was nothing to show for his fierce fight with Swope or his battle with the river –– nothing but a great weariness and a wistful look in his eyes. But all day while the boys rode back and forth from the river he lay in bed, looking dreamily out through the barred window or following Lucy with furtive glances as she flitted in and out. Whenever she came near he smiled, and often the soft light crept into his eyes, but when by chance he touched her hand or she brushed back his hair a great quiet settled upon him and he turned his face away.
It was Creede who first took notice of his preoccupation and after a series of unsatisfactory visits he beckoned Lucy outside the door with a solemn jerk of the head.
“Say,” he said, “that boy’s got something on his mind –– I can tell by them big eyes of his. Any idee what it is?”
“Why, no,” answered Lucy, blushing before his searching gaze, “unless it’s the sheep.”
“Nope,” said Creede, “it ain’t that. I tried to talk sheep and he wouldn’t listen to me. This here looks kinder bad,” he observed, shaking his head ominously. “I don’t like it –– layin’ in bed all day and thinkin’ that way. W’y, that’d make me sick!”
He edged awkwardly over to where she was standing and lowered his voice confidentially.
“I’ll tell you, Miss Lucy,” he said, “I’ve known Rufe a long time now, and he’s awful close-mouthed. He’s always thinkin’ about something away off yonder, too –– but this is different. Now of course I don’t know nothin’ about it, but I think all that boy needs is a little babyin’, to make him fergit his troubles. Yes’m, that boy’s lonely. Bein’ sick this way has took the heart out of ’im and made ’im sorry for himself, like a kid that wants his mother. And so –– well,” he said, turning abruptly away, “that’s all, jest thought I’d tell you.” He pulled down his hat, swung dexterously up on Bat Wings and galloped away down the valley, waving his hand at the barred window as he passed.
Long after the clatter of hoofs had ceased Lucy stood in the shade of the ramada, gazing pensively at the fire-blasted buttes and the tender blue mountains beyond. How could such rugged hillsides produce men who were always gentle, men whose first thought was always of those who loved them and never of fighting and blood? It was a land of hardships and strife and it left its mark on them all. The Rufus that she had known before had seemed different from all other men, and she had loved him for it, even when all his thought was for Kitty; but now in two short years he had become stern and headstrong in his ways; his eyes that had smiled up at her so wistfully when he had first come back from the river were set and steady again like a soldier’s, and he lay brooding upon some hidden thing that his lips would never speak. Her mutinous heart went out to him at every breath, now that he lay there so still; at a word she could kneel at his side and own that she had always loved him; but his mind was far away and he took no thought of her weakness. He was silent –– and she must be a woman to the end, a voiceless suppliant, a slave that waits, unbidden, a chip on the tide that carries it to some safe haven or hurries it out to sea.
With downcast eyes she turned back into the house, going about her work with the quiet of a lover who listens for some call, and as she passed to and fro she felt his gaze upon her. At last she looked up and when she met his glance she went in and stood beside his bed.
“What is it you want, Rufus?” she asked, and his face lit up suddenly as he answered with his eloquent eyes, but he could not speak the word.
“Who am I?” he murmured, musingly, “to ask for all the world?” But he held close to the little hands and as he felt their yielding his breath came hard and he gazed up at her with infinite tenderness.
“Dear Lucy,” he said, “you do not know me. I am a coward –– it was born in me –– I cannot help it. Not with men!” he cried, his eyes lighting up. “Ah, no; my father was a soldier, and I can fight –– but –– ”
He paused and his vehemence died away suddenly. “Lucy,” he began again, still clinging to her hands for courage, “you have never laughed at me –– you have always been gentle and patient –– I will tell you something. You know how I ran away from Kitty, and how when she came down here I avoided her. I was afraid, Lucy, and yet –– well, it is all over now.” He sighed and turned restlessly on his pillow. “One day I met her up the river and she –– she called me a coward. Not by the word –– but I knew. That was the day before the sheep came in through Hell’s Hip Pocket, and even Jeff doesn’t know of the fights I had that night. I went out yesterday and fought Jasper Swope with my bare hands to wipe the shame away –– but it’s no use, I’m a coward yet.” He groaned and turned his face to the wall but Lucy only sighed and brushed back his hair. For a minute he lay there, tense and still; then as her hand soothed him he turned and his voice became suddenly soft and caressing, as she had always liked it best.
“Don’t laugh at me for it, Lucy,” he said, “I love you –– but I’m afraid.” He caught her hands again, gazing up wistfully into her eyes, and when she smiled through her tears he drew her nearer.
“Lucy,” he whispered, “you will understand me. I have never kissed any one since my mother died –– could –– could you kiss me first?”
“Ah, yes, Rufus,” she answered, and as their lips met he held her gently in his arms.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE END OF IT ALL
There is a mocking-bird at Hidden Water that sings the songs of all the birds and whistles for the dog. His nest is in a great cluster of mistletoe in the mesquite tree behind the house and every morning he polishes his long curved bill against the ramada roof, preens out his glossy feathers, and does honor to the sun. For two years, off and on, Hardy had heard him, mimicking orioles and larks and sparrows and whistling shrilly for the dog, but now for the first time his heart answered to the wild joy of the bird lover. The world had taken on light and color over night, and the breeze, sifting in through the barred window, was sweet with the fragrance of untrampled flowers.
April had come, and the grass; the air was untainted; there was no braying by the river –– the sheep had gone. It had been bought at the price of blood, but at last there was peace. The dreamy quah, quah of the quail was no longer a mockery of love; their eggs would not be broken in the nest but the mothers would lead forth their little ones; even the ground-doves and the poor-wills, nesting in last year’s sheep tracks, would escape the myriad feet –– and all because a crazy man, hiding among the cliffs, had shot down Jasper Swope. Without hate or pity Hardy thought of that great hairy fighting-man; the God that let him live would judge him dead –– and Bill Johnson too, when he should die. The sheep were gone and Lucy had kissed him –– these were the great facts in the world.
They were sitting close together beneath the ramada, looking out upon the sunlit valley and talking dreamily of the old days, when suddenly Hardy edged away and pointed apologetically to the western trail. There in single file came Judge Ware in his linen duster, a stranger in khaki, and a woman, riding astride.
“There comes father!” cried Lucy, springing up eagerly and waving her hand.
“And Kitty,” added Hardy, in a hushed voice. Not since they had come had he spoken of her, and Lucy had respected his silence. Except for the vague “Perhaps” with which she had answered Bill Lightfoot’s persistent inquiries he had had no hint that Kitty
