The bad bunch of news was really of a personal nature, stirring up unpleasant memories, but Hardy passed it off by a little benevolent dissimulation. "He says he's mighty glad I steered the sheep away, but there is something funny going on back in Washington; some combine of the sheep and lumber interests has got in and blocked the whole Forest Reserve business and there won't be any Salagua Forest Reserve this year. So I guess my job of sheep-wrangler is going to hold; at least the judge asked me to stay with it until Fall." "Well, you stay then, Rufe," said Creede earnestly, "because I've kinder got stuck on you--I like your style," he added half apologetically. "All right, Jeff," said Hardy. "Here's another letter--from my father. See if you can guess what it is like." He set his face rigidly and read the short letter through without a quaver. "You and the Old Man have had a fallin'-out," observed Creede, with a shrewd grin, "and he says when you git good and tired of bein' a dam' fool you might as well come home." "Well, that's about the size of it," admitted Hardy. "I never told you much about my father, did I?" "Never knew you had one," said Creede, "until Bill Johnson began to blow about what an Injun-fighter he was. I reckon that's where you git your sportin' blood, ain't it?" "Well, I'll tell you," began Hardy. "The Old Man and I never did get along together. He's used to commanding soldiers and all that, and I'm kind of quiet, but he always took a sneaking pride in me when I was a boy, I guess. Anyway, every time I'd get into a fight around the post and lick two or three Mexican kids, or do some good work riding or shooting, he'd say I'd be a man before my mother, or something like that--but that was as far as he got. And all the time, on the quiet, he was educating me for the Army. His father was a captain, and he's a colonel, and I can see now he was lotting on my doing as well or better--but hell, that only made matters worse." He slid down in his chair and gazed into the fire gloomily. It was the first time Creede had heard his partner use even the mildest of the range expletives, for in that particular he was still a tenderfoot, and the word suddenly conveyed to him the depths of the little man's abandonment and despair. "Why--what was the matter?" he inquired sympathetically. "Couldn't you git no appointment?" "Huh!" growled Hardy. "I guess you know, all right. Look at me!" he exclaimed, in a sudden gust of passion and resentment. "Why, damn it, man, I'm an inch too short!" "Well--I'll--be--dogged!" breathed Creede. "I never thought of that!" "No," rejoined Hardy bitterly, "nor the Old Man, either--not until I stopped growing! Well, he hasn't had a bit of use for me since. That's the size of it. And he didn't take any pains to conceal the fact--most army men don't. There's only one man in the world to them, and that's a soldier; and if you're not a soldier, you're nothing."