Hidden Water

by Dane Coolidge

  CHAPTER XVIII

  BAD BLOOD

  The sheep were on the run, drifting across Bronco Mesa as if the devilwas after them, and Creede could hardly stay on his horse fromlaughing--but when he drew near to Hidden Water his face changed.There was a fresh sheep trail in the canyon and it led away from theranch. He spurred forward like the wind, his eyes upon the tracks, andwhen he came in sight of the house he threw down his hat and swore. Ofall the God-forsaken places in Arizona, the Dos S Ranch was the worst.The earth lay bare and desolate before it; the woodpile haddisappeared; the bucket was thrown down the well. Never had the flat,mud buildings seemed so deserted or Tommy so tragic in his welcome.The pasture gate was down and even that holy of holies, the brandingcorral, stunk of sheep. Only the padlocked house had been respected,and that perforce, since nothing short of a sledgehammer could breakits welded chain.

  Unfastening the battered door they entered the living-room which oncehad been all light and laughter. There lay the dishes all clean andorderly on the table, the floors swept, the beds made, some witheredflowers on Hardy's desk.

  "Huh," grunted Creede, looking it over coldly, "we're on the bum, allright, all right, now. How long since they went away?"

  "'Bout a year," replied Hardy, and his partner did not contradicthim.

  They cooked a hasty meal and ate it, putting the scraps in thefrying-pan for Tommy.

  "Go to it, Tom," said Creede, smiling wistfully as the cat lapped awayat the grease. "He never could git used to them skirts rustlin' roundhere, could he?" And then there was a long silence.

  Tommy sat up and washed his face contentedly, peering about withintent yellow eyes and sniffing at the countless odors with which hisworld was filled--then suddenly with a low whining growl he lashedacross the room like a tiger and leapt up into his cat hole. This wasa narrow tunnel, punched through the adobe wall near the door andboxed in with a projecting cribbing to keep out the snakes and skunks.Through it when his protectors were away he could escape the rush ofpursuing coyotes, or sally forth with equal ferocity when sheep dogswere about. He peered out of his porthole for a moment, warily, thenhis stump tail began to twitch, he worked his hind claws into thewood, and leapt. A yelp of terror from the _ramada_ heralded hissuccess and Creede ran like a boy to look.

  "He's jumped one, by Joe!" he exclaimed. "What did I tell ye--that catis a holy terror on dogs!"

  The dog in question--a slinking, dispirited cur--wagged its tailapologetically from a distance, shaking its bloody ears, while Tommyswelled and hissed viciously at him from his stronghold. It was asheep dog, part collie, part shepherd, and the rest plain yellow--afriendly little dog, too, and hungry. But the heart of Creede,ordinarily so tender, was hardened by his disasters.

  "Git out of here!" he commanded roughly. "Git, you yap, or I'll burnyou up with a bullet!

  "This is what comes of leavin' your gun off," he grumbled, as heunbound his bed and grabbed up his pistol. But as he stepped out intothe open to shoot, his barbarity was checked by a clatter of hoofsand, looking up, he saw Jasper Swope on his big black mule, amblingtruculently in across the open.

  "Hyar!" he shouted, shaking his fist angrily, "don't you shoot my dog,you--or I'll be the death of ye!"

  "Oh, I don't know," responded Creede, bristling back at him. "Keep theblame pup away, then--and keep that other dog away, too, or my cat'lleat 'im up! Well, I notice you took the occasion to come down andsheep me out," he observed, as Swope pulled up before the door.

  "I _did_ not," retorted the sheepman promptly, but grinningnevertheless at the damage, "but I see some other feller has though,and saved me the trouble." He ran his eye approvingly over thedevastated homestead; and then, rising in his stirrups, he plungedsuddenly into his set speech.

  "I've took a lot off'n you, Jeff Creede," he shouted, swinging hisarms wildly, "but I've got a bellyful of this night work! And I comedown to tell you that next time you shoot up one of my camps there'llbe trouble!"

  "I never shot up your old camp," growled Creede, "nor any other camp.I'm dam' glad to hear that somebody else did though," he addedvindictively, "and I hope to God he fixed you good and proper. Nowwhat can I do for you, Mr. Swope?" he inquired, thrusting out hischin. "I suppose you must be hurryin' on, of course."

  "No!" cried Swope, slapping his saddle horn vehemently. "I come downhere to git some satisfaction out of you! My sheep has been killed andmy men has been intimidated on this here public range, and I want totell you right now, Mr. Creede, that this funny business has got tostop!"

  "Well, don't choke!" said the cowman, fingering his gun coldly. "Goahead and stop it, why don't you?"

  He paused, a set smile on his lips, and for a moment their eyes met inthe baleful glare which rival wolves, the leaders of their packs,confer upon each other. Then Hardy stepped out into the open, holdingup his hand for peace.

  "You are mistaken, Mr. Swope," he said quietly. "Jeff hasn't shot upany camps--he hasn't even packed a gun for the last three days."

  "Oh, he hain't, hey?" sneered the sheepman, showing his jagged teeth."He seems to have one now."

  "You betcher neck I have," cried Creede, flaring up at the implication,"and if you're lookin' for trouble, Jasp Swope, you can open up anytime."

  "W'y what's the matter with you?" protested Swope righteously. "Youmust have somethin' on your mind, the way you act."

  Then without waiting for a reply to this innuendo he turned hisattention to Hardy.

  "He hain't shot up any camps," he repeated, "ner packed a gun forthree days, hey? Now here's where I prove you a liar, Mr. Smarty. Iseen him with my own eyes take six shots at one of my herders thisvery mornin'--_and you was there!_"

  He punctuated his speech by successive downward jabs of his grimyforefinger as if he were stabbing his adversary to the heart, andHardy turned faint and sick with chagrin. Never had he hated a man ashe hated this great, overbearing brute before him--this man-beast,with his hairy chest and freckled hands that clutched at him like anape's. Something hidden, a demon primordial and violent, rose up inhim against this crude barbarian with his bristling beard and gloatingpig eyes, and he forgot everything but his own rage at being trapped.

  "You lie!" he cried passionately; and then in his anger he added aword which he had never used, a word which goes deep under the skinand makes men fight.

  For a moment the sheepman sat staring, astounded by his vehemence; butbefore he could move the sudden silence was split by the yelp of adog--a wild, gibbering yelp that made them jump and bristle likehounds that are assailed from behind--and, mingling stridently withit, was the harsh snarl of a cat. There was a swift scramble in thedust by the door, an oath from the sheepman, and the yellow dog dashedaway again, with Tommy at his heels.

  Creede was the first man to regain his nerve and, seeing his pettriumphant, he let out a whoop of derisive laughter.

  "Ah-hah-hah!" he hollered, pointing with his pistol hand, "look atthat, will ye--_look_ at 'im--_yee-pah_--go after 'im, Tommy--we'llshow the--"

  The fighting blood of the sheepman sided in as quickly with his dog.

  "I'll kill that dam' cat!" he yelled, swinging down from his saddle,"if you don't let up! Hey, Nip! Sick 'im!" He turned and motioned tohis other dog, which had been standing dumbly by, and instantly hejoined in the chase. "Sick 'em, boy, _sick 'em_!" he bellowed, urginghim on, and before Creede could get his face straight the long, rangybrindle had dashed up from behind and seized Tommy by the back.

  "Git out o' that!" thundered the cowman; and then, without waiting onwords, he threw his gun down on the dog and fired.

  "Here--none of that, now!" shouted Swope, whipping out his own pistol,and as he leapt forward he held it out before him like a sabre,pointed straight for the cowman's ribs. His intentions may have beenof the best, but Hardy did not wait to see. The brindle dog let out asurprised yelp and dropped. Before Creede could turn to meet his enemyhis partner leapt in between them and with a swift blow from theshoulder, struck the sheepman to the ground.

>   It was a fearful blow, such as men deal in anger without measuringtheir strength or the cost, and it landed on his jaw. Creede had seenmen slugged before, in saloon rows and the rough fights that takeplace around a town, but never had he seen a single blow suffice--theman's head go back, his knees weaken, and his whole body collapse asif he had been shot. If he had been felled like a bull in the shamblesthat goes down in spite of his great strength, Jasper Swope could nothave been more completely stunned. He lay sprawling, his legs turnedunder him, and the hand that grasped the six-shooter relaxed slowlyand tumbled it into the dust.

  For a minute the two partners stood staring at each other, the onestill planted firmly on his feet like a boxer, the other with hissmoking pistol in his hand.

  "By Joe, boy," said Creede slowly, "you was just in time that trip."He stepped forward and laid the fallen man out on his back, passinghis gun up to Hardy as he did so.

  "I wonder if you killed him," he muttered, feeling Jasp's bull neck;and then, as Hardy ran for some water, he remembered Tommy. But therewas no Tommy--only a little heap of fur lying very still out in theopen.

  "My God!" he cried, and leaving the man he ran out and knelt downbeside it.

  "Pussy!" he whispered, feeling hopelessly for his heart; and then,gathering the forlorn little wisp of fur in his arms, he hurried intothe house without a word.

  He was still in hiding when Jasper Swope came to and sat up, his hairdrenched with water and matted with dirt. Staring doubtfully at theset face of Hardy he staggered to his feet; then the memory of thefight came back to him and he glared at him with a drunkard'sinsolence.

  "Where's my gun?" he demanded, suddenly clapping his hand upon theempty holster.

  "I'll take care of that for you," answered Hardy pointedly. "Now youpile onto that mule of yours and pull your freight, will you?" He ledthe black mule up close and boosted its master into the saddle, butSwope was not content.

  "Where's that dastard, Jeff Creede?" he demanded. "Well, I wanter seehim, that's all. And say, Mr. Smart Alec, I want that gun, too, see?"

  "Well, you won't get it," said Hardy.

  "I will that," declared Swope, "'nd I'll git you, too, Willie, beforeI git through with you. I've had enough of this monkey business. Nowgimme that gun, I tell ye, or I'll come back with more of 'em and takeit!"

  He raised his voice to a roar, muffled to a beast-like hoarseness byhis swollen jaws, and the _ramada_ reverberated like a cavern as hebellowed out his challenge. Then the door was snatched violently openand Jefferson Creede stepped forth, looking black as hell itself. Inone hand he held the sheepman's pistol and in the other his own.

  "Here!" he said, and striding forward he thrust Swope's gun into hishand. "It's loaded, too," he added. "Now, you--if you've got anyshootin' to do, go to it!"

  He stepped back quickly and stood ready, his masterful eyes bent uponhis enemy in a scowl of unquenchable hate. Once before they had facedeach other, waiting for that mysterious psychic prompting withoutwhich neither man nor beast can begin a fight, and Jim had stepped inbetween--but Hardy stood aside without a word. It was a show-down and,bulldog fighter though he was, Jasper Swope weakened. The anger of hisenemy overcame his hostile spirit without a blow, and he turned hispistol away.

  "That's all I wanted," he said, shoving the gun sullenly into itsholster. "They's two of you, and--"

  "And you're afraid," put in Creede promptly. He stood gazing at thedowncast sheepman, his lip curling contemptuously.

  "I've never seen a sheepman yet," he said, "that would fight. You'velistened to that blat until it's a part of ye; you've run with themMexicans until you're kin to 'em; you're a coward, Jasp Swope, and Ialways knowed it." He paused again, his eyes glowing with the hatredthat had overmastered his being. "My God," he said, "if I could onlygit you to fight to-day I'd give everything I've got left!"

  The sheepman's gaze was becoming furtive as he watched them. Heglanced sidewise, edging away from the door; then, pricking his mulewith his spurs, he galloped madly away, ducking his head at every jumpas if he feared a shot.

  "Look at the cowardly dastard!" sneered Creede bitterly. "D'ye knowwhat he would do if that was me? He'd shoot me in the back. Ah, GodA'mighty, and that dog of his got Tommy before I could pull a gun!Rufe, I could kill every sheepman in the Four Peaks for this--everydam' one of 'em--and the first dog that comes in sight of this ranchwill stop a thirty-thirty." He stopped and turned away, cursing andmuttering to himself.

  "God A'mighty," he moaned, "I can't keep _nothin'_!" And stumblingback into the house he slammed the door behind him.

  A gloom settled down over the place, a gloom that lasted for days. Thecowboys came back from driving the town herd and, going up on themesa, they gathered a few head more. Then the heat set in before itstime and the work stopped short. For the steer that is roped andbusted in the hot weather dies suddenly at the water; the flies buzzabout the ears of the new-marked calves and poison them, and themother cows grow gaunt and thin from overheating. Not until the longSummer had passed could the riding continue; the steers must be leftto feed down the sheeped-out range; the little calves must run forsleepers until the fall _rodeo_. Sheep and the drought had cometogether, and the round-up was a failure. Likewise the cowmen werebroke.

  As they gathered about the fire on that last night it was a silentcompany--the _rodeo_ boss the gloomiest of them all. Not since thedeath of Tommy had his eyes twinkled with the old mischief; he had nobets to offer, no news to volunteer; a dull, sombre abstraction layupon him like a pall. Only when Bill Lightfoot spoke did he look up,and then with a set sneer, growing daily more saturnine. The world wasdark to Creede and Bill's fresh remarks jarred on him--but Billhimself was happy. He was of the kind that runs by opposites, takingtheir troubles with hilarity under the impression that they arephilosophers. His pretext for this present happiness was a professedinterview with Kitty Bonnair on the evening that the town herd pulledinto Moreno's. What had happened at this interview was a secret, ofcourse, but it made Bill happy; and the more morose and ugly Jeffbecame about it the more it pleased Lightfoot to be gay. He sat on abox that night and sang _risque_ ditties, his enormous Colt's revolverdangling bravely at his hip; and at last, casting his weather eye uponCreede, he began a certain song.

  "Oh, my little girl, she lives in the town--"

  And then he stopped.

  "Bill," said the _rodeo_ boss feelingly, "you make me tired."

  "Lay down an' you'll git rested, then," suggested Lightfoot.

  "_A toodle link, a toodle link, a too-oodle a day._"

  "I'll lay you down in a minute, if you don't shut up," remarkedCreede, throwing away his cigarette.

  "The hell you say," commented Lightfoot airily.

  "And last time I seen her she ast me to come down."

  At this raw bit of improvisation the boss rose slowly to his feet andstalked away from temptation.

  "And if anybody sees her you'll know her by this sign,"

  chanted the cowboy, switching to an out-and-out bad one; and then,swaying his body on his cracker box, he plunged unctuously into thechorus.

  "_She's got a dark and rolling eye, boys; She's got a dark and rolling eye._"

  He stopped there and leapt to his feet anxiously. The mighty bulk ofthe _rodeo_ boss came plunging back at him through the darkness; hisbruising fist shot out and the frontier troubadour went sprawlingamong the pack saddles.

  It was the first time Creede had ever struck one of his own kind,--menwith guns were considered dangerous,--but this time he laid onunmercifully.

  "You've had that comin' to you for quite a while, Bill Lightfoot," hesaid, striking Bill's ineffectual gun aside, "and more too. Now maybeyou'll keep shut about 'your girl'!"

  He turned on his heel after administering this rebuke and went to thehouse, leaving his enemy prostrate in the dirt.

  "The big, hulkin' brute," blubbered Lightfoot, sitting up andaggrievedly feeling of his front teeth
, "jumpin' on a little fellerlike me--an' he never give me no warnin', neither. You jest wait,I'll--"

  "Aw, shut up!" growled Old Man Reavis, whose soul had long beenharrowed by Lightfoot's festive ways. "He give you plenty of warnin',if you'd only listen. Some people have to swallow a few front teethbefore they kin learn anythin'."

  "Well, what call did he have to jump on me like that?" protestedLightfoot. "I wasn't doin' nothin'."

  "No, nothin' but singin' bawdy songs about his girl," sneered Reavissarcastically.

  "His girl, rats!" retorted the cowboy, vainglorious even in defeat,"she's my girl, if she's anybody's!"

  "Well, about _your_ girl then, you dirty brute!" snarled the old man,suddenly assuming a high moral plane for his utter annihilation."You're a disgrace to the outfit, Bill Lightfoot," he added, withconviction. "I'm ashamed of ye."

  "That's right," chimed in the Clark boys, whose sensibilities hadlikewise been harassed; and with all the world against him BillLightfoot retired in a huff to his blankets. So the _rodeo_ ended asit had begun, in disaster, bickering, and bad blood, and no manrightly knew from whence their misfortune came. Perhaps the planets intheir spheres had cast a malign influence upon them, or maybe the bellmare had cast a shoe. Anyhow they had started off the wrong foot and,whatever the cause, the times were certainly not auspicious formatters of importance, love-making, or the bringing together of theestranged. Let whatsoever high-priced astrologer cast his horoscopefor good, Saturn was swinging low above the earth and dealing especialmisery to the Four Peaks; and on top of it all the word came that oldBill Johnson, after shooting up the sheep camps, had gone crazy andtaken to the hills.

  For a week, Creede and Hardy dawdled about the place, patching up thegates and fences and cursing the very name of sheep. A spirit ofunrest hovered over the place, a brooding silence which spoke only ofTommy and those who were gone, and the two partners eyed each otherfurtively, each deep in his own thoughts. At last when he could standit no longer Creede went over to the corner, and dug up his money.

  "I'm goin' to town," he said briefly.

  "All right," responded Hardy; and then, after meditating a while, headded: "I'll send down some letters by you."

  Late that evening, after he had written a long letter to Lucy and ashort one to his father, he sat at the desk where he had found theirletters, and his thoughts turned back to Kitty. There lay the littlebook which had held their letters, just as he had thrust it aside. Hepicked it up, idly, and glanced at the title-page: "Sonnets from thePortuguese." How dim and far away it all seemed now, this world of thepoets in which he had once lived and dreamed, where sweetness andbeauty were enshrined as twin goddesses of light, and gentlenessbrooded over all her children. What a world that had been, with itsgraceful, smiling women, its refinements of thought and speech, itsaspirations and sympathies--and Kitty! He opened the book slowly,wondering from whence it had come, and from the deckled leaves apressed forget-me-not fell into his hand. That was all--there was nomark, no word, no sign but this, and as he gazed his numbed mindgroped through the past for a forget-me-not. Ah yes, he remembered!But how far away it seemed now, the bright morning when he had met hislove on the mountain peak and the flowers had fallen from herhair--and what an inferno of strife and turmoil had followed since! Heopened to the place where the imprint of the dainty flower lay andread reverently:

  "If thou must love me, let it be for nought Except for love's sake only. Do not say 'I love her for her smile--her look--her way Of speaking gently--for a trick of thought That falls in well with mine, and certes brought A sense of pleasant ease on such a day'-- For these things in themselves, Beloved, may Be changed, or change for thee--and love, so wrought, May be unwrought so. Neither love me for Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheek dry-- A creature might forget to weep, who bore Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! But love me for love's sake, that evermore Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity."

  The spell of the words laid hold upon as he read and he turned pageafter page, following the cycle of that other woman's love--a lovewhich waited for years to be claimed by the master hand, neverfaltering to the end. Then impulsively he reached for a fair sheet ofpaper to begin a letter to Kitty, a letter which should breathe theold gentleness and love, yet "for love's sake only." But while he satdreaming, thinking with what words to begin, his partner lounged in,and Hardy put aside his pen and waited, while the big man hung aroundand fidgeted.

  "Well, I'll be in town to-morrer," he said, drearily.

  "Aha," assented Hardy.

  "What ye got there?" inquired Creede, after a long silence. He pickedup the book, griming the dainty pages as he turned them with his roughfingers, glancing at the headings.

  "Um-huh," he grunted, "'Sonnets from the Portegees,' eh? I neverthought them Dagos could write--what I've seen of 'em was mostlydrivin' fish-wagons or swampin' around some slaughterhouse. How doesshe go, now," he continued, as his schooling came back to him, "seeif I can make sense out of it." He bent down and mumbled over thefirst sonnet, spelling out the long words doubtfully.

  "I thought once how The-o-crite-us had sung Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years, Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals, old or young: And as I mused it in his an--"

  "Well say, what's he drivin' at, anyway?" demanded the rugged cowboy."Is that Dago talk, or is he jest mixed in his mind? Perfectly clear,eh? Well, maybe so, but I fail to see it. Wish I could git aholt ofsome _good_ po'try." He paused, waiting for Hardy to respond.

  "Say," he said, at last, "do me a favor, will ye, Rufe?"

  The tone of his voice, now soft and diffident, startled Hardy out ofhis dream.

  "Why sure, Jeff," he said, "if I can."

  "No, no 'ifs' and 'ands' about it!" persisted Creede. "A lucky fellerlike you with everythin' comin' his way ought to be able to say 'Yes'once in a while without hangin' a pull-back on it."

  "Huh," grunted Hardy suspiciously, "you better tell me first what youwant."

  "Well, I want you to write me a letter," blurted out Creede. "I cankeep a tally book and order up the grub from Bender; but, durn theluck, when it comes to makin' love on paper I'd rather wrastle a bear.Course you know who it is, and you savvy how them things is done.Throw in a little po'try, will you, and--and--say, Rufe, for God'ssake, help me out on this!"

  He laid one hand appealingly upon his partner's shoulder, but thelittle man squirmed out from under it impatiently.

  "Who is it?" he asked doggedly. "Sallie Winship?"

  "Aw, say," protested Creede, "don't throw it into a feller likethat--Sal went back on me years ago. You know who I mean--KittyBonnair."

  "Kitty Bonnair!" Hardy had known it, but he had tried to keep her nameunspoken. Battle as he would he could not endure to hear it, even fromJeff.

  "What do you want to tell Miss Bonnair?" he inquired, schooling hisvoice to a cold quietness.

  "Tell her?" echoed Creede ecstatically. "W'y, tell her I'm lonely ashell now she's gone--tell her--well, there's where I bog down, but I'dtrade my best horse for another kiss like that one she give me, andthrow in the saddle for _pelon_. Now, say, Rufe, don't leave me in ahole like this. You've made your winnin', and here's your nice longletter to Miss Lucy. My hands are as stiff as a burnt rawhide and Ican't think out them nice things to say; but I love Kitty jest as muchas you love Miss Lucy--mebbe more--and--and I wanter tell her so!"

  He ended abjectly, gazing with pleading eyes at the stubborn face ofhis partner whose lips were drawn tight.

  "We--every man has to--no, I can't do it, Jeff," he stammered,choking. "I'd--I'd help you if I could, Jeff--but she'd know my style.Yes, that's it. If I'd write the letter she'd know it was fromme--women are quick that way. I'm sorry, but that's the way itis--every man has to fight out his own battle, in love."

  He paused and fumbled with his papers.


  "Here's a good pen," he said, "and--and here's the paper." He shovedout the fair sheet upon which he had intended to write and rose updumbly from the table.

  "I'm going to bed," he said, and slipped quietly out of the room. Ashe lay in his blankets he could see the gleam of light from the barredwindow and hear Jeff scraping his boots uneasily on the floor. Trueindeed, his hands were like burnt rawhide from gripping at ropes andirons, his clothes were greasy and his boots smelled of the corral,and yet--she had given him a kiss! He tried to picture it in hismind: Kitty smiling--or startled, perhaps--Jeff masterful, triumphant,laughing. Ah God, it was the same kiss she had offered him, and he hadrun away!

  In the morning, there was a division between them, a barrier whichcould not be overcome. Creede lingered by the door a minute,awkwardly, and then rode away. Hardy scraped up the greasy dishes andwashed them moodily. Then the great silence settled down upon HiddenWater and he sat alone in the shadow of the _ramada_, gazing away atthe barren hills.