out given up literature and is the champion bronco-twister of the
Four Peaks range."

"But Rufus--would that be the truth?"

Hardy laughed. "Well, pretty near it--but I'm trying to please my best
friend now."

"Oh," said Lucy, blushing. "Will--will that make much difference?" she
asked.

"All the difference in the world," declared Hardy warmly. "You want me
to become a poet--he wants me to become a fighter. Well now, since I
haven't been able to please him, I'm going to try to please you for a
while."

"Oh, Rufus," cried Lucy, "am I really--your best friend?"

"Why sure! Didn't you know that?" He spoke the words with a bluff
good-fellowship which pleased her, in a way, but at the same time left
her silent. And he, too, realized that there was a false note, a rift
such as often creeps in between friends and if not perceived and
checked widens into a breach.

"You know," he said, quietly making his amends, "when I was a boy my
father always told me I talked too much; and after mother died
I--well, I didn't talk so much. I was intended for a soldier, you
know, and good officers have to keep their own counsel. But--well, I
guess the habit struck in--so if I don't always thank you, or tell you
things, you will understand, won't you? I wasn't raised to please
folks, you know, but just to fight Indians, and all that. How would
you like to be a soldier's wife?"

"Not very well, I am afraid," she said. "All the fear and anxiety,
and--well, I'm afraid I couldn't love my husband if he killed
anybody." She paused and glanced up at him, but he was deep in
thought.

"My mother was a soldier's wife," he said, at last; and Lucy, seeing
where his thoughts had strayed, respected his silence. It was
something she had learned long before, for while Rufus would sometimes
mention his mother he would never talk about her, even to Lucy Ware.
So they finished their housework, deep in their own thoughts. But when
at last they stepped out into the sunshine Lucy touched him on the
arm.

"Wouldn't you like to bring your poems with you?" she suggested. "We
can read them when we have found the spring. Is it very beautiful up
there?"

"Yes," answered Hardy, "I often go there to write, when nobody is
around. You know Jeff and all these cowboys around here don't know
that I write verse. They just think I'm a little fellow from somewhere
up in California that can ride horses pretty good. But if I had handed
it out to them that I was a po