was late when the grinding and hammering of wheels upon the boulders of the creek-bed announced his near approach and Creede went out to help unload the provisions. A few minutes later he stepped into the room where Hardy was busily cooking and stood across the table from him with his hands behind his back, grinning mischievously.
“Rufe,” he said, “you’ve got a girl.”
Hardy looked up quickly and caught the significance of his pose, but he did not smile. He did not even show an interest in the play.
“How do you figure that out?” he asked, indifferently.
“Oh, I know,” drawled Creede. “Got a letter from her.”
A single hawk-like glance was the only answer to this sally.
“She says: ‘Why the hell don’t you write!’” volunteered the cowboy.
“’S that so!” commented Hardy, and then he went on with his cooking.
For a minute Creede stood watching him, his eyes keen to detect the slightest quaver, but the little man seemed suddenly to have forgotten him; he moved about absently, mechanically, dropping nothing, burning nothing, yet far away, as in a dream.
“Huh!” exclaimed Creede, disgusted with his own make-believe, “you don’t seem to care whether school keeps or not. I’ll excuse you from any further work this evenin’ –– here’s your mail.”
He drew a bundle of letters from behind his back and dropped it heavily upon the table, but even then Hardy did not rise.
“Guess the Old Man must’ve forwarded my mail,” he remarked, smiling at the size of the pack. “I’ve been knocking around so, I haven’t received a letter in a year. Chuck ’em on my desk, will ye?”
“Sure,” responded Creede, and stepping across the broad living-room he threw the bundle carelessly on the bed.
“You’re like me,” he remarked, drawing his chair up sociably to supper, “I ain’t got a letter fer so long I never go near the dam’ post office.”
He sighed, and filled his plate with beans.
“Ever been in St. Louis?” he inquired casually. “No? They say it’s a fine burg. Think I’ll save up my dinero and try it a whirl some day.”
The supper table was cleared and Creede had lit his second cigarette before Hardy reverted to the matter of his mail.
“Well,” he said, “I might as well look over those letters –– may be a thousand-dollar check amongst them.”
Then, stepping into his room, he picked up the package, examined it curiously, and cut the cords with his knife.
A sheaf of twenty or more letters spilled out and, sitting on the edge of the bed, he shuffled them over in the uncertain light of the fire, noting each inscription with a quick glance; and as he gathered up the last he quietly tucked three of them beneath the folds of his blankets –– two in the same hand, bold and dashing yet stamped with a certain feminine delicacy and grace, and each envelope of a pale blue; the third also feminine, but inscribed in black and white, a crooked little hand that strayed across the page, yet modestly shrank from trespassing on the stamp.
With the remainder of his mail Hardy blundered over to the table, dumping the loose handful in a great pile before the weak glimmer of the lamp.
“There,” he said, as Creede blinked at the heap, “I reckon that’s mail enough for both of us. You can read the advertisements and I’ll see what the judge has to say for himself. Pitch in, now.” He waved his hand towards a lot of business envelopes, but Creede shook his head and continued to smoke dreamily.
“Nope,” he said briefly, “don’t interest me.”
He reached out and thumbed the letters over dumbly, spelling out a long word here and there or scrutinizing some obscure handwriting curiously, as if it were Chinese, or an Indian sign on a rock. Then, shoving back his chair, he watched Hardy’s face as he skimmed rapidly through the first letter.
“Good news in the first part of it and bad in the last,” he remarked, as Hardy put it down.
“That’s right,” admitted Hardy, “but how’d you know?”
He gazed up at his complacent partner with a look of innocent wonder, and Creede laughed.
“W’y, hell boy,” he said, “I can read you like a book. Your face tells the whole story as you go along. After you’ve been down here in Arizona a few seasons and got them big eyes of yourn squinched down a little –– well, I may have to ast you a few questions, then.”
He waved his hand in a large gesture and blew out a cloud of smoke, while a twinkle of amusement crept into Hardy’s unsquinched eyes.
“Maybe I’m smoother than I look,” he suggested dryly. “You big, fat fellows get so self-satisfied sometimes that you let lots of things go by you.”
“Well, I’ll take my chances on you,” answered Creede placidly. “What did the old judge say?”
“He says you did fine with the cattle,” said Hardy, “and sold ’em just in time –– the market fell off within a week after we shipped.”
“Um-huh,” grunted Creede. “And what’s the bad bunch of news at the end?”
The bad bunch of news was really of a personal nature, stirring up unpleasant memories, but Hardy passed it off by a little benevolent dissimulation.
“He says he’s mighty glad I steered the sheep away, but there is something funny going on back in Washington; some combine of the sheep and lumber interests has got in and blocked the whole Forest Reserve business and there won’t be any Salagua Forest Reserve this year. So I guess my job of sheep-wrangler is going to hold; at least the judge asked me to stay with it until Fall.”
“Well, you stay then, Rufe,” said Creede earnestly, “because I’ve kinder got stuck on you –– I like your style,” he added half apologetically.
“All right, Jeff,” said Hardy. “Here’s another letter –– from my father. See if you can guess what it is like.”
He set his face rigidly and read the short letter through without a quaver.
“You and the Old Man have had a fallin’-out,” observed Creede, with a shrewd grin, “and he says when you git good and tired of bein’ a dam’ fool you might as well come home.”
“Well, that’s about the size of it,” admitted Hardy. “I never told you much about my father, did I?”
“Never knew you had one,” said Creede, “until Bill Johnson began to blow about what an Injun-fighter he was. I reckon that’s where you git your sportin’ blood, ain’t it?”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” began Hardy. “The Old Man and I never did get along together. He’s used to commanding soldiers and all that, and I’m kind of quiet, but he always took a sneaking pride in me when I was a boy, I guess. Anyway, every time I’d get into a fight around the post and lick two or three Mexican kids,
