"What is it you want, Rufus?" she asked, and his face lit up suddenly as he answered with his eloquent eyes, but he could not speak the word. "Who am I?" he murmured, musingly, "to ask for all the world?" But he held close to the little hands and as he felt their yielding his breath came hard and he gazed up at her with infinite tenderness. "Dear Lucy," he said, "you do not know me. I am a coward--it was born in me--I cannot help it. Not with men!" he cried, his eyes lighting up. "Ah, no; my father was a soldier, and I can fight--but--" He paused and his vehemence died away suddenly. "Lucy," he began again, still clinging to her hands for courage, "you have never laughed at me--you have always been gentle and patient--I will tell you something. You know how I ran away from Kitty, and how when she came down here I avoided her. I was afraid, Lucy, and yet--well, it is all over now." He sighed and turned restlessly on his pillow. "One day I met her up the river and she--she called me a coward. Not by the word--but I knew. That was the day before the sheep came in through Hell's Hip Pocket, and even Jeff doesn't know of the fights I had that night. I went out yesterday and fought Jasper Swope with my bare hands to wipe the shame away--but it's no use, I'm a coward yet." He groaned and turned his face to the wall but Lucy only sighed and brushed back his hair. For a minute he lay there, tense and still; then as her hand soothed him he turned and his voice became suddenly soft and caressing, as she had always liked it best. "Don't laugh at me for it, Lucy," he said, "I love you--but I'm afraid." He caught her hands again, gazing up wistfully into her eyes, and when she smiled through her tears he drew her nearer. "Lucy," he whispered, "you will understand me. I have never kissed any one since my mother died--could--could you kiss me first?" "Ah, yes, Rufus," she answered, and as their lips met he held her gently in his arms. CHAPTER XXIV THE END OF IT ALL There is a mocking-bird at Hidden Water that sings the songs of all the birds and whistles for the dog. His nest is in a great cluster of mistletoe in the mesquite tree behind the house and every morning he polishes his long curved bill against the _ramada_ roof, preens out his glossy feathers, and does honor to the sun. For two years, off and on, Hardy had heard him, mimicking orioles and larks and sparrows and whistling shrilly for the dog, but now for the first time his heart answered to the wild joy of the bird lover. The world had taken on light and color over night, and the breeze, sifting in through the barred window, was sweet with the fragrance of untrampled flowers.