had made a home, almost a total wreck. Sheep, drought, and flood had passed over it in six months’ time; the pasture fence was down, the corrals were half dismantled, and the bunk-room looked like a deserted grading camp. For a week Creede and Hardy cleaned up and rebuilt, but every day, in spite of his partner’s efforts to divert his mind, Jeff grew more restless and uneasy. Then one lonely evening he 433 went over to the corner where his money was buried and began to dig.
“What––the––hell––is the matter with this place?” he exclaimed, looking up from his work as if he expected the roof to drop. “Ever since Tommy died it gits on my nerves, bad.” He rooted out his tomato can and stuffed a roll of bills carelessly into his overalls pocket. “Got any mail to go out?” he inquired, coming back to the fire, and Hardy understood without more words that Jeff was going on another drunk.
“Why, yes,” he said, “I might write a letter to the boss. But how’re you going to get across the river––she’s running high now.”
“Oh, I’ll git across the river, all right,” grumbled Creede. “Born to be hung and ye can’t git drowned, as they say. Well, give the boss my best.” He paused, frowning gloomily into the fire. “Say,” he said, his voice breaking a little, “d’ye ever hear anything from Miss Bonnair?”
For a moment Hardy was silent. Then, reading what was in his partner’s heart, he answered gently:
“Not a word, Jeff.”
The big cowboy sighed and grinned cynically.
“That was a mighty bad case I had,” he observed philosophically. “But d’ye know what was the matter with me? Well, I never tumbled to it till 434 afterward, but it was jest because she was like Sallie––talked like her and rode like her, straddle, that way. But I wanter tell you, boy,” he added mournfully, “Sal had a heart.”
He sank once more into sombre contemplation, grumbling as he nursed his wounds, and at last Hardy asked him a leading question about Sallie Winship.
“Did I ever hear from ’er?” repeated Creede, rousing up from his reverie. “No, and it ain’t no use to try. I wrote to her three times, but I never got no answer––I reckon the old lady held ’em out on her. She wouldn’t stand for no bow-legged cowpuncher––and ye can’t blame her none, the way old man Winship used to make her cook for them rodéo hands––but Sallie would’ve answered them letters if she’d got ’em.”