“Fell into the river,” he said, turning with a reassuring smile to Lucy, “but he ain’t hurt none––only kinder weak, you know. I reckon a little hot tea would help some, bein’ as we’re out of whiskey, and while you’re brewin’ it I’ll git these wet clothes off. Yes’m, we’re havin’ a little trouble, but that’s only them locoed Mexicans shootin’ off their spare ammunition.” He dragged up a cot as he spoke and was hurriedly arranging a bed when Lucy interposed.
“Oh, but don’t leave him out here!” she protested, “put him back in his own room, where I can take care of him.”
“All right,” said Creede, and picking him up from his bare cot beneath the ramada he carried Hardy into the little room where he had lived before Lucy Ware came. “I guess your troubles are over for a while, pardner,” he remarked, as he tucked him into the clean white bed, and then with a wise look at Lucy he slipped discreetly out the door.
As she entered with the tea Hardy was lying very limp and white against the pillow, but after the hot drink he opened his big gray eyes and looked up at her sombrely.
“Sit down,” he said, speaking with elaborate exactness, “I want to tell you something.” He reached out and took her hand, and as he talked he clung to it appealingly. “Lucy,” he began, “I didn’t forget about you when I went down there, but––well, when Jasper Swope came out and challenged us my hair began to bristle like a dog’s––and the next thing I knew I was fighting. He said if I licked him he’d go round––but you can’t trust these sheepmen. When he saw he was whipped he tried to shoot me, and I had to jump into the river. Oh, I’m all right now, but––listen, Lucy!” He drew her down to him, insistently. “Can’t you forgive me, this time?” he whispered, and when she nodded he closed his heavy eyes and fell asleep.
When he awoke in the morning there was nothing to show for his fierce fight with Swope or his battle with the river––nothing but a great weariness and a wistful look in his eyes. But all day while the boys rode back and forth from the river he lay in bed, looking dreamily out through the barred window or following Lucy with furtive glances as she flitted in and out. Whenever she came near he smiled, and often 467 the soft light crept into his eyes, but when by chance he touched her hand or she brushed back his hair a great quiet settled upon him and he turned his face away.
It was Creede who first took notice of his preoccupation and after a series of unsatisfactory visits he beckoned Lucy outside the door with a solemn jerk of the head.
“Say,” he said, “that boy’s got something on his mind––I can tell by them big eyes of his. Any idee what it is?”
“Why, no,” answered Lucy, blushing before his searching gaze, “unless it’s the sheep.”