He added these last words with a frank directness which left no doubt as to his own convictions in the matter, and Lucy turned an inquiring eye upon Hardy. He was busily engaged in pounding a hole in the ground with a rock, and Lucy noted for the first time a trace of silver in his hair. The setting sun cast deep shadows in the set lines of his face and when he finally looked up his eyes were bloodshot and haggard. "There's no use in talking to me about that job," he said morosely. "I've got tired of taking orders from a man that doesn't know what he's talking about, and I want to use my own judgment for a while. We won't let anything happen to your cattle, Miss Lucy, and I thank you very much, but I'm afraid I can't do it." He stopped, and bowed his head, hammering moodily away at his hole in the rocky ground. "Excuse me a minute, Miss Ware," said Creede, rising to his feet as the silence became oppressive. "Come over here, Rufe, I want to talk with you." They stood with their heads together, Jeff tapping the little man on the chest with every word, and still there was the same dogged resistance. "Well, come on and let's find out," protested Creede at last, impatiently dragging him back. "Miss Ware," he said politely, "what do you expect of this here supe? I might want that job myself, later on," he observed importantly. Lucy smiled at the bare-faced fraud and hastened to abet it. "I expect him to look after my cattle," she responded promptly, "and to protect my best interests according to his own judgment. The only thing I insist upon is that he leave his gun at home." "I'm sorry," said Creede briefly. "And I needed the job, too," he added lugubriously. "How about your foreman?" he inquired, as if snatching at a straw. "Same thing, eh? Well, I'll go you--next month." He laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and crowded his big black sombrero down over his eyes until it gave him a comical air of despair. "Luck's gone," he remarked, reaching parenthetically for a cigarette paper. "See you later." And, with a last roguish twinkle at Miss Lucy, he slouched off toward the fire. His luck indeed had gone, but somewhere in that giant carcass which harbored the vindictive hate of an Apache, and the restless energy of a Texano, there still lingered the exuberant joyousness of a boy, the indomitable spirit of the pioneer, resigned to any fate so long as there is a laugh in it. As he drifted into the crowd Lucy's heart went out to him; he was so big and strong and manly in this, the final eclipse of his waning fortunes. "Mr. Creede is a noble kind of a man, isn't he?" she said, turning to where Hardy was still standing. "Won't you sit down, Rufus, and let's talk this over for a minute. But before you decide anything, I want you to get a good night's sleep. You are a free man now, you know, and if there's any worrying to be done it's my funeral--isn't it?"