softly calling to his cat.

"Oh, Rufus!" cried Kitty appealingly, as he rose to follow, "_do_ stop
and tell me about Bill Johnson, and, yes--Hell's Hip Pocket!"

"Why, Kitty!" exclaimed Lucy Ware innocently, and while they were
discussing the morals of geographical swearing Hardy made his bow, and
passed out into the night.

The bitter-sweet of love was upon him again, making the stars more
beautiful, the night more mysterious and dreamy; but as he crept into
his blankets he sighed. In the adjoining cot he could hear Jeff
stripping slivers from a length of jerked beef, and Tommy mewing for
his share.

"Want some jerky, Rufe?" asked Creede, and then, commenting upon their
late supper, he remarked:

"A picnic dinner is all right for canary birds, but it takes good
hard grub to feed a man. I'm goin' to start the _roder_ camp in the
mornin' and cook me up some beans." He lay for a while in silence,
industriously feeding himself on the dry meat, and gazing at the sky.

"Say, Rufe," he said, at last, "ain't you been holdin' out on me a
little?"

"Um-huh," assented Hardy.

"Been gettin' letters from Miss Lucy all the time, eh?"

"Sure."

"Well," remarked Creede, "you're a hell of a feller! But I reckon I
learned somethin'," he added philosophically, "and when I want
somebody to tell my troubles to, I'll know where to go. Say, she's all
right, ain't she?"

"Yeah."

"Who're you talkin' about?"

"Who're you?"

"Oh, you know, all right, all right--but, say!"

"Well?"

"It's a pity she don't like cats."

CHAPTER XII

THE GARDEN IN THE DESERT

The sun was well up over the canyon rim when the tired visitors awoke
from their dreams. Kitty Bonnair was the first to open her eyes and
peep forth upon the fairy world which promised so much of mystery and
delight. The iron bars of their window, deep set in the adobe walls,
suggested the dungeon of some strong prison where Spanish maidens
languished for sight of their lovers; a rifle in the corner,
overlooked in the hurried moving, spoke eloquently of the armed
brutality of the times; the hewn logs which supported the lintels
completed the picture of primitive life; and a soft breeze, breathing
in through the unglazed sills, whispered of dark canyons and the wild,
free out-of-doors.

As she lay there drinking it all in a murmur of voices came to her
ears; and, peering out, she saw Creede and Rufus Hardy squatting by a
fire out by the giant mesquite tree