Hidden Water

“Hidden Water!” he said, and smiled again mysteriously.

Then he led the way along the side of the stream, which slipped softly over the water-worn bowlders, dimpling in pool after pool, until at the very gate of the valley it sank into the sand and was lost. Higher and higher mounted the path; and then, at the foot of a smooth ledge which rose like a bulwark across the gorge, it ended suddenly by the side of a cattle-tracked pool.

“This is the wall to my garden,” said Hardy, pointing to the huge granite dyke, “beyond which only the elect may pass.” He paused, and glanced over at her quizzically. “The path was not made for ladies, I am afraid,” he added, pointing to a series of foot holes which ran up the face of the ledge. “Do you think you can climb it?”

Lucy Ware studied his face for a moment; then, turning to the Indian stairway, she measured it with a practised eye.

“You go up first,” she suggested, and when he had scaled the slippery height and turned he found her close behind, following carefully in his steps.

“Well, you are a climber!” he cried admiringly. “Here, give me your hand.” And when he had helped her up he still held it–or perhaps she clung to his.

Before them lay a little glade, shut in by painted rocks, upon whose black sides were engraved many curious pictures, the mystic symbols of the Indians; and as they stood gazing at it an eagle with pointed wings wheeled slowly above them, gazing with clear eyes down into the sunlit vale. From her round nest in the crotch of a sycamore a great horned owl plunged out at their approach and glided noiselessly away; and in the stillness the zooning of bees among the rocks came to their ears like distant music. Beneath their feet the grass grew long and matted, shot here and there with the blue and gold of flowers, like the rich meadows of the East; and clustering along the hillsides, great bunches of grama grass waved their plumes proudly, the last remnant of all that world of feed which had clothed the land like a garment before the days of the sheep. For here, at least, there came no nibbling wethers, nor starving cattle; and the mountain sheep which had browsed there in the old days were now hiding on the topmost crags of the Superstitions to escape the rifles of the destroyers. All the world without was laid waste and trampled by hurrying feet, but the garden of Hidden Water was still kept inviolate, a secret shrine consecrated to Nature and Nature’s God.

As she stood in the presence of all its beauty a mist came into Lucy’s eyes and she turned away.

“Oh, Rufus,” she cried, “why don’t you live up here always instead of wasting your life in that awful struggle with the sheep? You could–why, you could do anything up here!”

“Yes,” assented Hardy, “it is a beautiful spot–I often come up here when I am weary with it all–but a man must do a man’s work, you know; and my work is with the sheep. When I first came to Hidden Water I knew nothing of the sheep. I thought the little lambs were pretty; the ewes were mothers, the herders human beings. I tried to be friends with them, to keep the peace and abide by the law; but now that I’ve come to know them I agree with Jeff, who has been fighting them for twenty years. There is something about the smell of sheep which robs men of their humanity; they become greedy and avaricious; the more they make the more they want. Of all the sheepmen that I know there isn’t one who would go around me out of friendship or pity–and I have done favors for them all. But they’re no friends of mine now,” he added ominously. “I have to respect my friends, and I can’t respect a man who is all hog. There’s no pretence on either side now, though–they’re trying to sheep us out and we are trying to fight them off, and if it ever comes to a show-down–well–”

He paused, and his eyes glowed with a strange light.

“You know I haven’t very much to live for, Miss Lucy,” he said earnestly, “but if I had all that God could give me I’d stand by Jeff against the sheep. It’s all right to be a poet or an artist, a lover of truth and beauty, and all that, but if a man won’t stand up for his friends when they’re in trouble he’s a kind of closet philosopher that shrinks from all the realities of life–a poor, puny creature, at the best.”

He stood up very straight as he poured out this torrent of words, gazing at her intently, but with his eyes set, as if he beheld some vision. Yet whether it was of himself and Jeff, fighting their hopeless battle against the sheep, or of his life as it might have been if Kitty had been as gentle with him as this woman by his side, there was no telling. His old habit of reticence fell back upon him as suddenly as it had been cast aside, and he led the way up the little stream in silence. As he walked, the ardor of his passion cooled, and he began to point out things with his eloquent hands–the minnows, wheeling around in the middle of a glassy pool; a striped bullfrog, squatting within the spray of a waterfall; huge combs of honey, hanging from shelving caverns along the cliff where the wild bees had stored their plunder for years. At last, as they stood before a drooping elder whose creamy blossoms swayed beneath the weight of bees, he halted and motioned to a shady seat against the cañon wall.

“There are gardens in every desert,” he said, as she sank down upon the grassy bank, “but this is ours.”

They sat for a while, gazing contentedly at the clusters of elder blossoms which hung above them, filling the air with a rich fragrance which was spiced by the tang of sage. A ruby-throated humming-bird flashed suddenly past them and was gone; a red-shafted woodpecker, still more gorgeous in his scarlet plumage, descended in uneven flights from the sahuaros that clung against the cliff and, fastening upon a hollow tree, set up a mysterious rapping.

“He is hunting for grubs,” explained Hardy. “Does that inspire you?”

“Why, no,” answered Lucy, puzzled.

“The Mexicans call him pajaro corazon–páh-hah-ro cor-ah-sóne,” continued the poet. “Does that appeal to your soul?”

“Why, no. What does it mean–woodpecker?”

Hardy smiled. “No,” he said, “a woodpecker with them is called carpintero– carpenter, you understand–because he hammers on trees; but my friend up on the stump yonder is Pajaro Corazon– bird of the heart. I have a poem dedicated to him.” Then, as if to excuse himself from the reading, he hastened on: “Of course, no true poet would commit such a breach–he would write a sonnet to his lady’s eyebrow, a poem in memory of a broken dream, or some sad lament for Love, which has died simultaneously with his own blasted hopes. But a sense of my own unimportance has saved me–or the world, at any rate–from such laments. Pajaro Corazon and Chupa Rosa, a little humming-bird who lives in that elder tree, have been my only friends and companions in the muse, until you came. I wouldn’t abuse Chupa Rosa’s confidence by reading my poem to her. Her lover has turned out a worthless fellow and left her–that was him you saw flying past just now, going up the cañon to sport around with the other hummers–but here is my poem to Pajaro Corazon.”

He drew forth his bundle of papers and in a shamefaced way handed one of them to Lucy. It was a slip of yellow note paper, checked along the margin with groups of rhyming words and scansion marks, and in the middle this single verse.

 “Pajaro Corazon! Bird of the Heart!Some knight of honor in those bygone daysOf dreams and gold and quests through desert lands,Seeing thy blood-red heart flash in the raysOf setting sun–which lured him far from Spain–Lifted his face and, reading there a signFrom his dear lady, crossed himself and spakeThen first, the name which still is thine.”

Lucy folded the paper and gazed across at him rapturously.

“Oh, Rufus,” she cried, “why didn’t you send it to me?”

“Is it good?” asked Hardy, forgetting his pose; and when she nodded solemnly he said:

“There is another verse–look on the other side.”

Lucy turned the paper over quickly and read again:

 “Pajaro Corazon! Bird of the Heart!Some Padre, wayworn, stooping towards his grave,Whom God by devious ways had sent so far,So far from Spain–still pressing on to saveThe souls He loved, now, raising up his eyesAnd seeing on thy breast the bleeding heartOf Jesus, cast his robes aside and spakeThy name–and set that place apart.”

As she followed the lines Hardy watched her face with eyes that grew strangely soft and gentle. It was Lucy Ware of all the world who understood him. Others laughed, or pitied, or overdid it, or remained unmoved, but Lucy with her trusting blue eyes and broad poet’s brow–a brow which always made him think of Mrs. Browning who was a poet indeed, she always read his heart, in her he could safely trust. And now, when those dear eyes filled up with tears he could have taken her hand, yes, he could have kissed her–if he had not been afraid.

“Rufus,” she said at last, “you are a poet.” And then she dried her eyes and smiled.

“Let me read some more,” she pleaded; but Hardy held the bundle resolutely away.

“No,” he said gently, “it is enough to have pleased you once. You know poetry is like music; it is an expression of thoughts which are more than thoughts. They come up out of the great sea of our inner soul like the breath of flowers from a hidden garden, like the sound of breakers from the ocean cliffs; but not every one can scent their fragrance, and some ears are too dull to hear music in the rush of waters. And when one has caught the music of another’s song then it is best to stop before–before some discord comes. Lucy,” he began, as his soul within him rose up and clamored for it knew not what, “Lucy–”

He paused, and the woman hung upon his lips to catch the words.

“Yes?” she said, but the thought had suddenly left him. It was a great longing–that he knew–a great desire, unsensed because unknown–but deep, deep.

“Yes–Rufus?” she breathed, leaning over; but the light had gone out of his eyes and he gazed at her strangely.

“It is nothing,” he murmured, “nothing. I–I have forgotten what I was going to say.” He sighed, and looked moodily at his feet. “The thoughts of a would-be poet,” he mused, cynically. “How valuable they are–how the world must long for them–when he even forgets them himself! I guess I’d better keep still and let you talk a while,” he ended, absently. But Lucy Ware sat gazing before her in silence.

“Isn’t it time we returned?” she asked, after a while. “You know I have a great deal to do.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Hardy, easily, “I’ll help you. What do you want to do–clean house?”

Lucy could have cried at her hero’s sudden lapse–from Parnassus to the scullery, from love to the commonplaces of living; but she had schooled herself to bear with him, since patience is a woman’s part. Yet her honest blue eyes were not adapted to concealment and, furtively taking note of her distress, Hardy fell into the role of a penitent.

“Is my garden such a poor place,” he inquired gravely, “that you must leave it the moment we have come? You have not even seen Chupa Rosa.”

“Well, show me Chupa Rosa– and then we will go.”

She spoke the words reluctantly, rising slowly to her feet; and Hardy knew that in some hidden way he had hurt her, yet in what regard he could not tell. A vague uneasiness came over him and he tried awkwardly to make amends for his fault, but good intentions never yet crossed a river or healed a breach.

“Here is her nest,” he said, “almost above our seat. Look, Lucy, it is made out of willow down and spider webs, bound round and round the twig. Don’t you want to see the eggs? Look!” He bent the limb until the dainty white treasures, half buried in the fluffy down, were revealed–but still she did not smile.

“Oh, stop, Rufus!” she cried, “what will the mother-bird think? She might be frightened at us and leave her nest. Come, let’s hurry away before she sees us!”

She turned and walked quickly down the valley, never pausing to look back, even when Rufus stopped to pluck a flower from among the rocks.

“Here,” he said, after he had helped her down the Indian stairway; and when she held up her hand, passively, he dropped a forget-me-not into it.

“Oh!” she cried, carried away for a moment, “do they grow down here?”

“Yes,” he said, soberly, “even here. And they–sometimes you find them where you wouldn’t expect–in rough places, you know, and among the stones. I–I hope you will keep it,” he said, simply. And Lucy divined what was in his heart, better perhaps than he himself; but when at last she was alone she buried her face in the pillow, and for a long time the house was very still.

CHAPTER XIII

A SNOW-SCENE

There was a big fire out under the mesquite that night and a band of cowboys, in all the bravery of spurs, shaps, and pistols, romped around it in a stage-struck exuberance of spirits. The night was hardly cold enough to call for fringed leather chaparejos, and their guns should have been left in their blankets; nor are long-shanked Texas spurs quite the proper thing about camp, having a dirty way of catching and tripping their wearers; but the rodéo outfit felt that it was on dress parade and was trying its best to look the cowboy part. Bill Lightfoot even had a red silk handkerchief draped about his neck, with the slack in front, like a German napkin; and his cartridge belt was slung so low that it threatened every moment to drop his huge Colt’s revolver into the dirt–but who could say a word?

The news of Judge Ware’s visit had passed through the Four Peaks country like the rumor of an Indian uprising and every man rode into Hidden Water with an eye out for calico, some with a foolish grin, some downcast and reserved, some swaggering in the natural pride of the lady’s man. But a becoming modesty had kept Lucy Ware indoors, and Kitty had limited herself to a furtive survey of the scene from behind what was left of Sallie Winship’s lace curtains. With the subtle wisdom of a rodéo boss Jefferson Creede had excused himself to the ladies at the first sound of jangling horse-bells, and now he kept resolutely away from the house, busying himself with the manifold duties of his position. To the leading questions of Bill Lightfoot and the “fly bunch” which followed his lead he turned a deaf ear or replied in unsatisfying monosyllables; and at last, as the fire lit up the trees and flickered upon their guns and silver-mounted trappings and no fair maids sallied forth to admire them, the overwrought emotions of the cowboys sought expression in song.

“Oh my little girl she lives in the town,”

chanted Lightfoot, and the fly bunch, catching the contagion, joined promptly in on the refrain:

“A toodle link, a toodle link, a too–oo-dle a day!”

At this sudden and suggestive outbreak Jeff Creede surveyed Bill Lightfoot coldly and puffed on his cigarette. Bill was always trying to make trouble.

“And every time I see ’er, she asts me f’r a gown,”

carolled the leading cowboy; and the bunch, not to seem faint-hearted, chimed in again:

“Reladin to reladin, and reladin to relate!”

Now they were verging toward the sensational part of the ballad, the place where a real gentleman would quit, but Lightfoot only tossed his head defiantly.

“O-Oh–” he began, and then he stopped with his mouth open. The rodéo boss had suddenly risen to an upright position and fixed him with his eye.

“I like to see you boys enjoyin’ yourselves,” he observed, quietly, “but please don’t discuss politics or religion while them ladies is over at the house. You better switch off onto ‘My Bonnie Lies over the Ocean,’ Bill.” And Bill switched.

“What’s the matter?” he demanded aggrieved, “ain’t anybody but you got any rights and privileges around here? You go sportin’ around and havin’ a good time all day, but as soon as one of us punchers opens his mouth you want to jump down his throat. What do we know about ladies–I ain’t seen none!”

The discussion of the moral code which followed was becoming acrimonious and personal to a degree when a peal of girlish laughter echoed from the ranch house and the cowboys beheld Judge Ware and Hardy, accompanied by Miss Lucy and Kitty Bonnair, coming towards their fire. A less tactful man might have taken advantage of the hush to utter a final word of warning to his rebellious subjects, but Creede knew Kitty Bonnair and the human heart too well. As the party came into camp he rose quietly and introduced the judge and the ladies to every man present, without deviation and without exception, and then, having offered Miss Ware his cracker box, he moved over a man or two and sat down.

In the bulk of his mighty frame, the rugged power of his countenance, and the unconscious authority of his words he was easily master of them all; but though he had the voice of Mars and a head like Olympian Zeus he must needs abase his proud spirit to the demands of the occasion, for the jealousy of mortal man is a proverb. Where the punchers that he hired for thirty dollars a month were decked out in shaps and handkerchiefs he sat in his shirt-sleeves and overalls, with only his high-heeled boots and the enormous black sombrero which he always wore, to mark him for their king. And the first merry question which Miss Kitty asked he allowed to pass unnoticed, until Bill Lightfoot–to save the credit of the bunch–answered it himself.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied politely. “That was a genuwine cowboy song we was singin’–we sing ’em to keep the cattle awake at night.”

“Oh, how interesting!” exclaimed Kitty, leaning forward in her eagerness. “But why do you try to keep them awake? I should think they would be so tired, after travelling all day.”

“Yes, ma’am,” responded Bill, twisting his silk handkerchief nervously, “but if they go to sleep and anything wakes ’em up quick they stompede–so we ride through ’em and sing songs.”

“Just think of that, Lucy!” cried Miss Kitty enthusiastically. “And it was such a pretty tune, too! Won’t you sing it again, Mr. Lightfoot? I’d just love to hear it!”

Here was a facer for Mr. Lightfoot, and Jefferson Creede, to whom all eyes were turned in the crisis, smiled maliciously and let him sweat.

“Bill ain’t in very good voice to-night,” he observed at last, as the suspense became unbearable, “and we’re kinder bashful about singin’ to company, anyway. But if you want to hear somethin’ good, you want to git Bill goin’ about Coloraydo. Sure, Mr. Lightfoot is our best story-teller; and he’s had some mighty excitin’ times up there in them parts, hain’t you, Bill?”

Bill cast a baleful glance at his rival and thrust out his chin insolently. His Coloraydo experiences were a matter of jest with Jeff Creede, but with the ladies it might be different. His courage rose before the flattering solicitude of Kitty Bonnair and he resolved then and there to fool Mr. Creede or know the reason why.

“Well,” he replied, stoutly, “they may look kinder tame alongside of your Arizona lies, but–”

“Oh, Mr. Lightfoot, do tell me all about it!” broke in Kitty, with an alluring smile. “Colorado is an awfully wild country, isn’t it? And did you ever have any adventures with bears?”

“Bears!” exclaimed Bill contemptuously. “Bears! Huh, we don’t take no more account of ordinary bears up in Coloraydo than they do of coons down here. But them big silver-tips–ump-um–excuse me!” He paused and swaggered a little on the precarious support of his cracker box. “And yet, Miss Bunnair,” he said, lowering his voice to a confidential key, “I slept a whole night with one of them big fellers and never turned a hair. I could’ve killed him the next day, too, but I was so grateful to him I spared his life.”

This was the regular “come-on” for Lightfoot’s snow-storm story, and Creede showed his white teeth scornfully as Bill leaned back and began the yarn.

“You see, Miss Bunnair,” began the Colorado cowboy, rolling his eyes about the circle to quell any tendency to give him away, “Coloraydo is an altogether different country from this here. The mountains is mighty steep and brushy, with snow on the peaks, and the cactus ain’t more ’n a inch high out on the perairie. But they’s plenty of feed and water–you betcher life I wisht I was back there now instead of fightin’ sheep down here! The only thing aginst that country up there is the blizzards. Them storms is very destructive to life. Yes, ma’am. They’s never any notice given but suddenly the wind will begin to blow and the cattle will begin to drift, and then about the time your horse is give out and your ears frozen it’ll begin to snow!

“Well, this time I’m tellin’ about I was up on the Canadian River west of the Medicine Bow Mountains and she came on to snow–and snow, I thought it would bury me alive! I was lost in a big park–a kind of plain or perairie among the mountains. Yes’m, they have’m there–big level places–and it was thirty miles across this here level perairie. The wind was blowin’ something awful and the snow just piled up on my hat like somebody was shovellin’ it off a roof, but I kept strugglin’ on and tryin’ to git to the other side, or maybe find some sheltered place, until it was like walkin’ in your sleep. And that light fluffy snow jest closed in over me until I was covered up ten feet deep. Of course my horse had give out long ago, and I was jest beginnin’ to despair when I come across one of them big piles of rocks they have up there, scattered around promiscus-like on the face of nature; and I begin crawlin’ in and crawlin’ in, hopin’ to find some cave or somethin’, and jest as I was despairin’ my feet fell into a kind of trail, kinder smooth and worn, but old, you know, and stomped hard under the snow. Well, I follers along this path with my feet until it come to a hole in the rocks; and when I come to that hole I went right in, fer I was desprit; and I crawled in and crawled in until I come to a big nest of leaves, and then I begin to burrow down into them leaves. And as soon as I had made a hole I pulled them leaves over me and fell to sleep, I was that exhausted.

“But after a while I had some awful bad dreams, and when I woke up I felt somethin’ kickin’ under me. Yes ’m, that’s right; I felt somethin’ kinder movin’ around and squirmin’, and when I begin to investergate I found I was layin’ down right square on top of a tremenjous big grizzly bear! Well, you fellers can laugh, but I was, all the same. What do you know about it, you woolies, punchin’ cows down here in the rocks and cactus?

“How’s that, Miss Bunnair? W’y sure, he was hibernatin’! They all hibernate up in them cold countries. Well, the funny part of this was that Old Brin had gone to sleep suckin’ his off fore foot, jest like a little baby, and when I had piled in on top of him I had knocked his paw out of his mouth and he was tryin’ to git it back. But he was all quilled up with himself under them leaves, and his claws was so long he couldn’t git that foot back into his mouth nohow. He snooped and grabbed and fumbled, and every minute he was gittin’ madder and madder, a-suckin’ and slobberin’ like a calf tryin’ to draw milk out of the hired man’s thumb, and a-gruntin’ and groanin’ somethin’ awful.

“Well, I see my finish in about a minute if he ever got good an’ woke up, so I resolved to do somethin’ desprit. I jest naturally grabbed onto that foot and twisted it around and stuck it into his mouth myself! Afraid? Ump-um, not me–the only thing I was afraid of was that he’d git my hand and go to suckin’ it by mistake. But when I steered his paw around in front of him he jest grabbed onto that big black pad on the bottom of his foot like it was m’lasses candy, and went off to sleep again as peaceful as a kitten.”

The man from Coloraydo ended his tale abruptly, with an air of suspense, and Kitty Bonnair took the cue.

“What did I do then?” demanded Lightfoot, with a reminiscent smile. “Well, it was a ground-hog case with me–if I moved I’d freeze to death and if I knocked his paw out’n his mouth again he’d mash my face in with it–so I jest snuggled down against him, tucked my head under his chin, and went to sleep, holdin’ that paw in his mouth with both hands.”

“Oh, Mr. Lightfoot,” exclaimed Kitty, “how could you? Why, that’s the most remarkable experience I ever heard of! Lucy, I’m going to put that story in my book when I get home, and–but what are you laughing at, Mr. Creede?”