CHAPTER II
THE MAN FROM CHERRYCOW

After lashing the desert to a frazzle and finding the leaks in the Hotel Bender, the wind from Papaguería went howling out over the mesa, still big with rain for the Four Peaks country, and the sun came out gloriously from behind the clouds. Already the thirsty sands had sucked up the muddy pools of water, and the board walk which extended the length of the street, connecting saloon with saloon and ending with the New York Store, smoked with the steam of drying. Along the edge of the walk, drying out their boots in the sun, the casual residents of the town–many of them held up there by the storm–sat in pairs and groups, talking or smoking in friendly silence. A little apart from the rest, for such as he are a long time making friends in Arizona, Rufus Hardy sat leaning against a post, gazing gloomily out across the desert. For a quiet, retiring young man, interested in good literature and bearing malice toward no one, his day in the Bender barroom had been eventful out of all proportion to his deserts and wishes, and he was deep in somber meditation when the door opened and Judge Ware stepped out into the sunshine.

In outward appearance the judge looked more like a large fresh-faced boy in glasses than one of San Francisco’s eminent jurists, and the similarity was enhanced by the troubled and deprecating glances with which he regarded his foreman, who towered above him like a mentor. There was a momentary conference between them at the doorway, and then, as Creede stumped away down the board walk, the judge turned and reluctantly approached Hardy.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he began, as the young man in some confusion rose to meet him, “but I should like a few words with you, on a matter of business. I am Mr. Ware, the owner of the Dos S Ranch–perhaps you may have heard of it–over in the Four Peaks country. Well–I hardly know how to begin–but my foreman, Mr. Creede, was highly impressed with your conduct a short time ago in the–er–affray with the barkeeper. I–er–really know very little as to the rights of the matter, but you showed a high degree of moral courage, I’m sure. Would you mind telling me what your business is in these parts, Mr.–er–”

“Hardy,” supplied the young man quietly, “Rufus Hardy. I am–”

“Er–what?” exclaimed the judge, hastily focussing his glasses. “Hardy–Hardy–where have I heard that name before?”

“I suppose from your daughter, Miss Lucy,” replied the young man, smiling at his confusion. “Unless,” he added hastily, “she has forgotten about me.”

“Why, Rufus Hardy!” exclaimed the judge, reaching out his hand. “Why, bless my heart–to be sure. Why, where have you been for this last year and more? I am sure your father has been quite worried about you.”

“Oh, I hope not,” answered Hardy, shifting his gaze. “I guess he knows I can take care of myself by this time–if I do write poetry,” he added, with a shade of bitterness.

“Well, well,” said the judge, diplomatically changing the subject, “Lucy will be glad to hear of you, at any rate. I believe she–er–wrote you once, some time ago, at your Berkeley address, and the letter was returned as uncalled for.”

He gazed over the rims of his glasses inquiringly, and with a suggestion of asperity, but the young man was unabashed.

“I hope you will tell Miss Lucy,” he said deferentially, “that on account of my unsettled life I have not ordered my mail forwarded for some time.” He paused and for the moment seemed to be considering some further explanation; then his manner changed abruptly.

“I believe you mentioned a matter of business,” he remarked bluffly, and the judge came back to earth with a start. His mind had wandered back a year or more to the mysterious disappearance of this same self-contained young man from his father’s house, not three blocks from his own comfortable home. There had been a servant’s rumor that he had sent back a letter or two postmarked “Bowie, Arizona”–but old Colonel Hardy had said never a word.

“Er–yes,” he assented absently, “but–well, I declare,” he exclaimed helplessly, “I’ve quite forgotten what it was about.”

“Won’t you sit down, then?” suggested Hardy, indicating the edge of the board walk with a courtly sweep of the hand. “This rain will make good feed for you up around the Four Peaks–I believe it was of your ranch there that you wished to speak.”

Judge Ware settled down against a convenient post and caught his breath, meanwhile regarding his companion curiously.

“Yes, that’s it,” he said. “I wanted to talk with you about my ranch, but I swear I’ll have to wait till Creede comes back, now.”

“Very well,” answered Hardy easily; “we can talk about home, then. How is Miss Lucy succeeding with her art–is she still working at the Institute?”

“Yes, indeed!” exclaimed the judge, quite mollified by the inquiry. “Indeed she is, and doing as well as any of them. She had a landscape hung at the last exhibit, that was very highly praised, even by Mathers, and you know how hard he is to please. Tupper Browne won the prize, but I think Lucy’s was twice the picture–kind of soft and sunshiny, you know–it made you think of home, just to look at it.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear that,” said Hardy, looking up the ragged street a little wistfully. “I kind of lose track of things down here, knocking around from place to place.” He seated himself wearily on the edge of the sidewalk and drummed with his sinewy white hands against a boot leg. “But it’s a great life, sure,” he observed, half to himself. “And by the way, Mr. Ware,” he continued, “if it’s all the same to you I wish you wouldn’t say anything to your foreman about my past life. Not that there is anything disgraceful about it, but there isn’t much demand for college graduates in this country, you know, and I might want to strike him for a job.”

Judge Ware nodded, a little distantly; he did not approve of this careless young man in all his moods. For a man of good family he was hardly presentable, for one thing, and he spoke at times like an ordinary working man. So he awaited the lumbering approach of his foreman in sulky silence, resolved to leave the matter entirely in his hands.

Jefferson Creede bore down upon them slowly, sizing up the situation as he came, or trying to, for everything seemed to be at a standstill.

“Well?” he remarked, looking inquiringly from the judge to Hardy. “How about it?”

There was something big and dominating about him as he loomed above them, and the judge’s schoolboy state of mind instantly returned.

“I–I really haven’t done anything about the matter, Jefferson,” he stammered apologetically. “Perhaps you will explain our circumstances to Mr. Hardy here, so that we can discuss the matter intelligently.” He looked away as he spoke, and the tall foreman grunted audibly.

“Well,” he drawled, “they ain’t much to explain. The sheepmen have been gittin’ so free up on our range that I’ve had a little trouble with ’em–and if I was the boss they’d be more trouble, you can bet your life on that. But the judge here seems to think we can kinder suck the hind teat and baby things along until they git that Forest Reserve act through, and make our winnin’ later. He wants to make friends with these sheepmen and git ’em to kinder go around a little and give us half a chanst. Well, maybe it can be done–but not by me. So I told him either to get a superintendent to handle the sheep end of it or rustle up a new foreman, because I see red every time I hear a sheep-blat.

“Then come the question,” continued the cowman, throwing out his broad hand as if indicating the kernel of the matter, “of gittin’ such a man, and while we was talkin’ it over you called old Tex down so good and proper that there wasn’t any doubt in my mind–providin’ you want the job, of course.”

He paused and fixed his compelling eyes upon Hardy with such a mixture of admiration and good humor that the young man was won over at once, although he made no outward sign. It was Judge Ware who was to pass upon the matter finally, and he waited deferentially for him to speak.

“Well–er–Jefferson,” began the judge a little weakly, “do you think that Mr. Hardy possesses the other qualities which would be called for in such a man?”

“W’y, sure,” responded Creede, waving the matter aside impatiently. “Go ahead and hire him before he changes his mind.”

“Very well then, Mr. Hardy,” said the judge resignedly, “the first requisite in such a man is that he shall please Mr. Creede. And since he commends you so warmly I hope that you will accept the position. Let me see–um–would seventy-five dollars a month seem a reasonable figure? Well, call it seventy-five, then–that’s what I pay Mr. Creede, and I want you to be upon an equality in such matters.

“Now as to your duties. Jefferson will have charge of the cattle, as usual; and I want you, Mr. Hardy, to devote your time and attention to this matter of the sheep. Our ranch house at Hidden Water lies almost directly across the river from one of the principal sheep crossings, and a little hospitality shown to the shepherds in passing might be like bread cast upon the waters which comes back an hundred fold after many days. We cannot hope to get rid of them entirely, but if the sheep owners would kindly respect our rights to the upper range, which Mr. Creede will point out to you, I am sure we should take it very kindly. Now that is your whole problem, Rufus, and I leave the details entirely in your hands. But whatever you do, be friendly and see if you can’t appeal to their better nature.”

He delivered these last instructions seriously and they were so taken by Hardy, but Creede laughed silently, showing all his white teeth, yet without attracting the unfavorable attention of the judge, who was a little purblind. Then there was a brief discussion of details, an introduction to Mr. Einstein of the New York Store, where Hardy was given carte blanche for supplies, and Judge Ware swung up on the west-bound limited and went flying away toward home, leaving his neighbor’s son–now his own superintendent and sheep expert–standing composedly upon the platform.

“Well,” remarked Creede, smiling genially as he turned back to the hotel, “the Old Man’s all right, eh, if he does have fits! He’s good-hearted–and that goes a long ways in this country–but actually, I believe he knows less about the cattle business than any man in Arizona. He can’t tell a steer from a stag–honest! And I can lose him a half-mile from camp any day.”

The tall cattleman clumped along in silence for a while, smiling over some untold weakness of his boss–then he looked down upon Hardy and chuckled to himself.

“I’m glad you’re going to be along this trip,” he said confidentially. “Of course I’m lonely as a lost dog out there, but that ain’t it; the fact is, I need somebody to watch me. W’y, boy, I could beat the old judge out of a thousand dollars’ worth of cattle and he’d never know it in a lifetime. Did ye ever live all alone out on a ranch for a month or so? Well, you know how lawless and pisen-mean a man can git, then, associatin’ with himself. I’d’ve had the old man robbed forty times over if he wasn’t such a good-hearted old boy, but between fightin’ sheepmen and keepin’ tab on a passel of brand experts up on the Tonto I’m gittin’ so ornery I don’t dare trust myself. Have a smoke? Oh, I forgot–”

He laughed awkwardly and rolled a cigarette.

“Got a match?” he demanded austerely. “Um, much obliged–be kinder handy to have you along now.” He knit his brows fiercely as he fired up, regarding Hardy with a furtive grin.

“Say,” he said abruptly, “I’ve got to make friends with you some way. You eat, don’t you? All right then, you come along with me over to the Chink’s. I’m going to treat you to somethin’, if it’s only ham ’n’ eggs.”

They dined largely at Charley’s and then drifted out to the feed corral. Creede threw down some hay to a ponderous iron-scarred roan, more like a war horse than a cow pony, and when he came back he found Hardy doing as much for a clean-limbed sorrel, over by the gate.

“Yourn?” he inquired, surveying it with the keen concentrated gaze which stamps every point on a cowboy’s memory for life.

“Sure,” returned Hardy, patting his pony carefully upon the shoulder.

“Kinder high-headed, ain’t he?” ventured Creede, as the sorrel rolled his eyes and snorted.

“That’s right,” assented Hardy, “he’s only been broke about a month. I got him over in the Sulphur Springs Valley.”

“I knowed it,” said the cowboy sagely, “one of them wire-grass horses–an’ I bet he can travel, too. Did you ride him all the way here?”

“Clean from the Chiricahuas,” replied the young man, and Jefferson Creede looked up, startled.

“What did you say you was doin’ over there?” he inquired slowly, and Hardy smiled quietly as he answered:

“Riding for the Cherrycow outfit.”

“The hell you say!” exclaimed Creede explosively, and for a long time he stood silent, smoking as if in deep meditation.

“Well,” he said at last, “I might as well say it–I took you for a tenderfoot.”