But Kitty was not amenable to the suggestion.
“No!” she cried, stamping her foot. “I don’t! They’re such stealthy, treacherous creatures––and they never have any affection for people.”
“Ump-um!” denied Creede, shaking his head slowly. “You don’t know cats––jest think you do, maybe. W’y, Tommy was the only friend I had here for two years. D’ye think he could fool me all that time? Rufe here will tell you how he follows after me for miles––and cryin’, too––when the coyotes might git ’im anytime. And he sleeps with me every night,” he added, lowering his voice.
“Well, you can have him,” said Kitty lightly. “Do they have any real mountain lions here?”
“Huh?” inquired Creede, still big-eyed with his emotions. “Oh, yes; Bill Johnson over in Hell’s Hip Pocket makes a business of huntin’ ’em. Twenty dollars bounty, you know.”
“Oh, oh!” cried Kitty. “Will he take me with him? Tell me all about it!”
Jefferson Creede moved over toward the door with a far-away look in his eyes.
“That’s all,” he said indifferently. “He runs ’em with hounds. Well, I’ll have to bid you good-night.”
He ducked his head, and stepped majestically out the door; and Hardy, who was listening, could hear him softly calling to his cat.