ple form, the laughter of her eyes, the
succession of her moods, had danced before his eyes in changing
pictures, summoned up from the cherished past; but now his mind was
filled with other things. Somewhere in the struggle against sheep and
the drought he had lost her, as a man loses a keep-sake which he has
carried so long against his heart that its absence is as unnoticed as
its presence, and he never knows himself the poorer. After the drought
had come the sheep, the stampede, fierce quarrels with the Swopes,
threats and counter-threats--and then the preparations for war. The
memory of the past faded away and another thought now haunted his
mind, though he never spoke it--when the time came, would he fight, or
would he stay with Lucy and let Jeff go out alone? It was a question
never answered, but every day he rode out without his gun, and Creede
took that for a sign.

As the Rio Salagua, swollen with winter rains, rose up like a writhing
yellow serpent and cast itself athwart the land, it drew a line from
east to west which neither sheep nor cattle could cross, and the
cowmen who had lingered about Hidden Water rode gayly back to their
distant ranches, leaving the peaceful Dos S where Sallie Winship had
hung her cherished lace curtains and Kitty Bonnair and Lucy Ware had
made a home, almost a total wreck. Sheep, drought, and flood had
passed over it in six months' time; the pasture fence was down, the
corrals were half dismantled, and the bunk-room looked like a deserted
grading camp. For a week Creede and Hardy cleaned up and rebuilt, but
every day, in spite of his partner's efforts to divert his mind, Jeff
grew more restless and uneasy. Then one lonely evening he went over
to the corner where his money was buried and began to dig.

"What--the--hell--is the matter with this place?" he exclaimed,
looking up from his work as if he expected the roof to drop. "Ever
since Tommy died it gits on my nerves, bad." He rooted out his tomato
can and stuffed a roll of bills carelessly into his overalls pocket.
"Got any mail to go out?" he inquired, coming back to the fire, and
Hardy understood without more words that Jeff was going on another
drunk.

"Why, yes," he said, "I might write a letter to the boss. But how're
you going to get across the river--she's running high now."

"Oh, I'll git across the river, all right," grumbled Creede. "Born to
be hung and ye can't git drowned, as they say. Well, give the boss my
best."