The rush and thunder of cow ponies as they hammered over the trail and plunged down through the rocks and trees had hardly lost its echoes in the cliffs when, with a flash of color and a dainty pattering of hoofs, Chapuli came flying over the top of Lookout Point and dashed up the river after them. The cowmen had left their horses in the deep ravine at the end of the malpai bluffs and were already crouched behind the rampart of the rim rocks as close as Indian fighters, each by some loophole in the blackened malpai, with a rifle in his hand. As Hardy crept in from behind, Jeff Creede motioned him to a place at his side greeting him at the same time with a broad grin.

“Hello, sport,” he said, “couldn’t keep out of it, eh? Well, we need ye, all right. Here, you can hold straighter than I can; take my gun and shoot rainbows around the leaders when they start to come across.”

“Not much,” answered Hardy, waving the gun away, “I just came down to keep you out of trouble.”

“Ye-es!” jeered Creede, “first thing I know you’ll 454 be down there fightin’ ’em back with rocks. But say,” he continued, “d’ye notice anything funny up on that cliff? Listen, now!”

Hardy turned his head, and soon above the clamor of the sheep he made out the faint “Owwp! Owwwp!” of hounds.

“It’s Bill Johnson, isn’t it?” he said, and Creede nodded significantly.

“God help them pore sheepmen,” he observed, “if Bill has got his thirty-thirty. Listen to ’em sing, will ye! Ain’t they happy, though? And they don’t give a dam’ for us––ump-um––they’re comin’ across anyway. Well, that’s what keeps hell crowded––let ’er go!”

There was a glitter of carbines against the opposite cliffs where the spare herders had taken to cover, but out on the rocky point where the chute led into the river a gang of Mexicans and two Americans were leading their wagon cover around a fresh cut of goats and sheep. On the sand bar far below the stragglers from the first cut, turned back in the initial rush, were wandering aimlessly about or plodding back to the herd, but the sheepmen with bullheaded persistence were preparing to try again. Chief among them towered the boss, Jasper Swope, wet to the waist from swimming across the river; and as he motioned to the herders to go ahead he ran back and mounted his mule 455 again. With a barbaric shout the Mexicans surged forward on the tarpaulin, sweeping their cut to the very edge; then, as the goats set their feet and held back, a swarthy herder leapt into the midst and tumbled them, sheep and goats alike, into the water. Like plummets they went down into the slow-moving depths, some headfirst, some falling awkwardly on their backs or slipping like beavers on a slide; there was a prolonged and mighty splash and then, one by one the heads bobbed up and floated away until, led by the high-horned goats, they struck out for the opposite shore. Below, yelling and throwing stones to frighten them, a line of Mexicans danced up and down along the rocky shore, and to keep them from drifting into the whirlpool Jasper Swope plunged boldly into the water on his mule.

Sink or swim, the sheep were in the water, and for a minute there was a tense silence along the river; then, as the goats lined out, a rifle shot echoed from the cliffs and a white column of water rose up before the leader. He shook his head, hesitated and looked back, and once more the water splashed in his face, while the deep ploomp of the bullet answered to the shot. Fighting away from the sudden stroke the goat lost his headway and, drifting, fouled those below him; a sudden confusion fell upon the orderly ranks of the invaders and, like a flock of geese whose leader 456 is killed, they jostled against one another, some intent on the farther shore and some struggling to turn back. Instantly a chorus of savage shouts rose up from along the river, the shrill yells of the cowboys mingling with the whooping and whistling of the sheepmen, until at last, overcome by the hostile clamor, the timid sheep turned back toward the main herd, drawing with them the goats. For a minute Jasper Swope fought against them, waving his hat and shouting; then, rather than see them drift too far and be drawn into the clutch of the whirlpool, he whipped his mule about and led them back to the shore.

A second time, calling out all his men to help, the boss sheepman tried to cross the goats alone, intending to hold them on the shore for a lure; but just as they were well lined out the same careful marksman behind the malpai threw water in their faces and turned them back. But this time Jasper Swope did not lead the retreat. Slapping his black mule over the ears with his hat he held straight for the opposite shore, cursing and brandishing his gun.

“You dam’, cowardly passel of tail-twisters!” he cried, shaking his fist at the bluffs, “why don’t you come out into the open like men?”

But a grim silence was his only answer.

“Hey, you bold bad man from Bitter Creek, Texas!” he shouted, riding closer to the beach. “Why 457 don’t you come down and fight me like a man?” His big voice was trembling with excitement and he held his pistol balanced in the air as if awaiting an attack, but Jefferson Creede did not answer him.

“I’ll fight you, man to man, you big blowhard!” thundered Swope, “and there goes my pistol to prove it!” He rose in his stirrups as he spoke and hurled it away from him, throwing his cartridge belt after it. “Now,” he yelled, “you’ve been sayin’ what you’d do; come out of your hole, Jeff Creede, I want ye!”

“Well, you won’t git me, then,” answered Creede, his voice coming cold and impassive from over the rim. “I’ll fight you some other time.”

“Ahrr!” taunted Swope, “hear the coward talk! Here I stand, unarmed, and he’s afraid to come out! But if there’s a man amongst you, send him down, and if he licks me I’ll go around.”

“You’ll go around anyhow, you Mormon-faced wool-puller!” replied the cowman promptly, “and we’re here to see to it, so you might as well chase yourself.”

“No, I like this side,” said the sheepman, pretending to admire the scenery. “I’ll jest stay here a while, and then I’ll cross in spite of ye. If I can’t cross here,” he continued, “I’ll wait for the river to fall and cross down below––and then I’ll sheep you to the rocks, you low-lived, skulkin’ murderers! It’s a 458 wonder some of you don’t shoot me the way you did Juan Alvarez, down there.” He waved his hand toward the point where the wooden cross rose against the sky, but no one answered the taunt.

“Murderers, I said!” he shouted, rising up in his saddle. “I call you murderers before God A’mighty and there ain’t a man denies it! Oh, my Mexicans can see that cross––they’re lookin’ at it now––and when the river goes down they’ll come in on you, if it’s only to break even for Juan.”

He settled back in his saddle and gazed doubtfully at the bluff, and then at the opposite shore. Nature had placed him at a disadvantage, for the river was wide and deep and his sheep were easy to turn, yet there was still a chance.

“Say,” he began, moderating his voice to a more conciliatory key, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. There’s no use shooting each other over this. Send down your best man––if he licks me I go around; if I lick him I come across. Is it a go?”

There was a short silence and then an argument broke out along the bluff, a rapid fire of exhortation and protest, some urging Creede to take him up, others clamoring for peace.

“No!” shouted Jefferson Creede, raising his voice angrily above the uproar. “I won’t do it! I wouldn’t trust a sheepman as far as I could throw a 459 bull by the tail! You’d sell your black soul for two bits, Jasp Swope,” he observed, peering warily over the top of the rock, “and you’d shoot a man in the back, too!”

“But look at me!” cried Swope, dropping off his mule, “I’m stripped to my shirt; there goes my gun into the water––and I’m on your side of the river! You’re a coward, Jeff Creede, and I always knowed it!”

“But my head ain’t touched,” commented Creede dryly. “I’ve got you stopped anyhow. What kind of a dam’ fool would I be to fight over it?”

“I’ll fight ye for nothin’, then!” bellowed the sheepman. “I’ll––” He stopped abruptly and a great quiet fell upon both shores. From the mouth of the hidden ravine a man had suddenly stepped into the open, unarmed, and now he was coming out across the sands to meet him. It was Rufus Hardy, dwarfed like David before Goliath in the presence of the burly sheepman, but striding over the hard-packed sand with the lithe swiftness of a panther.

“I’ll fight you,” he said, raising his hand in challenge, but Swope’s answer was drowned in a wild yell from Creede.

“Come back here, Rufe, you durn’ fool!” he called. “Come back, I tell ye! Don’t you know better than to trust a sheepman?”

“Never mind, now,” answered Hardy, turning austerely to the bluff. “I guess I can take care of myself.”

He swung about and advanced to the stretch of level sand where Swope was standing. “What guarantee do I get,” he demanded sharply, “that if I lick you in a fair fight the sheep will go around?”

“You––lick––me!” repeated the sheepman, showing his jagged teeth in a sardonic grin. “Well, I’ll tell ye, Willie; if you hit me with that lily-white hand of yourn, and I find it out the same day, I’ll promise to stay off’n your range for a year.”

“All right,” replied Hardy, suddenly throwing away his hat. “You noticed it when I hit you before, didn’t you?” he inquired, edging quickly in on his opponent and beginning an amazing bout of shadow boxing. “Well, come on, then!” He laughed as Swope struck out at him, and continued his hectoring banter. “As I remember it your head hit the ground before your heels!”

Then in a whirlwind of blows and feints they came together. It was the old story of science against brute strength. Jasper Swope was a rough-and-tumble fighter of note; he was quick, too, in spite of his weight, and his blows were like the strokes of a sledge; but Hardy did not attempt to stand up against him. For the first few minutes it was more of a chase than 461 a fight, and in that the sheepman was at his worst, cumbered by his wet clothes and the water in his shoes. Time and again he rushed in upon his crouching opponent, who always seemed in the act of delivering a blow and yet at the moment only sidestepped and danced away. The hard wet sand was ploughed and trampled with their tracks, the records of a dozen useless plunges, when suddenly instead of dodging Hardy stepped quickly forward, his “lily-white hand” shot out, and Jasper Swope’s head went back with a jerk.

“You son-of-a-goat!” he yelled, as the blood ran down his face, and lowering his head he bored in upon Hardy furiously. Once more Hardy sidestepped, but the moment his enemy turned he flew at him like a tiger, raining blows upon his bloody face in lightning succession.

“Huh!” grunted the sheepman, coughing like a wood-chopper as he struck back through the storm, and the chance blow found its mark. For a moment Hardy staggered, clutching at his chest; but as Swope sprang forward to finish his work he ducked and slipped aside, stumbling like a man about to drop.

A shrill yell went up from the farther shore as Hardy stood swaying in his tracks, and a fierce shout of warning from the bluff; but Jasper Swope was implacable. Brushing the blood from his eyes he stepped deliberately forward and aimed a blow that 462 would have felled an ox, straight at his enemy’s head. It missed; the drooping head snapped down like Judy before Punch and rose up again, truculently; then before the sheepman could regain his balance Hardy threw his whole strength into a fierce uppercut that laid Swope sprawling on his back.

A howl of triumph and derision rose up from the rim of the bluff as the burly sheepman went down, but it changed to a sudden shout of warning as he scrambled back to his feet again. There was something indescribably vengeful about him as he whirled upon his enemy, and his hand went inside his torn shirt in a gesture not to be mistaken.

“Look out there, Rufe!” yelled Creede, leaping up from behind his rock pile. “Run! Jump into the river!” But instead Hardy grabbed up a handful of sand and ran in upon his adversary. The pistol stuck for a moment in its hidden sling and as Swope wrenched it loose and turned to shoot, Hardy made as if to close with him and then threw the sand full in his face. It was only an instant’s respite but as the sheepman blinked and struck the dirt from his eyes the little cowman wheeled and made a dash for the river. “Look out!” screamed Creede, as the gun flashed out and came to a point, and like a bullfrog Hardy hurled himself far out into the eddying water. Then like the sudden voice of Nemesis, protesting against such treachery, a rifle shot rang out from the towering crags that overshadowed the river and Jasper Swope fell forward, dead. His pistol smashed against a rock and exploded, but the man he had set himself to kill was already buried beneath the turbid waters. So swiftly did it all happen that no two men saw the same––some were still gazing at the body of Jasper Swope; others were staring up at the high cliff whence the shot had come; but Jeff Creede had eyes only for the river and when he saw Hardy’s head bob up, halfway to the whirlpool, and duck again to escape the bullets, he leapt up and ran for his horse. Then Bill Johnson’s rifle rang out again from the summit of his high cliff, and every man scrambled for cover.

A Mexican herder dropped his gun suddenly and slipped down behind a rock; and his compadres, not knowing from whence the hostile fire came, pushed out their carbines and began to shoot wildly; the deep caÑon reverberated to the rattle of thirty-thirtys and the steady crack, crack of the rifle above threw the sheep camp into confusion. There was a shout as Creede dashed recklessly out into the open and the sand leapt up in showers behind him, but Bat Wings was running like the wind and the bullets went wide of their mark.

Swinging beneath the mesquite trees and scrambling madly over stones and bushes he hammered up the 463 slope of Lookout Point and disappeared in a cloud of dirt, but as Hardy drifted around the bend and floated toward the whirlpool there was a crash of brush from down the river and Creede came battering through the trees to the shore. Taking down his reata as he rode he leapt quickly off his horse and ran out on the big flat rock from which they had often fished together. At his feet the turbid current rolled ponderously against the solid wall of rock and, turning back upon itself, swung round in an ever-lessening circle until it sucked down suddenly into a spiral vortex that spewed up all it caught in the boiling channel below. There in years past the lambs and weaklings from the herds above had drifted to their death, but never before had the maelstrom claimed a man.

Swimming weakly with the current Hardy made a last ineffectual effort to gain the bank; then fixing his eyes upon his partner he resigned himself to the drag of the whirlpool, staking his life on a single throw of the rope. Once the plaited rawhide was wetted it would twist and bind in the honda and before Creede could beat it straight and coil it his partner would be far out in the centre of the vortex. Planting his feet firmly on the rock the big cowboy lashed the kinks out of his reata and coiled it carefully; then as the first broad swirl seized its plaything and swung him slowly around Creede let out a big loop and began to 464 swing it about his head, his teeth showing in a tense grin as he fixed his eyes upon the mark. At each turn his wrist flexed and his back swayed with a willowy suppleness but except for that he was like a herculean statue planted upon the point.

The maelstrom heaved and rocked as it swung its victim nearer and like a thing with life seemed suddenly to hurry him past; then as Hardy cried out and held up a hand for help the rope cut through the air like a knife and the loop shot far out across the boiling water. It was a long throw, fifty feet from the rock, and the last coil had left his tense fingers before the noose fell, but it splashed a circle clean and true about the uplifted hand. For a moment the cowboy waited, watching; then as the heavy rope sank behind his partner’s shoulders he took in his slack with a jerk. The noose tightened beneath Hardy’s arms and held him against the insistent tug of the river; and while the whirlpool roared and foamed against his body Creede hauled him forth roughly, until, stooping down, he gathered him into his arms like a child.

“My God, boy,” he said, “you’re takin’ big chances, for a family man––but say, what did I tell you about sheepmen?”

The Mexicans were still firing random shots along the river when Creede lifted his partner up on Bat 465 Wings and carried him back to Hidden Water. Long before they reached the house they could see Lucy standing in the doorway, and Hardy held himself painfully erect in the saddle, with Creede steadying him from behind; but when Bat Wings halted before the ramada Jeff broke rudely in on the play acting by taking the little man in his arms and depositing him on a bed.

“Fell into the river,” he said, turning with a reassuring smile to Lucy, “but he ain’t hurt none––only kinder weak, you know. I reckon a little hot tea would help some, bein’ as we’re out of whiskey, and while you’re brewin’ it I’ll git these wet clothes off. Yes’m, we’re havin’ a little trouble, but that’s only them locoed Mexicans shootin’ off their spare ammunition.” He dragged up a cot as he spoke and was hurriedly arranging a bed when Lucy interposed.

“Oh, but don’t leave him out here!” she protested, “put him back in his own room, where I can take care of him.”

“All right,” said Creede, and picking him up from his bare cot beneath the ramada he carried Hardy into the little room where he had lived before Lucy Ware came. “I guess your troubles are over for a while, pardner,” he remarked, as he tucked him into the clean white bed, and then with a wise look at Lucy he slipped discreetly out the door.

As she entered with the tea Hardy was lying very limp and white against the pillow, but after the hot drink he opened his big gray eyes and looked up at her sombrely.

“Sit down,” he said, speaking with elaborate exactness, “I want to tell you something.” He reached out and took her hand, and as he talked he clung to it appealingly. “Lucy,” he began, “I didn’t forget about you when I went down there, but––well, when Jasper Swope came out and challenged us my hair began to bristle like a dog’s––and the next thing I knew I was fighting. He said if I licked him he’d go round––but you can’t trust these sheepmen. When he saw he was whipped he tried to shoot me, and I had to jump into the river. Oh, I’m all right now, but––listen, Lucy!” He drew her down to him, insistently. “Can’t you forgive me, this time?” he whispered, and when she nodded he closed his heavy eyes and fell asleep.

When he awoke in the morning there 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 467 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 468 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 469 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 470 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.