"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 _rodér_ 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?"
"Been gettin' letters from Miss Lucy all the time, eh?"
"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?"
"Oh, you know, all right, all right--but, say!"
The sun was well up over the cañon 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 cañons 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 which stood near the bank of the creek. Creede was stirring the contents of a frying-pan with a huge iron spoon, and Rufus was cooking strips of meat on a stick which he turned above a bed of coals. There was no sign of hurry or anxiety about their preparations; they seemed to be conversing amiably of other things. Presently Hardy picked up a hooked stick, lifted the cover from the Dutch oven, and dumped a pile of white biscuits upon a greasy cloth. Then, still deep in their talk, they filled their plates from the fry-pan, helped themselves to meat, wrapped the rest of the bread in the cloth, and sat comfortably back on their heels, eating with their fingers and knives.