ear it, even from
Jeff.

"What do you want to tell Miss Bonnair?" he inquired, schooling his
voice to a cold quietness.

"Tell her?" echoed Creede ecstatically. "W'y, tell her I'm lonely as
hell now she's gone--tell her--well, there's where I bog down, but I'd
trade my best horse for another kiss like that one she give me, and
throw in the saddle for _pelon_. Now, say, Rufe, don't leave me in a
hole like this. You've made your winnin', and here's your nice long
letter to Miss Lucy. My hands are as stiff as a burnt rawhide and I
can't think out them nice things to say; but I love Kitty jest as much
as you love Miss Lucy--mebbe more--and--and I wanter tell her so!"

He ended abjectly, gazing with pleading eyes at the stubborn face of
his partner whose lips were drawn tight.

"We--every man has to--no, I can't do it, Jeff," he stammered,
choking. "I'd--I'd help you if I could, Jeff--but she'd know my style.
Yes, that's it. If I'd write the letter she'd know it was from
me--women are quick that way. I'm sorry, but that's the way it
is--every man has to fight out his own battle, in love."

He paused and fumbled with his papers.

"Here's a good pen," he said, "and--and here's the paper." He shoved
out the fair sheet upon which he had intended to write and rose up
dumbly from the table.

"I'm going to bed," he said, and slipped quietly out of the room. As
he lay in his blankets he could see the gleam of light from the barred
window and hear Jeff scraping his boots uneasily on the floor. True
indeed, his hands were like burnt rawhide from gripping at ropes and
irons, his clothes were greasy and his boots smelled of the corral,
and yet--she had given him a kiss! He tried to picture it in his
mind: Kitty smiling--or startled, perhaps--Jeff masterful, triumphant,
laughing. Ah God, it was the same kiss she had offered him, and he had
run away!

In the morning, there was a division between them, a barrier which
could not be overcome. Creede lingered by the door a minute,
awkwardly, and then rode away. Hardy scraped up the greasy dishes and
washed them moodily. Then the great silence settled down upon Hidden
Water and he sat alone in the shadow of the _ramada_, gazing away at
the barren hills.

CHAPTER XIX

THE BIG DRUNK

The sun rose clear for the hundredth time over the shoulder of the
Four Peaks; it mounted higher, glowing with a great light, and the
smooth round tops of the bowlders shone like half-buried