oomily 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 w