April had come, and the grass; the air was untainted; there was no braying by the river--the sheep had gone. It had been bought at the price of blood, but at last there was peace. The dreamy _quah_, _quah_ of the quail was no longer a mockery of love; their eggs would not be broken in the nest but the mothers would lead forth their little ones; even the ground-doves and the poor-wills, nesting in last year's sheep tracks, would escape the myriad feet--and all because a crazy man, hiding among the cliffs, had shot down Jasper Swope. Without hate or pity Hardy thought of that great hairy fighting-man; the God that let him live would judge him dead--and Bill Johnson too, when he should die. The sheep were gone and Lucy had kissed him--these were the great facts in the world. They were sitting close together beneath the _ramada_, looking out upon the sunlit valley and talking dreamily of the old days, when suddenly Hardy edged away and pointed apologetically to the western trail. There in single file came Judge Ware in his linen duster, a stranger in khaki, and a woman, riding astride. "There comes father!" cried Lucy, springing up eagerly and waving her hand. "And Kitty," added Hardy, in a hushed voice. Not since they had come had he spoken of her, and Lucy had respected his silence. Except for the vague "Perhaps" with which she had answered Bill Lightfoot's persistent inquiries he had had no hint that Kitty might come, and yet a vague uneasiness had held his eyes to the trail. "Tell me, Lucy," he said, drawing her back to his side as the party dipped out of sight in the interminable thicket of mesquites, "why have you never spoken of Kitty? Has anything dreadful happened? Please tell me quick, before she comes. I--I won't know what to say." He twisted about and fixed an eye on the doorway, but Lucy held out a restraining hand. "It has been a great secret," she said, "and you must promise not to tell, but Kitty has been writing a play." "A play!" exclaimed Hardy, astounded, "why--what in the world is it about?" "About Arizona, of course," cried Lucy. "Don't you remember how eager she was to hear you men talk? And she collected all those spurs and quirts for stage properties! Why, she wrote books and books full of notes and cowboy words while she was down here and she's been buried in manuscript for months. When she heard that you were having the round-up early this year she was perfectly frantic to come, but they were right in the midst of writing it and she just couldn't get away." "They?" repeated Hardy, mystified. "Why who--" "Oh, I forgot," said Lucy, biting her lip. Then in a lower voice she added: "She has been collaborating with Tupper Browne." "Tupper Browne! Why, what does he know about Arizona?" cried Hardy indignantly, and then, as Lucy looked away, he stopped short.