CHAPTER VIII
A YEAR'S MAIL
The beef herd was safely delivered at Bender, the feeders disposed ofat Moroni, and the checks sent on to the absentee owner, who did notknow a steer from a stag; the _rodeo_ hands were paid off andsuccessfully launched upon their big drunk; bills were paid and theSummer's supplies ordered in, and then at last the superintendent and_rodeo_ boss settled down to a little domesticity.
Since the day that Hardy had declined to drink with him Creede hadquietly taken to water, and he planted a bag of his accumulated wagesin a corner of the mud floor, to see, as he facetiously expressed it,if it would grow. Mr. Bill Johnson had also saved his "cow money" fromBlack Tex and banked it with Hardy, who had a little cache of his own,as well. With their finances thus nicely disposed of the two partnersswept the floor, cleaned up the cooking dishes, farmed out theirlaundry to a squaw, and set their house in order generally. They werejust greasing up their _reatas_ for a run after the wild horses ofBronco Mesa when Rafael pulled in with a wagon-load of supplies anddestroyed their peaceful life.
It was late when the grinding and hammering of wheels upon theboulders of the creek-bed announced his near approach and Creede wentout to help unload the provisions. A few minutes later he stepped intothe room where Hardy was busily cooking and stood across the tablefrom 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, buthe 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 theslightest quaver, but the little man seemed suddenly to have forgottenhim; he moved about absently, mechanically, dropping nothing, burningnothing, yet far away, as in a dream.
"Huh!" exclaimed Creede, disgusted with his own make-believe, "youdon't seem to care whether school keeps or not. I'll excuse you fromany further work this evenin'--here's your mail."
He drew a bundle of letters from behind his back and dropped itheavily upon the table, but even then Hardy did not rise.
"Guess the Old Man must've forwarded my mail," he remarked, smiling atthe size of the pack. "I've been knocking around so, I haven'treceived a letter in a year. Chuck 'em on my desk, will ye?"
"Sure," responded Creede, and stepping across the broad living-room hethrew the bundle carelessly on the bed.
"You're like me," he remarked, drawing his chair up sociably tosupper, "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 afine burg. Think I'll save up my _dinero_ and try it a whirl someday."
The supper table was cleared and Creede had lit his second cigarettebefore Hardy reverted to the matter of his mail.
"Well," he said, "I might as well look over those letters--may be athousand-dollar check amongst them."
Then, stepping into his room, he picked up the package, examined itcuriously, and cut the cords with his knife.
A sheaf of twenty or more letters spilled out and, sitting on the edgeof 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 thelast he quietly tucked three of them beneath the folds of hisblankets--two in the same hand, bold and dashing yet stamped with acertain feminine delicacy and grace, and each envelope of a pale blue;the third also feminine, but inscribed in black and white, a crookedlittle hand that strayed across the page, yet modestly shrank fromtrespassing 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 ofthe lamp.
"There," he said, as Creede blinked at the heap, "I reckon that's mailenough for both of us. You can read the advertisements and I'll seewhat the judge has to say for himself. Pitch in, now." He waved hishand towards a lot of business envelopes, but Creede shook his headand continued to smoke dreamily.
"Nope," he said briefly, "don't interest me."
He reached out and thumbed the letters over dumbly, spelling out along word here and there or scrutinizing some obscure handwritingcuriously, 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 rapidlythrough 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 tellsthe whole story as you go along. After you've been down here inArizona a few seasons and got them big eyes of yourn squinched down alittle--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, fatfellows get so self-satisfied sometimes that you let lots of things goby you."
"Well, I'll take my chances on you," answered Creede placidly. "Whatdid the old judge say?"
"He says you did fine with the cattle," said Hardy, "and sold 'em justin time--the market fell off within a week after we shipped."
"Um-huh," grunted Creede. "And what's the bad bunch of news at theend?"
The bad bunch of news was really of a personal nature, stirring upunpleasant memories, but Hardy passed it off by a little benevolentdissimulation.
"He says he's mighty glad I steered the sheep away, but there issomething funny going on back in Washington; some combine of the sheepand lumber interests has got in and blocked the whole Forest Reservebusiness and there won't be any Salagua Forest Reserve this year. So Iguess my job of sheep-wrangler is going to hold; at least the judgeasked me to stay with it until Fall."
"Well, you stay then, Rufe," said Creede earnestly, "becauseI've kinder got stuck on you--I like your style," he added halfapologetically.
"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 aquaver.
"You and the Old Man have had a fallin'-out," observed Creede, with ashrewd 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 youmuch about my father, did I?"
"Never knew you had one," said Creede, "until Bill Johnson began toblow about what an Injun-fighter he was. I reckon that's where you gityour sportin' blood, ain't it?"
"Well, I'll tell you," began Hardy. "The Old Man and I never did getalong together. He's used to commanding soldiers and all that, and I'mkind of quiet, but he always took a sneaking pride in me when I was aboy, I guess. Anyway, every time I'd get into a fight around the postand lick two or three Mexican kids, or do some good work riding orshooting, he'd say I'd be a man before my mother, or something likethat--but that was as far as he got. And all the time, on the quiet,he was educating me for the Army. His father was a captain, and he's acolonel, and I can see now he was lotting on my doing as well orbetter--but hell, that only made matters worse."
He slid down in his chair and gazed into the fire gloomily. It was thefirst time Creede had heard his partner use even the mildest of therange expletives, for in that particular he was still a tenderfoot,and the word suddenly conveyed to him the depths of the little man'sabandonment and
despair.
"Why--what was the matter?" he inquired sympathetically. "Couldn't yougit no appointment?"
"Huh!" growled Hardy. "I guess you know, all right. Look at me!" heexclaimed, in a sudden gust of passion and resentment. "Why, damn it,man, I'm an inch too short!"
"Well--I'll--be--dogged!" breathed Creede. "I never thought of that!"
"No," rejoined Hardy bitterly, "nor the Old Man, either--not until Istopped growing! Well, he hasn't had a bit of use for me since. That'sthe size of it. And he didn't take any pains to conceal the fact--mostarmy men don't. There's only one man in the world to them, and that'sa soldier; and if you're not a soldier, you're nothing."
He waved a hand as if dismissing himself from the universe, and sankmoodily into his seat, while Creede looked him over in silence.
"Rufe," he said quietly, "d'ye remember that time when I picked you tobe boss sheep-wrangler, down at Bender? Well, I might as well tell youabout that now--'t won't do no harm. The old judge couldn't figure outwhat it was I see in you to recommend you for the job. Like's not youdon't know yourself. _He_ thought I was pickin' you because you was apeaceful guy, and wouldn't fight Black Tex; but that's where he gotfooled, and fooled bad! I picked you because I knew dam' well you_would_ fight!"
He leaned far over across the table and his eyes glowed with a fiercelight.
"D'ye think I want some little suckin' mamma's-joy of a diplomat on myhands when it comes to a show-down with them sheepmen?" he cried. "No,by God, I want a _man_, and you're the boy, Rufe; so shake!"
He rose and held out his hand. Hardy took it.
"I wouldn't have sprung this on you, pardner," he continuedapologetically, "if I didn't see you so kinder down in the mouth aboutyour old man. But I jest want you to know that they's one man thatappreciates you for a plain scrapper. And I'll tell you another thing;when the time comes you'll look jest as big over the top of asix-shooter as I do, and stand only half the chanst to git hit. W'y,shucks!" he exclaimed magnanimously, "my size is agin' me at everyturn; my horse can't hardly pack me, I eat such a hell of a lot, and,well, I never can git a pair of pants to fit me. What's this hereletter?"
He picked one up at random, and Hardy ascertained that his tailor somesix months previously had moved to a new and more central location,where he would be pleased to welcome all his old customers. But thesubject of diminutive size was effectually dismissed and, havingcheered up his little friend as best he could, Creede seized theoccasion to retire. Lying upon his broad back in his blankets, withTommy purring comfortably in the hollow of his arm, he smoked out hiscigarette in speculative silence, gazing up at the familiar starswhose wheelings mark off the cowboy's night, and then dropped quietlyto sleep, leaving his partner to brood over his letters alone.
For a long time he sat there, opening them one by one--the vague andindifferent letters which drift in while one is gone; and at last hestole silently across the dirt floor and brought out the three lettersfrom his bed. There in a moment, if he had been present, Creede mighthave read him like a book; his lips drawn tight, his eyes big andstaring, as he tore open one of the pale blue envelopes with tremblinghands. The fragments of a violet, shattered by the long journey, fellbefore him as he plucked out the note, and its delicate fragrance roseup like incense as he read. He hurried through the missive, as ifseeking something which was not there, then his hungry eyes left theunprofitable page and wandered about the empty room, only to come backto those last words: "Always your Friend, Kitty Bonnair."
"Always your friend," he repeated bitterly--"always your friend. Ah,God!" He sighed wearily and shook his head. For a moment he lapsedinto dreams; then, reaching out, he picked up the second letter,postmarked over a year before, and examined it idly. The very hour ofits collection was recorded--"Ferry Sta. 1.30 A. M."--and the date hecould never forget. Written on that very same day, and yet its messagehad never reached him!
He could see as in a vision the shrouded form of Kitty Bonnairslipping from her door at midnight to fling a final word after him,not knowing how far he would flee; he could see the lonely mailcollector, half obscured in the San Francisco fog, as he scooped theletter from the box with many others and boarded the car for theferry. It was a last retort, and likely bitter, for he had spoken inanger himself, and Kitty was not a woman to be denied. There was anexaggerated quirk to the square corners of her letters, a brusqueshading of the down strokes--undoubtedly Kitty was angry. But for oncehe had disarmed her--it was a year after, now, and he had read herforgiveness first! Yet it was with a strange sinking of the heart thathe opened the blue envelope and stared at the scribbled words:
DEAR FRIEND THAT WAS: My heart is very sore to-night--I had trustedyou so--I had depended upon you so--and now you have deliberatelybroken all your faith and promises. Rufus, I had thought youdifferent from other men--more gentle, more considerate, more capableof a true friendship which I fondly hoped would last forever--but now,oh, I can never forgive you! Just when life was heaviest withdisappointments, just when I was leaning upon you most as a truefriend and comrade--then you must needs spoil it all. And after I hadtold you I could never love any one! Have you forgotten all that Itold you in the balcony? Have you forgotten all that I have risked forthe friendship I held so dear? And then to spoil it all! Oh, I hateyou--I hate you!
He stopped and stiffened in his chair, and his eyes turned wild withhorror; then he gathered his letters together blindly and crept awayto bed. In the morning he arose and went about his work withmouse-like quietness, performing all things thoroughly and well,talking, even laughing, yet with a droop like that of a woundedcreature that seeks only to hide and escape.
Creede watched him furtively, hung around the house for a while, thenstrode out to the pasture and caught up his horse.
"Be back this aft," he said, and rode majestically away up the canyon,where he would be out of the way. For men, too, have their instinctsand intuitions, and they are even willing to leave alone that whichthey cannot remedy and do not understand.
As Creede galloped off, leaving the ranch of a sudden lonely andquiet, Tommy poked his head anxiously out through a slit in the canvasbottom of the screen door and began to cry--his poor cracked voice,all broken from calling for help from the coyotes, quavering dismally.In his most raucous tones he continued this lament for his masteruntil at last Hardy gathered him up and held him to his breast.
"Ah, Kitty, Kitty," he said, and at the caressing note in his voicethe black cat began to purr hoarsely, raising his scrawny head in theecstasy of being loved. Thief and reprobate though he was, and sadlygiven to leaping upon the table and flying spitefully at dogs, eventhat rough creature felt the need of love; how much more thesensitive and high-bred man, once poet and scholar, now cowboy andsheep-wrangler, but always the unhappy slave of Kitty Bonnair.
The two letters lay charred to ashes among the glowing coals, buttheir words, even the kindest meant, were seared deep in his heart,fresh hurts upon older scars, and as he sat staring at the gaunt_sahuaros_ on the hilltops he meditated gloomily upon his reply. Then,depositing Tommy on the bed, he sat down at his desk before theiron-barred window and began to write.
DEAR FRIEND THAT WAS: Your two letters came together--the one that you have just sent, and the one written on that same night, which I hope I may some day forget. It was not a very kind letter--I am sorry that I should ever have offended you, but it was not gently done. No friend could ever speak so to another, I am sure. As for the cause, I am a human being, a man like other men, and I am not ashamed. Yet that I should so fail to read your mind I am ashamed. Perhaps it was my egotism, which made me over-bold, thinking that any woman could love me. But if what I offered was nothing to you, if even for a moment you hated me, it is enough. Now for all this talk of friendship--I am not your friend and never will be; and if, after what has passed, you are my friend, I ask but one thing--let me forget. For I will never come back, I will never write, I will never submit. Surely, with all that life offers you, you can spare me the
humiliation of being angry with you.
I am now engaged in work which, out of consideration for Judge Ware, I cannot leave; otherwise I would not ask you not to write to me.
Trusting that you will remember me kindly to your mother, I remain, sincerely,
Rufus Hardy.
He signed his name at the bottom, folded the sheet carefully, andthrust the sealed envelope into an inner pocket. Then for the firsttime, he drew out the third letter and spread its pages before him--along letter, full of news, yet asking no questions. The tense linesabout his lips relaxed as he read, he smiled whimsically as he heardof the queer doings of his old-time friends; how these two had runaway and got married in order to escape a church wedding, how TupperBrowne had painted a likeness of Mather in Hades--after the "Dante" ofDore--and had been detected in the act; and then this little note,cued in casually near the end:
Kitty Bonnair has given up art for the present on account of her eyes, and has gone in for physical culture and riding lessons in the park. She dropped in at the last meeting of The Circle, and I told her how curiously father had encountered you at Bender. We all miss you very much at The Circle--in fact, it is not doing so well of late. Kitty has not attended a meeting in months, and I often wonder where we may look for another Poet, Philosopher, and Friend--unless you will come back! Father did not tell me where you had been or what you intended to do, but I hope you have not given up the Muse. To encourage you I will send down a book, now and then, and you may send me a poem. Is it a bargain? Then good-bye.
With best wishes, LUCY WARE.
P. S.--I met your father on the street the other day, and he seemed very much pleased to hear how well you were getting along.
Hardy put the letter down and sighed.
"Now there's a thoroughly nice girl," he said. "I wonder why shedoesn't get married." Then, reaching for a fresh sheet of paper, hebegan to write, describing the beauty of the country; the noblequalities of his horse, Chapuli, the Grasshopper; the march of thevast army of sheep; Creede, Tommy, and whatnot, with all the pent-upenthusiasm of a year's loneliness. When it was ended he looked at theletter with a smile, wondering whether to send it by freight orexpress. Six cents in stamps was the final solution of the problem,and as his pocketbook contained only four he stuck them on and awaitedhis partner's return.
"Say, Jeff," he called, as Creede came in from the pasture, "have yougot any stamps?"
"Any which?" inquired Creede suspiciously.
"Any postage stamps--to put on letters."
"Huh!" exclaimed Creede. "You must think I've got a girl--or importantbusiness in the States. No, I'll tell you. The only stamp I've got isin a glass frame, hung up on the wall--picture of George Washington,you know. Haven't you never seen it? W'y, it's right there in theparler--jest above the pianney--and a jim-dandy piece of steelengraving she is, too." He grinned broadly as he concluded thisrunning fire of jest, but his partner remained serious to the end.
"Well," he said, "I guess I'll go down to Moroni in the morning,then."
"What ye goin' down there for?" demanded Creede incredulously.
"Why, to buy a stamp, of course," replied Hardy, "it's only fortymiles, isn't it?" And early in the morning, true to his word, hesaddled up Chapuli and struck out down the river.
From the doorway Creede watched him curiously, his lips parted in adubious smile.
"There's something funny goin' on here, ladies," he observed sagely,"something funny--and I'm dogged if I savvy what it is." He stoopedand scooped up Tommy in one giant paw. "Well, Tom, Old Socks," hesaid, holding him up where he could sniff delicately at the rafters,"you've got a pretty good nose, how about it, now--can you smell arat?" But even Tommy could not explain why a man should ride fortymiles in order to buy a stamp.
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