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 472 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 473 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 474 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 475 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 say, Judge,” he continued, making a point at the old gentleman’s linen duster, “excuse me, but that yaller letter stickin’ out of your pocket looks kinder familiar. It’s for me, ain’t it? Um, thanks; this detective outfit back in St. Louie is tryin’ to make me out a millionaire, or somethin’ like that, and I’m naturally interested.” He tore the letter open, extracted a second epistle from its depths and read it over gravely. “Well, 477 boys,” he observed, grinning cheerfully as he tucked it away in his shaps, “my luck always did run in bunches––I’m rich!”

He strode briskly over to the corral, caught up a fresh horse and, riding back to the camp, began to go through his war bag hurriedly. He was in the midst of a feverish packing, throwing away socks and grabbing up shirts, when a gay laugh from the house attracted his attention. He listened for a moment abstractedly; then he flew at his work once more, dumping everything he had out on his bed and stuffing what he needed back into his war bag; but when there came a second peal of laughter, he stopped and craned his neck.

“Well––I’ll––be––dam’d!” he muttered, as he recognized the voice, and then he flew at his work again, manhandling everything in sight. He was just roping his enormous bed, preparatory to depositing it in the bunk-house, when Kitty Bonnair stepped out of the house and came toward him, walking like a boy in her dainty riding suit. There was a great noise from the branding pen and as she approached he seemed very intent upon his work, wrestling with his bundle as if he were hog-tying a bull and using language none too choice the while, but Kitty waited patiently until he looked up.

“Why, howdy do, Mr. Creede,” she cried, smiling 478 radiantly. “I got a new idea for my play just from seeing you do that work.”

The cowboy regarded her sombrely, took a nip or two with his rope’s end, jerked the cords tight, and sat down deliberately on the bundle.

“That’s good,” he said, wiping the sweat from his eyes. “How’s tricks?” There was a shadow of irony in his voice but Kitty passed it by.

“Fine and dandy,” she answered. “How are you coming?”

“Oh, pretty good,” he conceded, rising up and surveying the battlefield, “and I reckon I ain’t forgot nothin’,” he added meaningly. He kicked his blanket roll, tied his war bag behind the saddle, and hitched up his overalls regally. “Sorry I ain’t goin’ to see more of you,” he observed, slipping his six-shooter into his shaps, “but––”

“What, you aren’t going?” cried Kitty, aghast. “Why, I came all the way down here to see you––I’m writing a play, and you’re the hero!”

“Ye-es!” jeered Creede, laughing crudely. “I’m Mary’s little lamb that got snatched baldheaded to make the baby laugh.”

“You’re nothing of the kind,” retorted Kitty stoutly. “You’re the hero in my play that’s going to be acted some day on the stage. You kill a Mexican, and win a beautiful girl in the last act!”

“That’s good,” commented Creede, smiling grimly, “but say, that Mex. will keep, won’t he––because I’m due back in St. Louie.”

“Oh!” cried Kitty, clasping her hands in despair. “St. Louis! And won’t I ever see you any more?”

“Well, you might,” conceded the cowboy magnanimously, “if you wait around long enough.”

“But I can’t wait! I’ve got to finish my last act, and I came clear down here, just to hear you talk. You can’t imagine how interesting you are, after living up there in the city,” she added naively.

“No,” grumbled Creede, picking up his bridle lash, “but say, I’ve got to be goin’!” He hooked a boot negligently into the stirrup and looked back over his shoulder. “Anything else I can do for you?” he inquired politely.

“Oh, you dear Jeff!” cried Kitty ecstatically, “yes! Do come back here and let me tell you!” He kicked his foot reluctantly out of the stirrup and stalked back, huge and commanding as ever, but with a puzzled look in his eye.

“Bend your head down, so I can whisper it,” she coaxed, and brute-like he bowed at her bidding. She whispered a moment eagerly, added a word, and pushed his head away. For a minute he stood there, thinking ponderously; then very deliberately he 480 pulled his six-shooter out of his shaps and handed it over to her.

“All right,” he said, “but say”––he beckoned her with an inexorable jerk of the head––“what do I git, now?” He looked down upon her as he had on the morning they had parted, out behind the corral, and the hot blood leaped into Kitty Bonnair’s cheeks at the memory of that kiss. For a moment she hesitated, twisting her trim boot into the ground, then she drew the coveted pistol from her belt and handed it back.

“Well, since you insist,” he said, and very sternly he thrust the redeemed weapon back into his shaps. A change came over him as he regarded her; there was an austere tightening of his lips and his eyes glowed with a light that Kitty had never seen before.

“That was a rough deal you gave me, girl,” he said, his voice vibrant with anger, “and I ain’t forgotten it. You dropped your rope over my horns and gave me a little run and then you took your turns and busted me like a wild steer! And then maybe you laughed a little,” he suggested, with a searching glance. “No? Well, it’s all right, as far as I’m concerned––my hide’s whole, and I’m rope-wise––but I’ll tell you, Miss Kitty, if you’d jest keep this gun of mine and shoot some feller once in a while 481 we’d all enjoy it more.” He paused, and as Kitty stood downcast before this sudden censure he smiled to himself, and a twinkle of mischief crept into his masterful eyes.

“But don’t mind a little thing like that, girl,” he said, throwing out his hands largely. “You don’t lose no friends by tryin’ to educate us a little––ump-umm! Of course I’m kinder sore over that letter, but you look good to me yet, Kitty!”

“Why––Mr. Creede!” faltered Kitty, looking up.

“That’s right,” asserted Creede, lowering his voice confidentially, “they was something about you that caught my eye the first time I saw you.” He laughed, showing all his white teeth, and at the same time his eyes were very grave.

“Come over here,” he said, “and I’ll tell you what it was. No––I won’t kiss you––come on up close.” Wondering at her own acquiescence, Kitty Bonnair obeyed, and with a mysterious smile he stooped down until his lips were close to her ear.

“You remind me of my girl,” he whispered, “back in St. Louie!” And then with a great laugh he broke away and leapt triumphantly into the saddle.

“Whoop-eee!” he yelled. “Watch me fly!” And spreading his arms like a bird he thundered away down the western trail.

There was a strange stillness about the old ranch 482 house when Kitty came back to it and she wondered vaguely where Lucy and Rufus were, but as she stepped inside the dirt ramada the quiet seemed to lay its spell upon her and she halted by the doorway, waiting for a last glimpse of Jeff as he went up over the western rim. The bawling of cattle and the shrill yells of the cowboys no longer tempted her to the parada ground––she was lonely, and there was no one who cared for her. Yet, somewhere within, she could hear the murmur of voices, and at last when she could endure it no longer she turned and entered quickly. The big living-room where they had so often sat together was vacant now, but Hardy’s door was open, and as she looked in she saw them standing together––Lucy with downcast eyes, and Rufus, holding both her hands. It was all very innocent and lover-like, but when their lips met she turned and fled to her room.

Half an hour later Kitty emerged from her hiding, robed like a woman; there was a new grace about her as she stood before them, a new dignity, and she wore fresh flowers in her hair, forget-me-nots, picked from among the rocks as she rode toward Hidden Water.

“Bless you, my children,” she said, smiling and holding out her hands, “I shall die an old maid.” And then she kissed them both.