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Updated: June 15, 2025
The fire was dying down to embers and the rodéo outfit, worn out, had turned in, some in the tin house, others outside, under the brush ramada to escape the dew. No one moved as they approached but Creede did not scruple to wake up Jim Clark in order to learn the news. "How'd the old horn work?" he inquired cheerily. "No good," grunted Clark, rolling over. "Aw, go on, wouldn't they chase ye?"
In the morning he arose and went about his work with mouse-like quietness, performing all things thoroughly and well, talking, even laughing, yet with a droop like that of a wounded creature that seeks only to hide and escape. Creede watched him furtively, hung around the house for a while, then strode out to the pasture and caught up his horse.
From the little butte where Creede and Hardy stood the lower mesa stretched away before them like a rocky, cactus-covered plain, the countless ravines and gulches hidden by the dead level of the benches, and all empty, lifeless, void. They rode for the second camp, farther to the west, and it too was deserted, the sheep tracks cunningly milled in order to hide the trail.
"Um," said Creede, "they was all blowin', hey? And what else was they doin'?" "Shootin', fer further orders, and driftin' their sheep. They's about a hundred thousand, right over the hill." "Huh!" grunted Creede, turning to his belated dinner, "what d'ye make of that, Rufe?" "Nothing," replied Hardy, "except more work."
He paused and jerked his thumb toward Creede and Hardy, grinning evilly, and as he spoke Creede crowded forward, his brow black as a thunder cloud. "I don't take orders from nobody," he cried vehemently, "not now, and never will. I've got a few hundred head of cows on this range myself and I intend to protect 'em if I have to kill somebody. You'll have to git another foreman, Judge, I've quit."
There was a great noise from the branding pen and as she approached he seemed very intent upon his work, wrestling with his bundle as if he were hog-tying a bull and using language none too choice the while, but Kitty waited patiently until he looked up. "Why, howdy do, Mr. Creede," she cried, smiling radiantly. "I got a new idea for my play just from seeing you do that work."
"Here," rasped out Jim Swope, spurring his horse in between them, "what are you fellers tryin' to do? Git out of here, umbre go on now! Never mind, Jasp, I'll do the talkin'. You go on away, will ye! Now what's the matter with you, Mr. Creede, and what can I do for you?" Jasper Swope had whirled back from the blow as a rattler throws his coils.
It was only an instant's respite but as the sheepman blinked and struck the dirt from his eyes the little cowman wheeled and made a dash for the river. "Look out!" screamed Creede, as the gun flashed out and came to a point, and like a bullfrog Hardy hurled himself far out into the eddying water.
Wish I could git aholt of some good po'try." He paused, waiting for Hardy to respond. "Say," he said, at last, "do me a favor, will ye, Rufe?" The tone of his voice, now soft and diffident, startled Hardy out of his dream. "Why sure, Jeff," he said, "if I can." "No, no 'ifs' and 'ands' about it!" persisted Creede.
He grinned broadly, wiping his floury hands on his overalls in defiance of Miss Kitty's most rudimentary principles; and yet even she, for all her hygiene, was compelled to laugh. There was something about Creede that invited confidence and feminine badgering, he was so like a big, good-natured boy.
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