Cavanaugh-Forest Ranger

by Garland, Hamlin

  “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 business long 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 to me.”

  “I haven’t any.”

  “Is that right?”

  “That’s right. I’ve only seen her two or three times, and she isn’t the kind that distributes her favors.”

  “So it seems. And yet you’re just the kind of figure to catch a girl’s eye. She likes you—I could see that, but you’ve got a good opinion of yourself. 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 Ross turned to mount his horse.

  “Wait a minute,” called the other man, and his voice surprised the ranger with a note of authority. “I was terribly taken with that girl, and I owe you a whole lot; but I’ve got to know one thing. I can see you’re full of her, and jealous as a bear of any other suitor. Now I want to know whether you 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 its stoop. His voice was firm. “I merely want to say that if you play the goat with that girl, I’ll kill you!”

  Ross stared at him quite convinced that he had gone entirely mad. “That’s mighty chivalrous of you, Mr. Sheep-herder,” he replied, cuttingly; “but I’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 been struck 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 I don’t want the women to know I’m alive—I didn’t intend to let anybody know it. My fool temper has played hell with me again”—then his voice grew firmer—“all the same, I mean it. If you or any man tries to abuse her, I’ll kill him! I’ve loaded her up with trouble, as you say, but I’m going 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 was beginning to love, stared at his companion in dismay. Was it not enough that Virginia’s mother should be a slattern and a termagant? At last he spoke: “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 more money and influence than I did, so I went down the road. As soon as I was out I started north—just the way a dog will point toward home. I didn’t intend to come here, but some way I couldn’t keep away. I shied round the outskirts of the Fork, picking up jobs of sheep-herding just to have time to turn things over. I know what you’re thinking about—you’re saying to yourself, ‘Well, here’s a nice father-in-law?’ Well, now, I don’t know anything about your people, but the Wetherfords are as good as anybody. If I hadn’t come out into this cursed country, where even the women go shootin’ wild, I would have been in Congress; but being hot-headed, I must mix in. I’m not excusing myself, you understand; I’m not a desirable addition to any man’s collection of friends, but I can promise you this—no one but yourself shall ever know who I am. At the same time, you can’t deceive my girl without my being named in the funeral that will follow.”

  It was a singular place for such an exchange of confidences. Wetherford stood with his back against his pony, his face flushed, his eyes bright as though part of his youth had returned to him, while the ranger, slender, erect, and powerful, faced him with sombre glance. Overhead the detached clouds swept swift as eagles, casting shadows cold as winter, and in the dwarfed century-old trees the wind breathed a sad monody. Occasionally the sun shone warm and golden upon the group, and then it seemed spring, and the far-off plain a misty sea.

  At last Cavanagh said: “You are only a distant and romantic figure to Lee—a part of the dead past. She remembers you as a bold rider and a wondrously brave and chivalrous father.”

  “Does she?” he asked, eagerly.

  “Yes, and she loves to talk of you. She knows the town’s folk despise your memory, 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 might do to tell her, but I’m a branded man now, and an old man, and there’s no hope for me. I worked in one of the machine-shops down there, and it took the life out of me. Then, too, I left a bad name here in the Fork—I know that. Those big cattle-men fooled me into taking their side of the war. I staked everything I had on them, and then they railroaded me out of the county. So, you see, I’m double-crossed, no matter where I turn.”

  Every word he uttered made more apparent to Cavanagh that Lee Virginia would derive nothing but pain and disheartenment from a knowledge that her father lived. “She must be spared this added burden of shameful inheritance,” he decided.

  The other man seemed to understand something of the ranger’s indignant pity, for he repeated: “I want you to swear not to let Lee know I’m alive, no matter what comes; she must not be saddled with my record. Let her go on thinking well of me. Give me your word!” He held out an insistent palm.

  Ross yielded his hand, and in spite of himself his tenderness for the broken man deepened. The sky was darkening to the west, and with a glance upward he said: “I reckon we’d better make your camp soon or you’ll be chilled to the bone.”

  They mounted hastily and rode away, each feeling that his relationship to the other had completely changed. Wetherford marvelled over the evident culture and refinement of the ranger. “He’s none too good for her, no matter who he is,” he said.

  Upon leaving timber-line they entered upon a wide and sterile slope high on the rocky breast of the great peak, whose splintered crest lorded the range. Snow-fields lay all about, and a few hundred feet higher up the canons were filled with ice. It was a savage and tempest-swept spot in which to pitch a tent, but there among the rocks shivered the minute canvas home of the shepherd, and close beside it, guarded by a lone dog, and lying like a thick-spread flock of rimy bowlders (almost unnoticeable in 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 make reply.

  The walls of the frail teepee, flapping in the breeze, appeared hardly larger than a kerchief caught upon a bush, and the disheartened collie seemed nervously apprehensive of its being utterly swept away. The great peaks 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 eastern landscape was naked, alpine, splendid yet appalling, and the voices of the sheep added to the dreary message of the scene.

  “Hello there!” shouted Ross, wondering at the absence of human life about the camp. “Hello the house!”

  Receiving no answer to his hail, he turned to Wetherford. “Looks like Joe has 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 to understand 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. I wonder how long you’ve been left here alone?”

  Thereupon he opened the tied flap, but started back with instant perception of something wro
ng, for there, on his pile of ragged quilts, lay the Basque herder, with flushed face and rolling eyes, crazed with fever and entirely helpless. “You’d better not come in here, Wetherford,” Ross warned. “Joe is here, horribly sick, and I’m afraid it’s something contagious. 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 in for it. He’s crazy with it. But he’s a human being, and we can’t let him die here alone. You rustle some wood for the stove, and I’ll see what I can do for him.”

  Wetherford was old and wasted and thin-blooded, but he had never been a coward, and in his heart there still burned a small flame of his youthful, reckless, generous daring. Pushing Cavanagh one side, he said, with firm decision: “You keep out o’ there. I’m the one to play nurse. This is my job.”

  “Nonsense; I am younger and stronger than you.”

  “Get away!” shouted the older man. “Gregg hired me to do this work, and it don’t matter whether I live or die; but you’ve got something to do in the world. My girl needs you, and she don’t need me, so get out o’ here and stay out. Go bring me that wood, and I’ll go in and see what’s the matter.”

  Cavanagh looked him in the face an instant. “Very well,” said he, “I’ll do as 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 the fire in the little stove commenced to snarl, and the smoke to pour out of the pipe, the small domicile took on cheer. Wetherford knew how to care for the sick, and in the shelter of the canvas wall developed unforeseen vigor and decision. It was amazing to Cavanagh to witness his change of manner.

  Soon a pan of water was steaming, and some hot stones were at the sufferer’s feet, and when Wetherford appeared at the door of the tent his face was almost happy. “Kill a sheep. There isn’t a thing but a heel of bacon and a little flour in the place.”

  As the ranger went about his outside duties he had time to take into full account the tragic significance of the situation. He was not afraid of death, but the menace of sickness under such surroundings made his blood run cold. It is such moments as these that the wilderness appalls. Twenty miles of most difficult trail lay between his own cabin and this spot. To carry the sick man on his horse would not only be painful to the sufferer but dangerous to the rescuer, for if the Basque were really ill of smallpox contagion would surely follow. On the other hand, to leave him to die here unaided seemed inhuman, impossible.

  “There is only one thing to do,” he called to Wetherford, “and that is for me to ride back to the station and bring up some extra bedding and my own tent, and so camp down beside you.”

  “All right; but remember I’ve established a quarantine. I’ll crack your head if you break over the line an inch.”

  There was no longer any feeling of reaching up or reaching down between the two men—they were equals. Wetherford, altogether admirable, seemed to have regained his manhood as he stood in the door of the tent confronting the ranger. “This Basque ain’t much of a find, but, as you say, he’s human, and we can’t let him lie here and die, I’ll stay with him till you can find a doctor or till he dies.”

  “I take off my hat to you,” responded Cavanagh. “You are a man.”

  * * *

  X

  THE SMOKE OF THE BURNING

  The reader will observe that the forest ranger’s job is that of a man and a patriot, and such a ranger was Cavanagh, notwithstanding his foreign birth. He could ride all day in the saddle and fight fire all night. While not a trained forester, he was naturally a reader, and thoroughly understood the theories of the department. As a practical ranger he stood half-way between the cowboy (who was at first the only available material) and the trained expert who is being educated to follow him.

  He was loyal with the loyalty of a soldier, and his hero was the colonel of the Rough-riders, under whom he had campaigned. The second of his admirations was the Chief Forester of the department.

  The most of us are getting so thin-skinned, so dependent upon steam-heat and goloshes, that the actions of a man like this riding forth upon his trail at all hours of the day and night self-sufficing and serene, seem like the doings of an epic, and so indeed they are.

  On the physical side the plainsman, the cowboy, the poacher, are all admirable, but Cavanagh went far beyond their physical hardihood. He dreamed, as he rode, of his responsibilities. The care of the poor Basque shepherd he had accepted as a matter of routine without Wetherford’s revelation of himself, which complicated an exceedingly pitiful case. He could not forget that it was Lee Virginia’s father who stood in danger of contracting the deadly disease, and as he imagined him dying far up there on that bleak slope, his heart pinched with the tragedy of the old man’s life. In such wise the days of the ranger were smouldering to this end.

  On the backward trail he turned aside to stamp out a smoking log beside a deserted camp-fire, and again he made a detour into a lovely little park to visit a fisherman and to warn him of the danger of fire. He was the forest guardian, alert to every sign, and yet all the time he was being drawn on toward his temptation. Why not resign and go East, taking the girl with him? “After all, the life up here is a lonely and hard one, in no sense a vocation for an ambitious man. Suppose I am promoted to Forest Supervisor? That only means a little more salary and life in a small city rather than here. District Supervisor would be better, but can I hope to secure such a position?”

  Up to this month he had taken the matter of his promotion easily; it was something to come along in the natural course of things. “There is no haste; I can wait.” Now haste seemed imperative. “I am no longer so young as I was,” he admitted.

  Once back at his cabin he laid aside his less tangible problems, and set himself to cooking some food to take back with him to the peak. He brought in his pack-horse, and burdened him with camp outfit and utensils, and extra clothing. He filled his pockets with such medicines as he possessed, and so at last, just as night was falling, he started back over his difficult trail.

  The sky was black as the roof of a cavern, for the stars were hid by a roof of cloud which hung just above his head, and the ranger was obliged to feel his way through the first quarter of his journey. The world grew lighter after he left the canon and entered the dead timber of the glacial valley, but even in the open the going was wearisome and the horses proceeded with sullen caution.

  “The Basque is a poor, worthless little peasant, but he is a human being, and to leave him to die up there would be monstrous,” he insisted, as the horses stumbled upward over the rocks of a vast lateral moraine toward the summit, blinded by the clouds through which they were forced to pass. He was dismounted now and picking his way with a small lantern, whose feeble ray (like that of a firefly) illuminated for a small space the dripping rocks; all else was tangible yellow mist which possessed a sulphurous odor and clung to everything it touched. The wind had died out entirely, and the mountain-side was as silent as the moon.

  Foot by foot he struggled up the slope, hoping each moment to break through this blanket of vapor into the clear air. He knew from many previous experiences that the open sky existed a little way above, that this was but a roof.

  At last he parted the layer of mist and burst into the moonlit heights above. He drew a deep breath of awe as he turned and looked about him. Overhead the sky was sparkling with innumerable stars, and the crescent moon was shining like burnished silver, while level with his breast rolled a limitless, silent, and mystical ocean of cloud which broke against the dark peaks in soundless surf, and spread away to the east in ever-widening shimmer. All the lesser hills were covered; only the lords of the range towered above the flood in sullen and unmoved majesty.

  For a long time Cavanagh stood beside his weary horses, filling his soul with the beauty of this world
, so familiar yet so transformed. He wished for his love; she would feel and know and rejoice with him. It was such experiences as these that made him content with his work. For the ranger Nature plays her profoundest dramas—sometimes with the rush of winds, the crash of thunder; sometimes like this, in silence so deep that the act of breathing seems a harsh, discordant note.

  Slowly the mystic waters fell away, sinking with slightly rolling action into the valleys, and out of the wool-white waves sudden sharp dark forms upthrust like strange masters of the deep. Towers took shape and islands upheaved, crowned with dark fortresses. To the west a vast and inky-black Gibraltar magically appeared. Soon the sea was but a prodigious river flowing within the high walls of an ancient glacier, a ghost of the icy stream that once ground its slow way between these iron cliffs.

  With a shudder of awe the ranger turned from the intolerable beauty of this combination of night, cloud, and mountain-crest, and resumed his climb. Such scenes, by their majesty, their swift impermanency, their colossal and heedless haste, made his heart ache with indefinable regret. Again and again he looked back, longing for some power which would enable him to record and reproduce for the eyes of his love some part of this stupendous and noiseless epic. He was no longer content to enjoy Nature’s splendors alone.

  On the cold and silent side of the great divide the faint light of the shepherd’s teepee shone, and with a returning sense of his duty to his fellows on the roof of the continent, Cavanagh pushed onward.

  Wetherford met him at the door, no longer the poor old tramp, but a priest, one who has devoted himself to Christ’s service.

  “How is he?” asked the ranger.

  “Delirious,” replied the herder. “I’ve had to hold him to his bed. I’m glad you’ve come. It’s lonesome up here. Don’t come too near. Set your tent down there by the trees. I can’t have you infected. Keep clear of me and this camp.”