Jefferson Creede moved over toward the door with a far-away look in his eyes. "That's all," he said indifferently. "He runs 'em with hounds. Well, I'll have to bid you good-night." He ducked his head, and stepped majestically out the door; and Hardy, who was listening, could hear him softly calling to his cat. "Oh, Rufus!" cried Kitty appealingly, as he rose to follow, "_do_ stop and tell me about Bill Johnson, and, yes--Hell's Hip Pocket!" "Why, Kitty!" exclaimed Lucy Ware innocently, and while they were discussing the morals of geographical swearing Hardy made his bow, and passed out into the night. The bitter-sweet of love was upon him again, making the stars more beautiful, the night more mysterious and dreamy; but as he crept into his blankets he sighed. In the adjoining cot he could hear Jeff stripping slivers from a length of jerked beef, and Tommy mewing for his share. "Want some jerky, Rufe?" asked Creede, and then, commenting upon their late supper, he remarked: "A picnic dinner is all right for canary birds, but it takes good hard grub to feed a man. I'm goin' to start the _roder_ camp in the mornin' and cook me up some beans." He lay for a while in silence, industriously feeding himself on the dry meat, and gazing at the sky. "Say, Rufe," he said, at last, "ain't you been holdin' out on me a little?" "Um-huh," assented Hardy. "Been gettin' letters from Miss Lucy all the time, eh?" "Sure." "Well," remarked Creede, "you're a hell of a feller! But I reckon I learned somethin'," he added philosophically, "and when I want somebody to tell my troubles to, I'll know where to go. Say, she's all right, ain't she?" "Yeah." "Who're you talkin' about?" "Who're you?" "Oh, you know, all right, all right--but, say!" "Well?" "It's a pity she don't like cats." CHAPTER XII THE GARDEN IN THE DESERT The sun was well up over the canyon rim when the tired visitors awoke from their dreams. Kitty Bonnair was the first to open her eyes and peep forth upon the fairy world which promised so much of mystery and delight. The iron bars of their window, deep set in the adobe walls, suggested the dungeon of some strong prison where Spanish maidens languished for sight of their lovers; a rifle in the corner, overlooked in the hurried moving, spoke eloquently of the armed brutality of the times; the hewn logs which supported the lintels completed the picture of primitive life; and a soft breeze, breathing in through the unglazed sills, whispered of dark canyons and the wild, free out-of-doors.