“Oh!” exclaimed Kitty, disappointed, “and didn’t you ever shoot anybody?”
Creede blushed for her, in spite of himself. “Well,” he replied evasively, “I don’t know how it would be up where you come from, but that’s kind of a leadin’ question, ain’t it?”
“Oh, you have, then!” exclaimed Kitty Bonnair ecstatically. “Oh, I’m so glad to see a really, truly cowboy!” She paused, and gazed up at him soulfully. “Won’t you let me have it for a minute?” she pleaded, and with a sheepish grin Creede handed over his gun.
But if there had been another cowboy within a mile he would have hesitated, infatuated as he was. Every land has its symbolism and though the language of flowers has not struck root in the cow country––nor yet the amorous Mexican system of “playing the bear”––to give up one’s pistol to a lady is the sign and token of surrender. However, though it brought the sweat to his brow, the byplay was pulled off unnoticed, Hardy and Lucy Ware being likewise deep in confidences.
“How strange you look, Rufus!” exclaimed Lucy, as Kitty Bonnair began her assault upon the happiness of Jefferson Creede. “What have you been doing to yourself in these two years?”
“Why, nothing,” protested Hardy, a little wan 201 from his encounter with Kitty. “Perhaps you have forgotten how I used to look––our hair gets pretty long up here,” he added apologetically, “but––”
“No,” said Lucy firmly. “It isn’t a matter of hair, although I will admit I hardly knew you. It’s in your eyes; and you have some stern, hard lines about your mouth, too. Father says you spend all your time trying to keep the sheep out––and he’s very much displeased with you for disobeying his directions, too. He gave up some important business to come down here and see you, and I hope he scolds you well. Have you been writing any lately?” she asked accusingly.
“No!” answered Hardy absently, “we don’t have to fight them––”
“But, Rufus,” protested Lucy Ware, laying her hand on his arm, “do take your mind from those dreadful sheep. I asked you if you have been doing any writing lately––you promised to send me some poems, don’t you remember? And I haven’t received a thing!”
“Oh!” said Hardy, blushing at his mistake. “Well, I acknowledge that I haven’t done right––and you have been very kind, too, Miss Lucy,” he added gently. “But somehow I never finish anything down here––and the sheep have been pretty bad lately. I have to do my work first, you know. 202 I’ll tell you, though,” he said, lowering his voice confidentially, “if I can see you when no one is around I’ll give you what little I’ve written––at least, some of the best. A poet at his worst, you know,” he added, smiling, “is the poorest man in the world. He’s like a woman who tells everything––no one could respect him. But if we can take our finer moods, and kind of sublimate them, you know, well––every man is a poet some time.”