He ripped open the worn envelope, squared his elbows across the table, and opened the scented inclosure defiantly, but before he could read it Hardy reached out suddenly and covered it with his hand. "Please don't, Jeff," he said, his face pale and drawn. "It was all my fault--I should have told you--but please don't read it to me. I--I can't stand it." "Oh, I don't know," retorted Creede coldly. "I reckon you can stand it if I can. Now suppose you wrote a real nice letter--the best you knowed how--to your girl, and she handed you somethin' like this: 'My dear Mr. Creede, yore amazin' letter--' Here, what ye doin'?" "I won't listen to it!" cried Hardy, snatching the letter away, "it's--" "Now lookee here, Rufe Hardy," began Creede, rising up angrily from his chair, "I want to tell you right now that you've got to read that letter or lick me--and I doubt if you can do that, the way I happen to be feelin'. You got me into this in the first place and now, by God, you'll see it out! Now you _read_ that letter and tell me if I'm wrong!" He reared up his head as he spoke and Hardy saw the same fierce gleam in his eyes that came when he harried the sheep; but there was something beside that moved his heart to pity. It was the lurking sadness of a man deep hurt, who fights the whole world in his anguish; the protest of a soul in torment, demanding, like Job, that some one shall justify his torture. "All right, Jeff," he said, "I will read it--only--only don't crowd me for an answer." He spread the letter before him on the table and saw in a kind of haze the angry zigzag characters that galloped across the page, the words whose meaning he did not as yet catch, so swiftly did his thoughts rise up at sight of them. Years ago Kitty had written him a letter and he had read it at that same table. It had been a cruel letter, but unconsidered, like the tantrum of a child. Yes, he had almost forgotten it, but now like a sudden nightmare the old horror clutched at his heart. He steadied himself, and the words began to take form before him. Surely she would be gentle with Jeff, he was so big and kind. Then he read on, slowly, grasping at the meaning, and once more his eyes grew big with horror at her words. He finished, and bowed his head upon the table, while the barren room whirled before him. From his place across the table the big cowboy looked down upon him, grim and masterful, yet wondering at his silence. "Well, am I wrong?" he demanded, but the little man made no answer. Upon the table before Hardy there lay another letter, written in that same woman's hand, a letter to him, and the writing was smooth and fair. Jeff had brought it to him, tied behind his saddle, and he stood before him now, waiting.