for Miss Bonnair, so I
thought we might as well git it off our minds before somethin' worse
turned up. See any sheep tracks?"

He kicked off his boots, poked his six-shooter under his pillow, and
settled down comfortably for the night.

"Nary one, eh?" he repeated musingly. "Well, when you see one you'll
see a million--that's been my experience. But say, Rufe, why don't you
come and ride with the boys once in a while? The _rodeo_ has been
goin' rotten this year--we ain't gittin' half of 'em--and you'd come
in mighty handy. Besides, I've been braggin' you up to Miss Bonnair."

He dropped this last as a bait, but Hardy did not respond.

"I told her you was the best bronco-buster in the Four Peaks country,"
continued Creede deliberately, "and that you could drift Chapuli over
the rocks like a sand lizard; but I'm too heavy for anything like that
now, and Bill Lightfoot has been puttin' up the fancy work, so far.
You know how I like Bill."

Once more he waited for an answer, but Hardy was wrestling with those
elementary passions which have been making trouble since Helen of Troy
left home, and he received the remark in silence.

"I'll tell you, Rufe," said Creede, lowering his voice confidentially.
"Of course I see how it is with you and Miss Ware, and I'm glad of it;
but things ain't goin' so lovely for me. It ain't my fault if Miss
Bonnair happens to like my company, but Bill and some of the other
boys have got their backs up over it, and they've practically gone on
a strike. Leastwise we ain't gittin' the cattle, and God knows the
range won't more 'n carry what's left. I've got to git out and do some
ridin', and at the same time I want to do the right thing by Miss
Bonnair, so if you could jest kindly come along with us to-morrow I'll
be much obliged."

The elemental passions--man-love, jealousy, the lust for possession--are
ugly things at best, even when locked in the bosom of a poet. In their
simplest terms they make for treachery and stealth; but when
complicated with the higher call of friendship and duty they gall a
man like the chains of Prometheus and send the dragon-clawed eagles
of Jove to tear at his vitals. Never until this naive confession had
Hardy suspected the sanity of his friend nor the constancy of Kitty
Bonnair. That she was capable of such an adventure he had never
dreamed--and yet--and yet--where was there a more masterful man than
Jeff? Anything can happen in love; and who was there more ca