He leaned far over across the table and his eyes glowed with a fierce light.
“D’ye think I want some little suckin’ mamma’s-joy of a diplomat on my hands when it comes to a show-down with them sheepmen?” he cried. “No, by God, I want a man, and you’re the boy, Rufe; so shake!”
He rose and held out his hand. Hardy took it.
“I wouldn’t have sprung this on you, pardner,” he continued apologetically, “if I didn’t see you so kinder down in the mouth about your old man. But I jest want you to know that they’s one man that appreciates you for a plain scrapper. And I’ll tell you another thing; when the time comes you’ll look jest as big over the top of a six-shooter as I do, and stand only half the chanst to git hit. W’y, shucks!” he exclaimed magnanimously, “my size is agin’ me at every turn; my horse can’t hardly pack me, I eat such a hell of a lot, and, well, I never can git a pair of pants to fit me. What’s this here letter?”
He picked one up at random, and Hardy ascertained that his tailor some six months previously had moved to a new and more central location, where he 142 would be pleased to welcome all his old customers. But the subject of diminutive size was effectually dismissed and, having cheered up his little friend as best he could, Creede seized the occasion to retire. Lying upon his broad back in his blankets, with Tommy purring comfortably in the hollow of his arm, he smoked out his cigarette in speculative silence, gazing up at the familiar stars whose wheelings mark off the cowboy’s night, and then dropped quietly to sleep, leaving his partner to brood over his letters alone.
For a long time he sat there, opening them one by one––the vague and indifferent letters which drift in while one is gone; and at last he stole silently across the dirt floor and brought out the three letters from his bed. There in a moment, if he had been present, Creede might have read him like a book; his lips drawn tight, his eyes big and staring, as he tore open one of the pale blue envelopes with trembling hands. The fragments of a violet, shattered by the long journey, fell before him as he plucked out the note, and its delicate fragrance rose up like incense as he read. He hurried through the missive, as if seeking something which was not there, then his hungry eyes left the unprofitable page and wandered about the empty room, only to come back to those last words: “Always your Friend, Kitty Bonnair.”
“Always your friend,” he repeated 143 bitterly––“always your friend. Ah, God!” He sighed wearily and shook his head. For a moment he lapsed into dreams; then, reaching out, he picked up the second letter, postmarked over a year before, and examined it idly. The very hour of its collection was recorded––“Ferry Sta. 1.30 A. M.”––and the date he could never forget. Written on that very same day, and yet its message had never reached him!
He could see as in a vision the shrouded form of Kitty Bonnair slipping from her door at midnight to fling a final word after him, not knowing how far he would flee; he could see the lonely mail collector, half obscured in the San Francisco fog, as he scooped the letter from the box with many others and boarded the car for the ferry. It was a last retort, and likely bitter, for he had spoken in anger himself, and Kitty was not a woman to be denied. There was an exaggerated quirk to the square corners of her letters, a brusque shading of the down strokes––undoubtedly Kitty was angry. But for once he had disarmed her––it was a year after, now, and he had read her forgiveness first! Yet it was with a strange sinking of the heart that he opened the blue envelope and stared at the scribbled words:
Dear Friend That Was: My heart is very sore to-night––I had trusted you so––I had depended upon you so––and now you have deliberately broken all your faith and promises. 144 Rufus, I had thought you different from other men––more gentle, more considerate, more capable of a true friendship which I fondly hoped would last forever––but now, oh, I can never forgive you! Just when life was heaviest with disappointments, just when I was leaning upon you most as a true friend and comrade––then you must needs spoil it all. And after I had told you I could never love any one! Have you forgotten all that I told you in the balcony? Have you forgotten all that I have risked for the friendship I held so dear? And then to spoil it all! Oh, I hate you––I hate you!
He stopped and stiffened in his chair, and his eyes turned wild with horror; then he gathered his letters together blindly and crept away to bed. In the morning he arose and went about his work with mouse-like quietness, performing all things thoroughly and well, talking, even laughing, yet with a droop like that of a wounded creature that seeks only to hide and escape.