"No!" cried Creede, and then he laughed quietly to himself. "Does that include them days I was prizin' up hell down in Bender? Oh, it does, eh? Well, you can tell your boss that I'll make that up to her before the Summer's over." He leaned back and stretched his powerful arms as if preparing for some mighty labor. "We're goin' to have a drought this Summer," he said impressively, "that will have the fish packin' water in canteens. Yes, sir, the chaser is goin' to cost more than the whiskey before long; and they's goin' to be some dead cows along the river. Do you know what Pablo Moreno is doin'? He's cuttin' brush already to feed his cattle. That old man is a wise _hombre_, all right, when it comes to weather. He's been hollerin' '_Ano seco, ano seco_,' for the last year, and now, by Joe, we've got it! They ain't hardly enough water in the river to make a splash, and here it's the first of June. We've been kinder wropt up in fightin' sheep and sech and hain't noticed how dry it's gittin'; but that old feller has been sittin' on top of his hill watchin' the clouds, and smellin' of the wind, and measurin' the river, and countin' his cows until he's a weather sharp. I was a-ridin' up the river this afternoon when I see the old man cuttin' down a _palo verde_ tree, and about forty head of cattle lingerin' around to eat the top off as soon as she hit the ground; and he says to me, kinder solemn and fatherly: "'Jeff,' he says, 'cut trees for your cattle--this is an _ano seco_." "'Yes, I've heard that before,' says I. 'But my cows is learnin' to climb.'" "'_Stawano_,' he says, throwin' out his hands like I was a hopeless proposition. But all the same I think I'll go out to-morrow and cut down one of them _palo verdes_ like he show'd me--one of these kind with little leaves and short thorns--jest for an expeeriment. If the cattle eat it, w'y maybe I'll cut another, but I don't want to be goin' round stuffin' my cows full of twigs for nothin'. Let 'em rustle for their feed, same as I do. But honest to God, Rufe, some of them little runty cows that hang around the river can't hardly cast a shadder, they're that ganted, and calves seems to be gittin' kinder scarce, too. But here--git busy, now--here's a letter you overlooked." He pawed over the pile purposefully and thrust a pale blue envelope before Hardy--a letter from Kitty Bonnair. And his eyes took on a cold, fighting glint as he observed the fatal handwriting. "By God," he cried, "I hain't figured out yet what struck me! I never spoke a rough word to that girl in my life, and she certainly gimme a nice kiss when she went away. But jest as soon as I write her a love letter, w'y she--she--W'y hell, Rufe, I wouldn't talk that way to a sheep-herder if he didn't _know_ no better. Now you jest read that"--he fumbled in his pocket and slammed a crumpled letter down before his partner--"and tell me if I'm wrong! No, I want you to do it. Well, I'll read it to you, then!"