"The drinks are on the house," he announced, jauntily strewing the glasses along the bar. "Won't drink, eh? All right. But lemme tell you, pardner," he added, wagging his head impressively, "you're goin' to git hurt some day." CHAPTER II THE MAN FROM CHERRYCOW After lashing the desert to a frazzle and finding the leaks in the Hotel Bender, the wind from Papagueria went howling out over the mesa, still big with rain for the Four Peaks country, and the sun came out gloriously from behind the clouds. Already the thirsty sands had sucked up the muddy pools of water, and the board walk which extended the length of the street, connecting saloon with saloon and ending with the New York Store, smoked with the steam of drying. Along the edge of the walk, drying out their boots in the sun, the casual residents of the town--many of them held up there by the storm--sat in pairs and groups, talking or smoking in friendly silence. A little apart from the rest, for such as he are a long time making friends in Arizona, Rufus Hardy sat leaning against a post, gazing gloomily out across the desert. For a quiet, retiring young man, interested in good literature and bearing malice toward no one, his day in the Bender barroom had been eventful out of all proportion to his deserts and wishes, and he was deep in somber meditation when the door opened and Judge Ware stepped out into the sunshine. In outward appearance the judge looked more like a large fresh-faced boy in glasses than one of San Francisco's eminent jurists, and the similarity was enhanced by the troubled and deprecating glances with which he regarded his foreman, who towered above him like a mentor. There was a momentary conference between them at the doorway, and then, as Creede stumped away down the board walk, the judge turned and reluctantly approached Hardy. "I beg your pardon, sir," he began, as the young man in some confusion rose to meet him, "but I should like a few words with you, on a matter of business. I am Mr. Ware, the owner of the Dos S Ranch--perhaps you may have heard of it--over in the Four Peaks country. Well--I hardly know how to begin--but my foreman, Mr. Creede, was highly impressed with your conduct a short time ago in the--er--affray with the barkeeper. I--er--really know very little as to the rights of the matter, but you showed a high degree of moral courage, I'm sure. Would you mind telling me what your business is in these parts, Mr.--er--" "Hardy," supplied the young man quietly, "Rufus Hardy. I am--" "Er--_what_?" exclaimed the judge, hastily focussing his glasses. "Hardy--Hardy--where have I heard that name before?" "I suppose from your daughter, Miss Lucy," replied the young man, smiling at his confusion. "Unless," he added hastily, "she has forgotten about me."