“Oh, Rufus!” cried Kitty appealingly, as he rose to follow, “do stop and tell me about Bill Johnson, and, yes––Hell’s Hip Pocket!”
“Why, Kitty!” exclaimed Lucy Ware innocently, and while they were discussing the morals of geographical swearing Hardy made his bow, and passed out into the night.
The bitter-sweet of love was upon him again, making the stars more beautiful, the night more mysterious and dreamy; but as he crept into his blankets he sighed. In the adjoining cot he could hear Jeff stripping slivers from a length of jerked beef, and Tommy mewing for his share.
“Want some jerky, Rufe?” asked Creede, and then, commenting upon their late supper, he remarked:
“A picnic dinner is all right for canary birds, but it takes good hard grub to feed a man. I’m goin’ to start the rodér camp in the mornin’ and cook me up some beans.” He lay for a while in silence, industriously feeding himself on the dry meat, and gazing at the sky.
“Say, Rufe,” he said, at last, “ain’t you been holdin’ out on me a little?”
“Um-huh,” assented Hardy.
“Been gettin’ letters from Miss Lucy all the time, eh?”