rise up at sight of them. Years ago Kitty had written him a letter and
he had read it at that same table. It had been a cruel letter, but
unconsidered, like the tantrum of a child. Yes, he had almost
forgotten it, but now like a sudden nightmare the old horror clutched
at his heart. He steadied himself, and the words began to take form
before him. Surely she would be gentle with Jeff, he was so big and
kind. Then he read on, slowly, grasping at the meaning, and once more
his eyes grew big with horror at her words. He finished, and bowed his
head upon the table, while the barren room whirled before him.

From his place across the table the big cowboy looked down upon him,
grim and masterful, yet wondering at his silence.

"Well, am I wrong?" he demanded, but the little man made no answer.

Upon the table before Hardy there lay another letter, written in that
same woman's hand, a letter to him, and the writing was smooth and
fair. Jeff had brought it to him, tied behind his saddle, and he stood
before him now, waiting.

"Am I wrong?" he said again, but Hardy did not answer in words.
Holding the crumpled letter behind him he took up his own fair
missive--such a one as he would have died for in years gone by--and
laid it on the fire, and when the tiny flame leaped up he dropped the
other on it and watched them burn together.

"Well, how about it?" inquired Creede, awed by the long silence, but
the little man only bowed his head.

"Who am I, to judge?" he said.

CHAPTER XX

THE DROUGHT

For a year the shadowy clouds had flitted past Hidden Water, drifting
like flocks of snowy birds to their resting-place against the Peaks,
and as the wind raged and the darkness gathered the cattle had raised
their heads and bellowed, sniffing the wet air. In Summer the
thunder-heads had mounted to high heaven and spread from east to west;
the heat lightning had played along the horizon at night, restless and
incessant; the sky had turned black and the south wind had rushed up,
laden with the smell of distant showers. At last the rain had fallen,
graciously, bringing up grass and browse, and flowers for those who
sought them. But all the time the water lay in black pools along the
shrunken river, trickling among the rocks and eddying around huge
snags of driftwood, clear, limpid, sparkling, yet always less and
less.

Where the winter floods had scoured the lowlands clear, a fuzz of baby
trees sprang up, growing to a rank