she answered, and as their lips met he held her
gently in his arms.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE END OF IT ALL

There is a mocking-bird at Hidden Water that sings the songs of all
the birds and whistles for the dog. His nest is in a great cluster of
mistletoe in the mesquite tree behind the house and every morning he
polishes his long curved bill against the _ramada_ roof, preens out
his glossy feathers, and does honor to the sun. For two years, off and
on, Hardy had heard him, mimicking orioles and larks and sparrows and
whistling shrilly for the dog, but now for the first time his heart
answered to the wild joy of the bird lover. The world had taken on
light and color over night, and the breeze, sifting in through the
barred window, was sweet with the fragrance of untrampled flowers.

April had come, and the grass; the air was untainted; there was no
braying by the river--the sheep had gone. It had been bought at the
price of blood, but at last there was peace. The dreamy _quah_, _quah_
of the quail was no longer a mockery of love; their eggs would not be
broken in the nest but the mothers would lead forth their little ones;
even the ground-doves and the poor-wills, nesting in last year's
sheep tracks, would escape the myriad feet--and all because a crazy
man, hiding among the cliffs, had shot down Jasper Swope. Without hate
or pity Hardy thought of that great hairy fighting-man; the God that
let him live would judge him dead--and Bill Johnson too, when he
should die. The sheep were gone and Lucy had kissed him--these were
the great facts in the world.

They were sitting close together beneath the _ramada_, looking out
upon the sunlit valley and talking dreamily of the old days, when
suddenly Hardy edged away and pointed apologetically to the western
trail. There in single file came Judge Ware in his linen duster, a
stranger in khaki, and a woman, riding astride.

"There comes father!" cried Lucy, springing up eagerly and waving her
hand.

"And Kitty," added Hardy, in a hushed voice. Not since they had come
had he spoken of her, and Lucy had respected his silence. Except for
the vague "Perhaps" with which she had answered Bill Lightfoot's
persistent inquiries he had had no hint that Kitty might come, and yet
a vague uneasiness had held his eyes to the trail.

"Tell me, Lucy," he said, drawing her back to his side as the party
dipped out of sight in the interminable thicket of mesquites, "why
have you never s