The southern flank of Bronco Mesa breaks off sharply above the Salagua, rising slowly by slopes and terraced benches to the heights, and giving way before the river in a succession of broken ridges. Along these summits run winding trails, led high to escape the rougher ground. Urged on by the slashings of her quirt, Pinto galloped recklessly through this maze of cow paths until as if by magic the great valley lay before them. There in its deep cañon was the river and the river trail –– and a man, mounted upon a sorrel horse, savagely intent upon his way. For a minute Kitty studied him curiously as he hustled along, favoring his horse up the hills but swinging to the stirrup as he dodged bushes across the flats; then she flung out her hand impulsively, and called his name. In a flash he was up in his saddle, looking. Chapuli tossed his head and in the act caught a glimpse of the other horse –– then they both stood rigid, gazing in astonishment at the living statue against the sky. At sight of that witching figure, beckoning him from the mountain top, Hardy’s heart leaped within him and stopped. Once more the little hand was thrown out against the sky and a merry voice floated down to him from the sun-touched heights.
“Hello, Rufus!” it called teasingly, and still he sat gazing up at her. All the untamed passions of his being surged up and choked his voice –– he could not answer. His head turned and he gazed furtively over his shoulder to the east, where his duty lay. Then of his own accord Chapuli stepped from the trail and began to pick his way soberly up the hill.
From the high summit of the butte all the world lay spread out like a panorama, –– the slopes and cañons of Bronco Mesa, picketed with giant sahuaros; the silvery course of the river flowing below; the unpeopled peaks and cliffs of the Superstitions; and a faint haze-like zephyr, floating upon the eastern horizon. And there at last the eyes of Rufus Hardy and Kitty Bonnair met, questioning each other, and the world below them took on a soft, dreamy veil of beauty.
“Why, how did you come here?” he asked, looking down upon her wonderingly. “Were you lost?”
And Kitty smiled wistfully as she answered:
“Yes –– till I found you.”
“Oh!” said Hardy, and he studied her face warily, as if doubtful of her intent.
“But how could you be lost,” he asked again, “and travel so far? This is a rough country, and you got here before I did.”
He swung down from his horse and stood beside her, but Kitty only laughed mischievously and shook her head –– at which, by some lover’s magic, the dainty forget-me-nots fell from her hair in a shower of snowy blossoms.
“I was lost,” she reiterated, smiling into his eyes, and in her gaze Hardy could read –– “without you.”
For a moment the stern sorrow of the night withheld him. His eyes narrowed, and he opened his lips to speak. Then, bowing his head, he knelt and gathered up the flowers.
“Yes,” he said gently, “I understand. I –– I have been lost, too.”
They smiled and sat down together in the shadow of a great rock, gazing out over the peaks and pinnacles of the mountains which wall in Hidden Water and talking placidly of the old days –– until at last, when the spell of the past was on him, Kitty fell silent, waiting for him to speak his heart.
But instantly the spell of her laughter was broken an uneasy thought came upon Hardy, and he glanced up at the soaring sun.
“Jeff will be worried about you,” he said at last. “He will think you are lost and give up the rodéo to hunt for you. We must not stay here so long.”
He turned his head instinctively as he spoke, and Kitty knew he was thinking of the sheep.
“Cattle and sheep –– cattle and sheep,” she repeated slowly. “Is there nothing else that counts, Rufus, in all this broad land? Must friendship, love, companionship, all go down before cattle and sheep? I never knew before what a poor creature a woman was until I came to Arizona.”
She glanced at him from beneath her drooping lashes, and saw his jaws set tense.
“And yet only yesterday,” he said, with a sombre smile, “you had twenty men risking their lives to give you some snake-tails for playthings.”
“But my old friend Rufus was not among them,” rejoined Kitty quietly; and once more she watched the venom working in his blood.
“No,” he replied, “he refuses to compete with Bill Lightfoot at any price.”
“Oh, Rufus,” cried Kitty, turning upon him angrily, “aren’t you ashamed? I want you to stop being jealous of all my friends. It is the meanest and most contemptible thing a man can do. I –– I won’t stand it!”
He glanced at her again with the same set look of disapproval still upon his face.
“Kitty,” he said, “if you knew what lives some of those men lead –– the thoughts they think, the language they speak –– you –– you would not –– ” He stopped, for the sudden tears were in her eyes. Kitty was crying.
“Oh, Rufus,” she sobbed, “if –– if you only knew! Who else could I go with –– how –– how else –– Oh, I cannot bear to be scolded and –– I only did it to make you jealous!” She bowed her head against her knees and Hardy gazed at her in awe, shame and compassion sweeping over him as he realized what she had done.
“Kitty –– dear,” he stammered, striving to unlock the twisted fingers, “I –– I didn’t understand. Look, here are your flowers and –– I love you, Kitty, if I am a brute.” He took one hand and held it, stroking the little fingers which he had so often longed to caress. But with a sudden wilfulness she turned her face away.
“Don’t you love me, Kitty?” he pleaded. “Couldn’t you, if I should try to be good and kind? I –– I don’t understand women –– I know I have hurt you –– but I loved you all the time. Can’t you forgive me, Kitty?”
But Kitty only shook her head. “The man I love must be my master,” she said, in a far-away voice, not looking at him. “He must value me above all the world.”
“But, Kitty,” protested Hardy, “I do –– ”
“No,” said Kitty, “you do not love me.”
There was a lash to the words that cut him –– a scorn half-spoken, half-expressed by the slant of her eye. As he hesitated he felt the hot blood burn at his brow.
“Rufus,” she cried, turning upon him quickly, “do you love me? Then take me in your arms and kiss me!” She spoke the words fiercely, almost as a command, and Hardy started back as if he had been shot.
“Take me in your arms and kiss me!” she repeated evenly, a flash of scorn in her eyes. But the man who had said he loved her faltered and looked away.
“Kitty,” he said gently, “you know I love you. But –– ”
“But what?” she demanded sharply.
“I –– I have never –– ”
“Well,” said Kitty briefly, “it’s all over –– you don’t have to! I just wanted to show you –– ” She paused, and her lip curled as she gazed at him from a distance. “Look at my horse,” she exclaimed suddenly, pointing to where Pinto was pawing and jerking at his bridle rein. When Hardy leapt up to free his foot she frowned again, for that is not the way of lovers.
He came back slowly, leading the horse, his face very pale, his eyes set.
“You were right,” he said.