y the camp rustlers had driven them out
on the slanting rock and encircled the first cut with their canvas
wagon cover, when Jasper Swope held up his hand for them to stop. At
the last moment and for no cause he hesitated, touched by some
premonition, or suspicious of the silent shore. One after another
the herders clambered back and squatted idly against the cool
cliff, smoking and dangling their polished carbines; the sheep, left
standing upon the rock, huddled together and stood motionless; the
goats leapt nimbly up on adjacent bowlders and gazed across the
river intently; then, throwing up his hand again, the sheepman
spurred his black mule recklessly into the water, waving his big hat
as he motioned for the sheep to cross.

As the long hours of that portentous morning wore on, palpitating to
the clamor of the sheep, a great quiet settled upon Hidden Water.
Sitting just within the door Hardy watched Lucy as she went about her
work, but his eyes were wandering and haggard and he glanced from time
to time at the Black Butte that stood like a sentinel against the
crossing. In the intervals of conversation the bleating of the sheep
rose suddenly from down by the river, and ceased; he talked on,
feverishly, never stopping for an answer, and Lucy looked at him
strangely, as if wondering at his preoccupation. Again the deep
tremolo rose up, echoing from the cliffs, and Hardy paused in the
midst of a story to listen. He was still staring out the doorway when
Lucy Ware came over and laid her hand on his shoulder.

"Rufus," she said, "what is it you are always listening for? Day after
day I see you watching here by the door, and when I talk you listen
for something else. Tell me--is it--are you watching for Kitty?"

"Kitty?" repeated Hardy, his eyes still intent. "Why no; why should I
be watching for her?"

At his answer, spoken so impassively, she drew away quickly, but he
caught her hand and stopped her.

"Ah no," he said, "if I could only listen for something else it would
be better--but all I hear is sheep. I'm like old Bill Johnson; I can
still shoot straight and find my way in the mountains, but every time
I hear a sheep blat I change. Poor old Bill, he's over across the
river there now; the boys have heard his hounds baying up in the high
cliffs for a week. I've seen him a time or two since he took to the
hills and he's just as quiet and gentle with me as if he were my
father, but if anybody mentions sheep he goe