He jerked a thumb toward the house, and in the tense silence Hardy could clearly discern the sound of women’s voices. Now you could ride the Four Peaks country far and wide and never hear the music of such voices, never see calico on the line, or a lace curtain across the window. There were no women in that godless land, not since the Widow Winship took Sallie and Susie and left precipitately for St. Louis, none save the Señora Moreno and certain strapping 195 Apache squaws who wore buckskin téwas and carried butcher knives in their belts. Even the heart of Rufus Hardy went pit-a-pat and stopped, at the sound of that happy chatter.
“They’re rustlin’ the whole dam’ house,” exclaimed Creede, all nerves and excitement. “Didn’t you hear that pan go ‘bamp’? Say, I believe they’re cleanin’ house! Rufe,” he whispered, “I bet you money we’re jumped!”
The possibility of having their ranch preëmpted during their absence had been spoken of in a general way, since Jim Swope had gone on the warpath, but in his secret soul Rufus Hardy had a presentiment which made claim-jumping look tame. There was a chastened gayety in the voices, a silvery ripple in the laughter, which told him what Creede with all his cunning could never guess; they were voices from another world, a world where Hardy had had trouble and sorrow enough, and which he had left forever. There was soldier blood in his veins and in two eventful years he had never weakened; but the suddenness of this assault stampeded him.
“You better go first, Jeff,” he said, turning his horse away, “they might––”
But Creede was quick to intercept him.
“None o’ that, now, pardner,” he said, catching his rein. “You’re parlor-broke––go on ahead!”
There was a wild, uneasy stare in his eye, which nevertheless meant business, and Hardy accepted the rebuke meekly. Perhaps his conscience was already beginning to get action for the subterfuge and deceit which he had practised during their year together. He sat still for a moment, listening to the voices and smiling strangely.
“All right, brother,” he said, in his old quiet way, and then, whirling Chapuli about, he galloped up to the house, sitting him as straight and resolute as any soldier. But Creede jogged along more slowly, tucking in his shirt, patting down his hair, and wiping the sweat from his brow.
At the thud of hoofs a woman’s face appeared at the doorway––a face sweet and innocent, with a broad brow from which the fair hair was brushed evenly back, and eyes which looked wonderingly out at the world through polished glasses. It was Lucy Ware, and when Hardy saw her he leaped lightly from his horse and advanced with hat in hand––smiling, yet looking beyond her.