"Shore not," Buffalo agreed, with a short laugh. "Don't you say nothing to Hetty, Lafe. I'll face the music."
Of nights they would sit on the porch--Buffalo, Hetty and Lafe--the child scuffling with the dog at their feet, in the last spasmodic energy that foreruns infantile sleep. And they would watch the light fade in the Cañon. The cows came slowly to water, calling one to the other. There were soft creepings amid the leaves. A mocking-bird sang in a hackberry tree. It was all very peaceful.
"You can just make out the top of The Hatter from here, Lafe. Ever notice?" Jim asked.
"You can see him mighty plain sometimes, Buf'lo. Do you mind how we used to wonder what was on top of that ol' mountain, me and you? He looks so ragged up there. That was when you were punching on the Lazy L."
"I reckon I do. I've always sort of hankered to climb to the top of The Hatter," Buffalo went on--"all my life I have. But I never did. You-all know how that is. They tell me you can see for ninety miles off'n the peak. It must be right pretty."
Hetty caught her breath and glanced quickly at the visitor, but both men appeared perfectly matter-of-fact. She said: "Weren't you sick last night, Mr. Buf'lo? I thought I heard you."
"Yes, ma'am. Nothing to speak of. Just a li'l spell. Sometimes they hit me and then ag'in they don't."
It was dry the next six weeks. It was also scorching hot. The country began to look wan, then lifeless. On a night in early October a rider came to Johnson's door with word from Horne that the range was on fire. A blaze eight miles wide was sweeping the far shoulder of The Hatter. The messenger delivered this information in a subdued, expressionless voice, sitting his foaming horse in front of the porch, to Lafe inside the house.
"I'll go round up the pasture for you," he ended. "Will Nugget do? I kin catch him easiest."
As Johnson was saddling, he told Hetty through the window that perhaps he would not be back for a week.
"Say, Lafe"--Shortredge was at his elbow, plucking the sleeve of his shirt--"say, I want to go along."
"I don't reckon you'd ought, Buf'lo," Lafe answered. He spoke in a mild tone, as though the request were a very natural one. "It's all of thirty miles and you know what fighting fire means. There won't be nothing to eat but canned tomatoes and mighty li'l water and--"