IX
THE OLD SHEEP-HERDER
The ranger was awakened in the first faint dawn by the passing of thegirl's light feet as she went across the hall to her mother's room, and amoment later he heard the low murmur of her voice. Throwing off hisblankets and making such scant toilet as he needed, he stepped into thehall and waited for her to return.
Soon she came toward him, a smile of confidence and pleasure on her lips.
"How is she?" he asked.
"Quite comfortable."
"And you?" His voice was very tender.
"I am a little tired," she acknowledged. "I didn't sleep very well."
"You didn't sleep at all," he declared, regretfully.
"Oh yes, I did," she replied, brightly.
She appeared a little pale but by no means worn. Indeed, her face hadtaken on new charm with its confession of feminine weakness, itsexpression of trust in him.
These two ardent souls confronted each other in absorbed silence withkeener perception, with new daring, with new intimacy, till he recalledhimself with effort. "You must let me help you if there's anything I cando. Remember, I'm your big brother."
"I remember," she answered, smilingly, "and I'm going out to see what mybig brother is to have for breakfast."
Cavanagh found the street empty, silent, and utterly commonplace. And ashe walked past Halsey's saloon the tumult of the night seemed born of avision in disordered sleep--and yet it had happened! From these reekinglittle dens a score of foul tatterdemalions had issued, charged withmalicious fury. Each of these shacks seemed the lurking-place of a speciesof malevolent insect whose sting was out for every comer.
The rotting sidewalks, the tiny shops, with their dusty fly-speckedwindows, the groggeries, from whose open doors a noisome vapor streamed,poisoning the morning air--all these typed the old-time West as Redfieldand his farmstead typed the new.
"Once I would have laughed at this town," he said; "but now it isdisgusting--something to be wiped out as one expunges an obscene mark upona public wall."
As for the attack upon himself, terrifying as it had seemed to LeeVirginia, it was in reality only another lively episode in the history ofthe town, another disagreeable duty in the life of a ranger. It was all apart of his job.
He went forth to his duties with a deepened conviction of the essentiallawlessness of the State and of America in general; for this spirit of moblaw was to be found in some form throughout the land. He was disgusted,but not beaten. His resolution to carry out the terms of his contract withthe Government remained unshaken.
He carried with him, also, a final disturbing glimpse of ElizaWetherford's girl that did indeed threaten his peace of mind. There was aninvoluntary appeal, a wistful depth, to her glance which awakened in himan indignant pity, and also blew into flame something not socreditable--something which smoldered beneath his conscious will. Heperceived in her a spirit of yielding which was difficult to resist. Heunderstood, much more clearly than at his first meeting with her, howimpossible it was for her to remain in this country (where law was a jokeand women a ribald jest) without being corrupted. She had not escaped herheritage of passion, and her glances, innocent as they were, roused, evenin him, something lawless.
As he climbed the long hill he grappled deeply with this new andinexplicable weakness. He had always been a decent fellow as respectswomen, and had maintained the same regard for the moral code that heinstinctively bore toward the laws of his adopted country. He could not,therefore, regard this girl (low as her parentage seemed) in the light oflicense; for (he thought) whatever of evil may have been planted deep inher nature by her ill-assorted father and mother, she is at the momentsweet and fine, and the man who would awaken her other self should beaccursed.
In this mood, too, he acknowledged the loneliness of his life for thefirst time, and rode his silent way up the trail like one in a dream. Hewent over his life story in detail, wondering if he had not made a mistakein leaving England, in taking out his American citizenship. He consideredagain, very seriously, the question of going back to live on the estate ofhis mother, and once more decided that its revenue was too small. Toreturn to it meant an acceptance of the restricted life of an Englishfarmer, and, worst of all, an acquiescence in the social despotism whichhe had come to feel and to hate.
The English empire to him was falling apart. Its supremacy was alreadythreatened by Germany, whereas the future of the States appealed to hisimagination. Here the problems of popular government and of industry wereto be worked out on the grandest scale. The West inspired him. "Some dayeach of these great ranges will be a national forest, and each of thesecanons will contain its lake, its reservoir." There was something fine inthis vision of man's conquest of nature. "Surely in this development thereis a place for me," he said.
Start at any place he pleased, his mind circled and came back to LeeVirginia. He reproached himself for not having remained one more day tohelp her. She was in the midst of a most bleak and difficult pass, andwhether she came through or not depended on something not derived fromeither her father or her mother. The test of her character was beingmade.
"Happily the father is dead, and his exploits fading to a dim legend; butthe mother may live for years to dishearten and corrupt. It is foolish ofthe girl to stay, and yet to have her go would leave me and the wholevalley poorer."
He perceived in her a symbol. "She is the new West just as the motherrepresents the old, and the law of inheritance holds in her as it holds inthe State. She is a mixture of good and evil, of liberty and license. Shemust still draw forward, for a time, the dead weight of her past, just asthe West must bear with and gradually slough off its violent moods."
His pony plodded slowly, and the afternoon was half-spent before he camein sight of the long, low log-cabin which was the only home he possessedin all America. For the first time since he built it, the station seemedlonely and disheartening. "Would any woman, for love of me, come to such ahearthstone?" he asked himself. "And if she consented to do so, could I beso selfish as to exact such sacrifice? No, the forest ranger in theseattitudes must be young and heart-free; otherwise his life would bemiserably solitary."
He unsaddled his horse and went about his duties with a leaden pall overhis spirit, a fierce turmoil in his brain. He was no longer single-heartedin his allegiance to the forest. He could not banish that appealinggirlish face, that trusting gaze. Lee Virginia needed him as he neededher; and yet--and yet--the people's lands demanded his care, his socialprejudices forbade his marriage.
He was just dishing out his rude supper when the feet of a horse on thelog bridge announced a visitor.
With a feeling of pleasure as well as relief, he rose to greet thestranger. "Any visitor is welcome this night," he said.
The horseman proved to be his former prisoner, the old man Edwards, whoslipped from his saddle with the never-failing grace of the cow-man, andcame slowly toward the cabin. He smiled wearily as he said: "I'm on yourtrail, Mr. Ranger, but I bear no malice. You were doing your duty. Can youtell me how far it is to Ambro's camp?"
There was something forlorn in the man's attitude, and Cavanagh's heartsoftened. "Turn your horse into the corral and come to supper," hecommanded, with Western bluntness; "we'll talk about all that later."
Edwards accepted his hospitality without hesitation, and when he haddisposed of his mount and made himself ready for the meal, he came in andtook a seat at the table in silence, while the ranger served him andwaited for his explanation.
"I'm going up to take Ambro's place," he began, after a few minutes ofsilent eating. "Know where his camp is?"
"I do," replied Ross, to whom the stranger now appeared in pathetic guise."Any man of his age consenting to herd sheep is surely hard hit by therough hand of the world," he reasoned, and the closer he studied hisvisitor the plainlier he felt his ungoverned past. His chest was hollow,his eyes unnaturally large, and his hands thin, but he still displayedfaint lines of the beauty and power he had once gloried in. His cloth
ingwas worn and poor, and Ross said: "You'll need plenty of bedding upthere."
"Is it high?"
"About eleven thousand feet."
"Jehosaphat! How will I stand that kind of air? Still, it may be it's whatI need. I've been living down in the low country for ten years, and I'm alittle bit hide-bound."
"Lung trouble?"
"Oh no; old age, I reckon."
"You're not old--not more than fifty-five."
"I'm no colt," he admitted; "and, besides, I've lived pretty swift."
In this was the hint of a confession, but Cavanagh did not care to havehim proceed further in that line. "I suppose Gregg paid your fine?"
"Yes."
"In any other town in the State you'd have gone down the line."
He roused himself. "See here, Mr. Ranger, you've no warrant to believe me,but I told you the God's truth. Young Gregg got me to ride into the rangeand show him the trail. I didn't intend to get mixed up with a gamewarden. I've had all the confinement I need."
"Well, it's a closed incident now," interposed Ross; "we won't reopen it.Make yourself at home."
The stranger, hungry as he was, ate with unexpected gentility, and, as thehot coffee sent its cheerful glow through his body, he asked, withlivening interest, a good many questions about the ranger and the ForestService. "You fellers have to be all-round men. The cowboys think you havea snap, but I guess you earn your money."
"A man that builds trail, lays bridges, burns brush, fights fire, ridesthe round-up, and covers seventy-five miles of trail every week on eightydollars per month, and feeds himself and his horses, isn't what I wouldcall enjoying a soft snap."
"What do you do it for?"
"God knows! I've been asking myself that question all day to-day."
"This playin' game warden has some outs, too. That was a wild crowd lastnight. The town is the same old hell-hole it was when I knew it years ago.Fine girl of Lize Wetherford's. She blocked _me_ all right." He smiledwanly. "I certainly was on my way to the green timber when she put thebars up."
Ross made no comment, and the other went on, in a tone of reminiscentsadness. "Lize has changed terribly. I used to know her when she was agirl. Judas Priest! but she could ride and shoot in those days!" His eyeskindled with the memory of her. "She could back a horse to beat any womanthat ever crossed the range, but I didn't expect to see her have such askein of silk as that girl. She sure looks the queen to me."
Cavanagh did not greatly relish this line of conversation, but the pauseenabled him to say: "Miss Wetherford is not much Western; she got hertraining in the East. She's been with an aunt ever since her father'sdeath."
"He's dead, is he?"
"So far as anybody knows, he is."
"Well, he's no loss. I knew him, too. He was all kinds of a fool; let afew slick ones seduce him with fizz-water and oysters on thehalf-shell--that's the kind of a weak sister he was. He got on the wrongside of the rustler line-up--you know all about that, I reckon? Fierce olddays, those. We didn't know anything about forest rangers or game wardensin them days."
The stranger's tone was now that of a man quite certain of himself. He hadbecome less furtive under the influence of the food and fire.
Ross defended Wetherford for Virginia's sake. "He wasn't altogether toblame, as I see it. He was the Western type in full flower, that's all. Hehad to go like the Indian and the buffalo. And these hobos like Ballardand Gregg will go next."
Edwards sank back into his chair. "I reckon that's right," he agreed, andmade offer to help clear away the supper dishes.
"No, you're tired," replied Ross; "rest and smoke. I'll soon be done."
The poacher each moment seemed less of the hardened criminal, and more andmore of the man prematurely aged by sickness and dissipation, andgradually the ranger lost all feeling of resentment.
As he sat down beside the fire, Edwards said: "Them Wetherford women thinka whole lot of you. 'Pears like they'd both fight for you. Are you sweeton the girl?"
"Now, see here, old man," Ross retorted, sharply, "you want to do a lot ofthinking before you comment on Miss Wetherford. I won't stand for anynasty clack."
Edwards meekly answered: "I wasn't going to say anything out of the way. Iwas fixin' for to praise her."
"All the same, I don't intend to discuss her with you," was Cavanagh'scurt answer.
The herder fell back into silence while the ranger prepared his bunk forthe night. The fact that he transferred some of the blankets from his ownbed to that of his visitor did not escape Edwards's keen eyes, and withgrateful intent he said:
"I can give you a tip, Mr. Ranger," said he, breaking out of a silence."The triangle outfit is holding more cattle on the forest than theirpermits call for."
"How do you know?"
"I heard one of the boys braggin' about it."
"Much obliged," responded Ross. "I'll look into it."
Edwards went on: "Furthermore, they're fixing for another sheep-kill overthere, too; all the sheepmen are armed. That's why I left the country. Idon't want to run any more chances of being shot up. I've had enough oftrouble; I can't afford to be hobnobbing with judges and juries."
"When does your parole end?" asked Ross.
Edwards forced a grin. "I was handing you one when I said that," hedeclared, weakly. "I was workin' up sympathy. I'm not out on parole; I'mjust a broken-down old cow-puncher herdin' sheep in order to keep clear ofthe liquor belt."
This seemed reasonable, and the ranger remarked, by way of dropping thesubject: "I've nothing to say further than this--obey the rules of theforest, and you won't get into any further trouble with me. And as forbeing shot up by the cow-men, you'll not be disturbed on any nationalforest. There never has been a single herder shot nor a sheep destroyed onthis forest."
"I'm mighty glad to hear that," replied Edwards, with sincere relief."I've had my share of shooting up and shooting down. All I ask now isquiet and the society of sheep. I take a kind of pleasure in protectingthe fool brutes. It's about all I'm good for."
He did, indeed, look like a man in the final year of life as he spoke."Better turn in," he said, in kindlier tone; "I'm an early riser."
The old fellow rose stiffly, and, laying aside his boots and trousers,rolled into his bunk and was asleep in three minutes.
Cavanagh himself was very tired, and went to bed soon after, to sleepdreamlessly till daylight. He sprang from his bed, and after a plunge inthe stream set about breakfast; while Edwards rose from his bunk, groaningand sighing, and went forth to wrangle the horses, rubbing his hands andshivering as he met the keen edge of the mountain wind. When he returned,breakfast was ready, and again he expressed his gratitude.
"Haven't you any slicker?" asked Cavanagh. "It looks like rain."
"No, I'm run down pretty low," he replied. "The truth is, Mr. Ranger, Iblew in all my wages at roulette last week."
Ross brought out a canvas coat, well worn but serviceable. "Take thisalong with you. It's likely to storm before we reach the sheep-camp. Andyou don't look very strong. You must take care of yourself."
Edwards was visibly moved by this kindness. "Sure you can spare it?"
"Certain sure; I've another," returned the ranger, curtly.
It was hardly more than sunrise as they mounted their ponies and startedon their trail, which led sharply upward after they left the canon. Thewind was strong and stinging cold. Over the high peaks the gray-blackvapor was rushing, and farther away a huge dome of cloud was advancinglike an army in action. It was all in the day's work of the ranger, butthe plainsman behind him turned timorous eyes toward the sky. "It looksowly," he repeated. "I didn't know I was going so high--Gregg didn't saythe camp was so near timber-line."
"You've cut out a lonesome job for yourself," Ross assured him, "and ifyou can find anything else to do you'd better give this up and go back."
"I'm used to being lonesome," the stranger said, "but I can't stand thecold and the wet as I used to. I never was a mountaineer."
Taking
pity on the shivering man, Cavanagh turned off the trail into asheltered nook behind some twisted pine-trees. "How do you expect to takecare of your sheep a thousand feet higher than this?" he demanded as theyentered the still place, where the sun shone warm.
"That's what I'm asking myself," replied Edwards. He slipped from hishorse and crouched close to the rock. "My blood is mostly ditch-water,seems like. The wind blows right through me."
"How do you happen to be reduced to herding sheep? You look like a man whohas seen better days."
Edwards, chafing his thin fingers to warm them, made reluctant answer:"It's a long story, Mr. Ranger, and it concerns a whole lot of otherpeople--some of them decent folks--so I'd rather not go into it."
"John Barleycorn was involved, I reckon."
"Sure thing--he's generally always in it."
"You'd better take my gloves--it's likely to snow in half an hour. Goahead--I'm a younger man than you are."
The other made a decent show of resistance, but finally accepted theoffer, saying: "You certainly are white to me. I want to apologize formaking that attempt to sneak away that night--I had a powerful good reasonfor not staying any longer."
Ross smiled a little. "You showed bad judgment--as it turned out."
"I sure did. That girl can shoot. Her gun was steady as a door-knob. Shefilled the door. Where did she learn to hold a gun like that?"
"Her father taught her, so she said."
"She wouldn't remember me--an old cuss like me--but I've seen her withWetherford when she was a kidlet. I never thought she'd grow up into sucha 'queen.' She's a wonder."
Strange to say, Ross no longer objected to the old man's words ofadmiration; on the contrary, he encouraged him to talk on.
"Her courage is greater than you know. When she came to that hotel it wasa place of dirt and vermin. She has transformed it. She's now engaged onthe reformation of her mother."
"Lize was straight when I knew her," remarked the other, in the tone ofone who wishes to defend a memory. "Straight as a die."
"In certain ways she's straight now, but she's been hard pushed at times,and has traded in liquor to help out--then she's naturally a slattern."
"She didn't used to be," asserted Edwards; "she was a mighty handsomewoman when I used to see her riding around with Ed."
"She's down at the heel now, quite like the town."
"She looked sick to me. You shouldn't be too hard on a sick woman, but sheought to send her girl away or get out. As you say, the Fork is no kind ofa place for such a girl. If I had a son, a fine young feller like thatgirl is, do you suppose I'd let him load himself up with an old soak likeme? No, sir; Lize has no right to spoil that girl's life. I'm nothing buta ham-strung old cow-puncher, but I've too much pride to saddle my pack onthe shoulders of my son the way Lize seems to be doin' with that girl."
He spoke with a good deal of feeling, and the ranger studied him withdeepening interest. He had taken on dignity in the heat of his protest,and in his eyes blazed something that was both manly and admirable.
Cavanagh took his turn at defending Lize. "As a matter of fact, she triedto send her daughter away, but Lee refuses to go, insisting that it is herduty to remain. In spite of her bad blood the girl is surprisingly trueand sweet. She makes me wonder whether there is as much in heredity as wethink."
"Her blood ain't so bad. Wetherford was a fool and a daredevil, but hecame of good Virginia stock--so I've heard."
"Well, whatever was good in both sire and dame this girl seems to havemysteriously gathered to herself."
The old man looked at him with a bright sidelong glance. "You are a littlesweet on the girl, eh?"
Ross began to regret his confidence. "She's making a good fight, and Ifeel like helping her."
"And she rather likes being helped by you. I could see that when shebrought the coffee to you. She likes to stand close--"
Ross cut him short. "We'll not discuss her any further."
"I don't mean any harm, Mr. Ranger; we hobos have a whole lot of time togossip, and I'm old enough to like a nice girl in a fatherly way. I reckonthe whole valley rides in to see her, just the way you do."
Cavanagh winced. "You can't very well hide a handsome woman in a cattlecountry."
Edwards smiled again, sadly. "Not in my day you couldn't. Why, a girl likethat would 'a' been worth a thousand head o' steers. I've seen a man comein with a span of mules and three ordinary female daughters, and withoutcinching a saddle to a pony accumulate five thousand cattle." Then he grewgrave again. "Don't happen to have a picture of the girl, do you?"
"If I did, would I show it to you?"
"You might. You might even give it to me."
Cavanagh looked at the man as if he were dreaming. "You must be crazy."
"Oh no, I'm not. Sheep-herders do go twisted, but I'm not in the businesslong enough for that. I'm just a bit nutty about that girl."
He paused a moment. "So if you have a picture, I wish you'd show it tome."
"I haven't any."
"Is that right?"
"That's right. I've only seen her two or three times, and she isn't thekind that distributes her favors."
"So it seems. And yet you're just the kind of figure to catch a girl'seye. She likes you--I could see that, but you've got a good opinion ofyourself. You're an educated man--do you intend to marry her?"
"See here, Mr. Sheep-herder, you better ride on up to your camp," and Rossturned to mount his horse.
"Wait a minute," called the other man, and his voice surprised the rangerwith a note of authority. "I was terribly taken with that girl, and I oweyou a whole lot; but I've got to know one thing. I can see you're full ofher, and jealous as a bear of any other suitor. Now I want to know whetheryou intend to marry her or whether you're just playing with her?"
Ross was angry now. "What I intend to do is none of your business."
The other man was suddenly ablaze with passion. His form had lost itsstoop. His voice was firm. "I merely want to say that if you play the goatwith that girl, I'll kill you!"
Ross stared at him quite convinced that he had gone entirely mad. "That'smighty chivalrous of you, Mr. Sheep-herder," he replied, cuttingly; "butI'm at a loss to understand this sudden indignation on your part."
"You needn't be--I'm her father!"
Cavanagh fairly reeled before this retort. His head rang as if he had beenstruck with a club. He perceived the truth of the man's words instantly.He gasped: "Good God, man! are _you_ Ed Wetherford?"
The answer was quick. "That's who I am!" Then his voice changed. "But Idon't want the women to know I'm alive--I didn't intend to let anybodyknow it. My fool temper has played hell with me again"--then his voicegrew firmer--"all the same, I mean it. If you or any man tries to abuseher, I'll kill him! I've loaded her up with trouble, as you say, but I'mgoing to do what I can to protect her--now that I'm in the county again."
Ross, confused by this new complication in the life of the girl he wasbeginning to love, stared at his companion in dismay. Was it not enoughthat Virginia's mother should be a slattern and a termagant? At last hespoke: "Where have you been all these years?"
"In the Texas 'pen.' I served nine years there."
"What for?"
"Shooting a man. It was a case of self-defence, but his family had moremoney and influence than I did, so I went down the road. As soon as I wasout I started north--just the way a dog will point toward home. I didn'tintend to come here, but some way I couldn't keep away. I shied round theoutskirts of the Fork, picking up jobs of sheep-herding just to have timeto turn things over. I know what you're thinking about--you're saying toyourself, 'Well, here's a nice father-in-law?' Well, now, I don't knowanything about your people, but the Wetherfords are as good as anybody. IfI hadn't come out into this cursed country, where even the women goshootin' wild, I would have been in Congress; but being hot-headed, I mustmix in. I'm not excusing myself, you understand; I'm not a desirableaddition to any man's collection of friends, but I can promise youthis-
-no one but yourself shall ever know who I am. At the same time, youcan't deceive my girl without my being named in the funeral that willfollow."
It was a singular place for such an exchange of confidences. Wetherfordstood with his back against his pony, his face flushed, his eyes bright asthough part of his youth had returned to him, while the ranger, slender,erect, and powerful, faced him with sombre glance. Overhead the detachedclouds swept swift as eagles, casting shadows cold as winter, and in thedwarfed century-old trees the wind breathed a sad monody. Occasionally thesun shone warm and golden upon the group, and then it seemed spring, andthe far-off plain a misty sea.
At last Cavanagh said: "You are only a distant and romantic figure toLee--a part of the dead past. She remembers you as a bold rider and awondrously brave and chivalrous father."
"Does she?" he asked, eagerly.
"Yes, and she loves to talk of you. She knows the town's folk despise yourmemory, but that she lays to prejudice."
"She must never know. You must promise never to tell her."
"I promise that," Cavanagh said, and Edwards went on:
"If I could bring something to her--prove to her I'm still a man--it mightdo to tell her, but I'm a branded man now, and an old man, and there's nohope for me. I worked in one of the machine-shops down there, and it tookthe life out of me. Then, too, I left a bad name here in the Fork--I knowthat. Those big cattle-men fooled me into taking their side of the war. Istaked everything I had on them, and then they railroaded me out of thecounty. So, you see, I'm double-crossed, no matter where I turn."
Every word he uttered made more apparent to Cavanagh that Lee Virginiawould derive nothing but pain and disheartenment from a knowledge that herfather lived. "She must be spared this added burden of shamefulinheritance," he decided.
The other man seemed to understand something of the ranger's indignantpity, for he repeated: "I want you to _swear_ not to let Lee know I'malive, no matter what comes; she must not be saddled with my record. Lether go on thinking well of me. Give me your word!" He held out aninsistent palm.
Ross yielded his hand, and in spite of himself his tenderness for thebroken man deepened. The sky was darkening to the west, and with a glanceupward he said: "I reckon we'd better make your camp soon or you'll bechilled to the bone."
They mounted hastily and rode away, each feeling that his relationship tothe other had completely changed. Wetherford marvelled over the evidentculture and refinement of the ranger. "He's none too good for her, nomatter who he is," he said.
Upon leaving timber-line they entered upon a wide and sterile slope highon the rocky breast of the great peak, whose splintered crest lorded therange. Snow-fields lay all about, and a few hundred feet higher up thecanons were filled with ice. It was a savage and tempest-swept spot inwhich to pitch a tent, but there among the rocks shivered the minutecanvas home of the shepherd, and close beside it, guarded by a lone dog,and lying like a thick-spread flock of rimy bowlders (almost unnoticeablein their silent immobility) huddled the sheep.
"There's your house," shouted Ross to Wetherford.
The older man, with white face of dismay, looked about him, unable to makereply.
The walls of the frail teepee, flapping in the breeze, appeared hardlylarger than a kerchief caught upon a bush, and the disheartened collieseemed nervously apprehensive of its being utterly swept away. The greatpeaks were now hid by the rain, and little could be seen but wet rocks,twisted junipers, and the trickling gray streams of icy water. The easternlandscape was naked, alpine, splendid yet appalling, and the voices of thesheep added to the dreary message of the scene.
"Hello there!" shouted Ross, wondering at the absence of human life aboutthe camp. "Hello the house!"
Receiving no answer to his hail, he turned to Wetherford. "Looks like Joehas pulled out and left the collie to 'tend the flock. He's been kind o'seedy for some days."
Dismounting, he approached the tent. The collie, who knew him, seemed tounderstand his errand, for he leaped upon him as if to kiss his cheek.Ross put him down gently. "You're almost too glad to see me, old fellow. Iwonder how long you've been left here alone?"
Thereupon he opened the tied flap, but started back with instantperception of something wrong, for there, on his pile of ragged quilts,lay the Basque herder, with flushed face and rolling eyes, crazed withfever and entirely helpless. "You'd better not come in here, Wetherford,"Ross warned. "Joe is here, horribly sick, and I'm afraid it's somethingcontagious. It may be smallpox."
Wetherford recoiled a step. "Smallpox! What makes you think that?"
"Well, these Basques have been having it over in their settlement, and,besides, it smells like it." He listened a moment. "I'm afraid Joe's infor it. He's crazy with it. But he's a human being, and we can't let himdie here alone. You rustle some wood for the stove, and I'll see what Ican do for him."
Wetherford was old and wasted and thin-blooded, but he had never been acoward, and in his heart there still burned a small flame of his youthful,reckless, generous daring. Pushing Cavanagh one side, he said, with firmdecision: "You keep out o' there. I'm the one to play nurse. This is myjob."
"Nonsense; I am younger and stronger than you."
"Get away!" shouted the older man. "Gregg hired me to do this work, and itdon't matter whether I live or die; but you've got something to do in theworld. My girl needs you, and she don't need me, so get out o' here andstay out. Go bring me that wood, and I'll go in and see what's thematter."
Cavanagh looked him in the face an instant. "Very well," said he, "I'll doas you say. There's no use of our both taking chances."
It was beginning to rain, and the tent was dark and desolate, but as thefire in the little stove commenced to snarl, and the smoke to pour out ofthe pipe, the small domicile took on cheer. Wetherford knew how to carefor the sick, and in the shelter of the canvas wall developed unforeseenvigor and decision. It was amazing to Cavanagh to witness his change ofmanner.
Soon a pan of water was steaming, and some hot stones were at thesufferer's feet, and when Wetherford appeared at the door of the tent hisface was almost happy. "Kill a sheep. There isn't a thing but a heel ofbacon and a little flour in the place."
As the ranger went about his outside duties he had time to take into fullaccount the tragic significance of the situation. He was not afraid ofdeath, but the menace of sickness under such surroundings made his bloodrun cold. It is such moments as these that the wilderness appalls. Twentymiles of most difficult trail lay between his own cabin and this spot. Tocarry the sick man on his horse would not only be painful to the suffererbut dangerous to the rescuer, for if the Basque were really ill ofsmallpox contagion would surely follow. On the other hand, to leave him todie here unaided seemed inhuman, impossible.
"There is only one thing to do," he called to Wetherford, "and that is forme to ride back to the station and bring up some extra bedding and my owntent, and so camp down beside you."
"All right; but remember I've established a quarantine. I'll crack yourhead if you break over the line an inch."
There was no longer any feeling of reaching up or reaching down betweenthe two men--they were equals. Wetherford, altogether admirable, seemed tohave regained his manhood as he stood in the door of the tent confrontingthe ranger. "This Basque ain't much of a find, but, as you say, he'shuman, and we can't let him lie here and die, I'll stay with him till youcan find a doctor or till he dies."
"I take off my hat to you," responded Cavanagh. "You are a man."
Cavanagh, Forest Ranger: A Romance of the Mountain West Page 10
