The beef herd was safely delivered at Bender, the feeders disposed of at Moroni, and the checks sent on to the absentee owner, who did not know a steer from a stag; the _rodeo_ hands were paid off and successfully launched upon their big drunk; bills were paid and the Summer's supplies ordered in, and then at last the superintendent and _rodeo_ boss settled down to a little domesticity. Since the day that Hardy had declined to drink with him Creede had quietly taken to water, and he planted a bag of his accumulated wages in a corner of the mud floor, to see, as he facetiously expressed it, if it would grow. Mr. Bill Johnson had also saved his "cow money" from Black Tex and banked it with Hardy, who had a little cache of his own, as well. With their finances thus nicely disposed of the two partners swept the floor, cleaned up the cooking dishes, farmed out their laundry to a squaw, and set their house in order generally. They were just greasing up their _reatas_ for a run after the wild horses of Bronco Mesa when Rafael pulled in with a wagon-load of supplies and destroyed their peaceful life. It was late when the grinding and hammering of wheels upon the boulders of the creek-bed announced his near approach and Creede went out to help unload the provisions. A few minutes later he stepped into the room where Hardy was busily cooking and stood across the table from him with his hands behind his back, grinning mischievously. "Rufe," he said, "you've got a girl." Hardy looked up quickly and caught the significance of his pose, but he did not smile. He did not even show an interest in the play. "How do you figure that out?" he asked, indifferently. "Oh, I know," drawled Creede. "Got a letter from her." A single hawk-like glance was the only answer to this sally. "She says: 'Why the hell don't you write!'" volunteered the cowboy. "'S that so!" commented Hardy, and then he went on with his cooking. For a minute Creede stood watching him, his eyes keen to detect the slightest quaver, but the little man seemed suddenly to have forgotten him; he moved about absently, mechanically, dropping nothing, burning nothing, yet far away, as in a dream. "Huh!" exclaimed Creede, disgusted with his own make-believe, "you don't seem to care whether school keeps or not. I'll excuse you from any further work this evenin'--here's your mail." He drew a bundle of letters from behind his back and dropped it heavily upon the table, but even then Hardy did not rise. "Guess the Old Man must've forwarded my mail," he remarked, smiling at the size of the pack. "I've been knocking around so, I haven't received a letter in a year. Chuck 'em on my desk, will ye?" "Sure," responded Creede, and stepping across the broad living-room he threw the bundle carelessly on the bed. "You're like me," he remarked, drawing his chair up sociably to supper, "I ain't got a letter fer so long I never go near the dam' post office." He sighed, and filled his plate with beans.