“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 might come, and yet a vague uneasiness had held his eyes to the trail.
“Tell me, Lucy,” he said, drawing her back to his side as the party dipped out of sight in the interminable thicket of mesquites, “why have you never spoken of Kitty? Has anything dreadful happened? Please tell me quick, before she comes. I –– I won’t know what to say.” He twisted about and fixed an eye on the doorway, but Lucy held out a restraining hand.
“It has been a great secret,” she said, “and you must promise not to tell, but Kitty has been writing a play.”
“A play!” exclaimed Hardy, astounded, “why –– what in the world is it about?”
“About Arizona, of course,” cried Lucy. “Don’t you remember how eager she was to hear you men talk? And she collected all those spurs and quirts for stage properties! Why, she wrote books and books full of notes and cowboy words while she was down here and she’s been buried in manuscript for months. When she heard that you were having the round-up early this year she was perfectly frantic to come, but they were right in the midst of writing it and she just couldn’t get away.”
“They?” repeated Hardy, mystified. “Why who –– ”
“Oh, I forgot,” said Lucy, biting her lip. Then in a lower voice she added: “She has been collaborating with Tupper Browne.”
“Tupper Browne! Why, what does he know about Arizona?” cried Hardy indignantly, and then, as Lucy looked away, he stopped short.
“Oh!” he said, and then there was a long silence. “Well, Tupper’s a good fellow,” he remarked philosophically. “But Lucy,” he said, starting up nervously as the sound of horses’ feet came up from the creek bed, “you’ll –– you’ll do all the talking, won’t you?”
“Talking!” repeated Lucy, pausing in her flight. “Why, yes,” she called back, laughing. “Isn’t that always the woman’s part?” And then she fell upon Kitty’s neck and kissed her. Hardy came forward with less assurance, but his embarrassment was reduced to a minimum by Judge Ware who, as soon as the first greetings were over, brought forward the mild-mannered gentleman in khaki and introduced him.
“Mr. Shafer,” he said, “this is my superintendent, Mr. Hardy. Mr. Shafer represents the United States Forestry Service,” he added significantly.
“Ah, then you must bring us good news!” cried Hardy, holding out his hand eagerly.
“Yes,” answered the official modestly, but his speech ended with that word.
“I am convinced,” began Judge Ware, suddenly quelling all conversation by the earnestness of his demeanor. “I am convinced that in setting aside the Salagua watershed as a National Forest Reserve, our President has added to the record of his good deeds an act of such consummate statesmanship that it will be remembered long after his detractors are forgotten. But for him, millions of acres of public land now set aside as reserves would still be open to the devastation of unrestricted grazing, or have passed irrevocably into the power of this infamous land ring which has been fighting on the floor of Congress to deprive the American people of their rights. But after both houses had passed a bill depriving the executive of his power to proclaim Forest Reserves –– holding back the appropriations for the Forestry Service as a threat –– he baffled them by a feigned acquiescence. In exchange for the appropriations, he agreed to sign the act –– and then, after securing the appropriations, he availed himself of the power still vested in him to set aside this reserve and many other reserves for our children and our children’s children –– and then, gentlemen, true to his word, he signed the bill!”
Judge Ware shook hands warmly with Mr. Shafer at the end of this speech and wished him all success in protecting the people’s domain. It was a great day for the judge, and as soon as Creede and the other cowmen came in with the day’s gather of cattle he hastened out to tell them the news.
“And now, gentlemen,” he said, holding up his hand to stop the joyous yelling, “I wish to thank you one and all for your confidence in me and in the good faith of our Government. It called for a high order of manhood, I am sure; but in not offering any armed resistance to the incoming of the sheep your loyalty has withstood its supreme test.”
“How’s that?” inquired Creede, scratching his head doubtfully. Then, divining the abysmal ignorance from which the judge was speaking, he answered, with an honest twinkle in his eye: “Oh, that’s all right, Judge. We always try to do what’s right –– and we’re strong for the law, when they is any.”
“I’m afraid there hasn’t been much law up here in the past, has there?” inquired Mr. Shafer tactfully.
“Well, not so’s you’d notice it,” replied the big cowboy enigmatically. “But