Cavanaugh-Forest Ranger

by Garland, Hamlin

  “I’ve got some food and some extra clothing for you.”

  “Put ’em down here, and in the morning drive these sheep away. That noise disturbs the dago, and I don’t like it myself; they sound lonesome and helpless. That dog took ’em away for a while, but brought ’em back again; poor devil, he don’t know what to think of it all.”

  Ross did as Wetherford commanded him to do, and withdrew a little way down the slope; and without putting up his tent, rolled himself in his blankets and went to sleep.

  The sun rose gloriously. With mountain fickleness the wind blew gently from the east, the air was precisely like late March, and the short and tender grass, the small flowers in the sheltered corners of the rocks, and the multitudinous bleatings of the lambs were all in keeping. It was spring in the world and it was spring in the heart of the ranger, in spite of all his perplexities. The Basque would recover, the heroic ex-convict would not be stricken, and all would be well. Of such resiliency is the heart of youth.

  His first duty was to feed the faithful collie, and to send him forth with the flock. His next was to build a fire and cook some breakfast for Wetherford, and as he put it down beside the tent door he heard the wild pleading of the Basque, who was struggling with his nurse—doubtless in the belief that he was being kept a prisoner. Only a few words like “go home” and “sheep” were intelligible to either the nurse or the ranger.

  “Keep quiet now—quiet, boy! It’s all right. I’m here to take care of you,” Wetherford repeated, endlessly.

  Cavanagh waited till a silence came; then called, softly: “Here’s your breakfast, Wetherford.”

  “Move away,” retorted the man within. “Keep your distance.”

  Ross walked away a little space and Wetherford came to the door. “The dago is sure sick, there’s no two ways about that. How far is it to the nearest doctor?”

  “I could reach one by ’phone from the Kettle Ranch, about twenty miles below here.”

  “If he don’t get better to-day I reckon we’ll have to have a doctor.” He looked so white and old that Cavanagh said:

  “You need rest. Now I think I’ve had the smallpox—I know I’ve been vaccinated, and if you go to bed—”

  “If you’re saying all that preliminary to offering to come in here, you’re wasting your breath. I don’t intend to let you come any nearer than you are. There is work for you to do. Besides, there’s my girl; you’re detailed to look after her.”

  “Would a doctor come?” asked Ross, huskily, moved by Wetherford’s words. “It’s a hard climb. Would they think the dago worth it?”

  Wetherford’s face darkened with a look of doubt. “It is a hard trip for a city man, but maybe he would come for you—for the Government.”

  “I doubt it, even if I were to offer my next month’s salary as a fee. These hills are very remote to the townsfolk, and one dago more or less of no importance, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  Ross was really more concerned for Wetherford himself than for the Basque. “If the fever is something malignant, we must have medical aid,” he said, and went slowly back to his own camp to ponder his puzzling problem.

  One thing could certainly be done, and that was to inform Gregg and Murphy of their herder’s illness; surely they would come to the rescue of the collie and his flock. To reach a telephone involved either a ride over into Deer Creek or a return to the Fork. He was tempted to ride all the way to the Fork, for to do so would permit another meeting with Lee; but to do this would require many hours longer, and half a day’s delay might prove fatal to the Basque, and, besides, each hour of loneliness and toil rendered Wetherford just so much more open to the deadly attack of the disease.

  Here was the tragic side of the wilderness. At such moments even the Fork seemed a haven. The mountains offer a splendid camping-place for the young and the vigorous, but they are implacable foes to the disabled man or the aged. They do not give loathsome diseases like pox, but they do not aid in defence of the sick. Coldly aloof, its clouds sail by. The night winds bite. Its rains fall remorselessly. Sheltering rocks there are, to be sure, but their comfort is small to the man smitten with the scourge of the crowded city. In such heights man is of no more value than the wolf or the cony.

  It was hard to leave an old and broken man in such a drear and wind-contested spot, and yet it had to be done. So fastening his tent securely behind a clump of junipers, Cavanagh mounted his horse and rode away across the boundary of the forest into the Deer Creek Basin, which had been the bone of much contention for nearly four years.

  It was a high, park-like expanse, sparsely wooded, beautiful in summer, but cold and bleak in winter. The summers were short, and frost fell almost every week even in July and August. It had once been a part of the forest, but under pressure the President had permitted it to be restored to the public lands open for entry. It was not “agricultural grounds,” as certain ranchers claimed, but it was excellent summer pasture, and the sheepmen and cattle-men had leaped at once into warfare to possess it. Sheep were beaten to death with clubs by hundreds, herders were hustled out of the park with ropes about their necks and their outfits destroyed—and all this within a few miles of the forest boundary, where one small sentinel kept effective watch and ward.

  Cavanagh had never been over this trail but once, and he was trying to locate the cliff from which a flock of sheep had been hurled by cattle-men some years before, when he perceived a thin column of smoke rising from a rocky hillside. With habitual watchfulness as to fire, he raised his glass to his eyes and studied the spot. It was evidently a camp-fire and smouldering dangerously, and turning his horse’s head he rode toward it to stamp it out. It was not upon his patrol; but that did not matter, his duty was clear.

  As he drew near he began to perceive signs of a broken camp; the ground was littered with utensils. It was not an ordinary camp-fire, and the ranger’s heart quickened. “Another sheep-herder has been driven out, and his tent and provisions burned!” he exclaimed, wrathfully.

  His horse snorted and shied as he rode nearer, and then a shudder passed through the ranger’s heart as he perceived in the edge of the smouldering embers a boot heel, and then—a charred hand! In the smoke of that fire was the reek of human flesh.

  For a long time the ranger sat on his horse, peering down into those ashes until at last it became evident to his eyes that at least two sheep-herders had been sacrificed on the cattle-man’s altar of hate and greed.

  All about on the sod the story was written, all too plain. Two men, possibly three, had been murdered—cut to pieces and burned—not many hours before. There stood the bloody spade with which the bodies had been dismembered, and there lay an empty can whose oil had been poured upon the mingled camp utensils, tent, and wagon of the herders, in the attempt to incinerate the hacked and dismembered limbs of the victims. The lawlessness of the range had culminated. The ferocity of the herder had gone beyond the savage. Here in the sweet autumn air the reek of the cattle-man’s vengeance rose like some hideous vapor, poisonous and obscene.

  The ranger sickened as the bloody tale unfolded itself before him. Then a fierce hate of such warfare flamed in his heart. Could this enormity be committed under any other civilized flag? Would any other Government intermingle so foolishly, so childishly its State and Federal authority as to permit such diabolism?

  Here lay the legitimate fruit of the State’s essential hoodlumism. Here was the answer to local self-government—to democracy. Such a thing could not happen in Australia or Canada; only in America could lynch law become a dramatic pastime, a jest, an instrument of private vengeance. The South and the West were alike stained with the blood of the lynched, and the whole nation was covered with shame.

  In his horror, his sense of revolt, he cursed the State of which he was a citizen. He would have resigned his commission at the moment, so intense was his resentment of the supine, careless, jovial, slattern Government under which he was serving.

  “By the Lord!” he breat
hed, with solemn intensity, “if this does not shame the people of this State into revolt, if these fiends are not hounded and hung, I will myself harry them. I cannot live and do my duty here unless this crime is avenged by law.”

  It did not matter to him that these herders were poor Basques; it was the utter, horrifying, destructive disregard of law which raised such tumult in his blood. His English education, his soldier’s training, his native refinement—all were outraged. Then, too, he loved the West. He had surrendered his citizenship under the British flag—for this!

  Chilled, shaking, and numb, he set spurs to his horse and rode furiously down the trail toward the nearest town, so eager to spread the alarm that he could scarcely breathe a deep breath. On the steep slopes he was forced to walk, and his horse led so badly, that his agony of impatience was deepened. He had a vision of the murderers riding fast into far countries. Each hour made their apprehension progressively the more difficult.

  “Who were they?” he asked himself, again and again. “What kind of man did this thing? Was the leader a man like Ballard? Even so, he was hired. By whom? By ranchers covetous of the range; that was absolutely certain.”

  It was long after noon before he came to the end of the telephone-line in a little store and post-office at the upper falls of Deer Creek. The telephone had a booth fortunately, and he soon had Redfield’s ear, but his voice was so strained and unnatural that his chief did not recognize it.

  “Is that you, Ross? What’s the matter? Your voice sounds hoarse.”

  Ross composed himself, and told his story briefly. “I’m at Kettle Ranch post-office. Now listen. The limit of the cattle-man’s ferocity has been reached. As I rode down here, to get into communication with a doctor for a sick herder, I came upon the scene of another murder and burning. The fire is still smouldering; at least two bodies are in the embers.”

  At last, bit by bit, from hurried speech, the supervisor derived the fact, the location, the hour, and directed the herder to ride back and guard the remains till the sheriff arrived.

  “Keep it all quiet,” warned Ross, “and get the sheriff and a doctor to come up here as quick as you can. What in the name of God is this country coming to?” he cried, in despair. “Will this deed go unpunished, like the rest?”

  Redfield’s voice had lost its optimistic ring. “I don’t know; I am stunned by it all. Don’t do anything rash, Ross. Wait till I come. Perhaps this is the turning-point out here. I’ll be up at the earliest moment.”

  The embittered and disheartened ranger then called up Lee Virginia, and the sound of her sweet voice turned his thoughts to other and, in a sense, more important matters; for when she heard his name she cried out with such eager longing and appeal that his heart leaped. “Oh, I wish you were here! Mother has been worse to-day. She is asking for you. Can’t you come down and see us? She wants to tell you something.”

  “I can’t—I can’t!” he stammered. “I—I—I’m a long way off, and I have important work to do. Tell her I will come to-morrow.”

  Her voice was filled with disappointment and fear as she said: “Oh, I need you so! Can’t you come?”

  “Yes, I will come as soon as I can. I will try to reach you by daylight to-morrow. My heart is with you. Call up the Redfields; they will help you.”

  “Mother wants you. She says she must see you. Come as soon as you can. I don’t know what she wants to tell you—but I do know we need you.”

  Her meaning was as clear as if she said: “I need you, for I love you. Come to me.” And her prayer filled him with pain as well as pleasure. He was a soldier and under orders from his chief, therefore he said: “Dear girl, there is a sick man far up on the mountain-side with no one to care for him but a poor old herder who is in danger of falling sick himself. I must go back to them; but, believe me, I will come just as soon as my duties will let me. You understand me, don’t you?”

  Her voice was fainter as she said: “Yes, but I—it seems hard to wait.”

  “I know. Your voice has helped me. I was in a black mood when I came here. I’m going back now to do my work, and then I will come to you. Good-bye.”

  Strangely beautiful and very subtle was the vibrant stir of that wire as it conveyed back to his ear the little sigh with which she made answer to his plea. He took his way upward in a mood which was meditative but no longer bitter.

  * * *

  XI

  SHADOWS ON THE MIST

  The decision which Cavanagh made between love and duty distinguished the officer from the man, the soldier from the civilian. He did not hesitate to act, and yet he suffered a mental conflict as he rode back toward the scene of that inhuman sacrifice on the altar of greed. His heart went out to Lee Virginia in longing. Her appealing voice still lay in his ear with an effect like the touch of her soft lips, and his flagging horse suffered from the unconscious pressure of his haste.

  “It will be hours before any part of the sheriff’s posse can reach the falls, even though they take to the swiftest motors, and then other long hours must intervene before I can ride down to her. Yes, at least a day and a night must drag their slow course before I can hope to be of service to her,” and the thought drew a groan of anxiety from him. At such moments of mental stress the trail is a torture and the mountain-side an inexorable barrier.

  Half-way to the hills he was intercepted by an old man who was at work on an irrigating ditch beside the road. He seemed very nervous and very inquisitive, and as he questioned the ranger his eyes were like those of a dog that fears his master’s hand. Ross wondered about this afterward, but at the moment his mind was busy with the significance of this patient toiler with a spade. He was a prophetic figure in the most picturesque and sterile land of the stockman. “Here within twenty miles of this peaceful fruit-grower,” he said, “is the crowning infamy of the free-booting cowboy. My God, what a nation we are!”

  He wondered, as he rode on, whether the papers of the State would make a jest of this deed. “Will this be made the theme for caustic comment in the Eastern press for a day, and then be forgotten?”

  As his hot blood cooled he lost faith in even this sacrifice. Could anything change the leopard West into the tameness and serenity of the ox? “No,” he decided, “nothing but death will do that. This generation, these fierce and bloody hearts, must die; only in that way can the tradition of violence be overcome and a new State reared.”

  At the foot of the toilsome, upward-winding trail he dismounted, and led his weary horse. Over his head, and about half-way to the first hilltop, lay a roof of fleecy vapor, faint purple in color and seamless in texture. Through this he must pass, and it symbolized to him the line of demarkation between the plain and the mountain, between order and violence.

  Again he rose above it, to find it a fantastic sea lit by the sun, and glowing with pink and gold and violet. Celestial in its ethereal beauty, it threw into still more appalling shadow the smoking altar of passion toward which he spurred. From moment to moment the surface rose and shifted in swift, tumultuous, yet soundless waves, breaking round pine-clad promontories in shimmering breakers, faint, and far, and serene.

  Down through a deep canon to the south a prodigious river of mist was rushing, a silent cataract of ashy vapor plunging to a soundless beach. Above and beyond it the high peaks shone in radiance so pure that the heart of the lover ached with the pain of its evanescent beauty. It was as if he were looking across a foaming flood upon the stupendous and shining park of some imperial potentate whose ornate and splendid country home lay just beyond. Rocky spires rose like cathedral towers, and fortresses abutted upon the stream. And yet in the midst of that glorified plain the smoke of the burning rose.

  Slowly he led his horse along the mountain-side, grasping with eager desire at every changing aspect of this marvellous scene. It was infinitely more gorgeous, more compelling, than his moonlight experience the night before, for here reality, definite and powerful, was interfused with mystery. These foot-hills, hitherto pleasantly pr
ecipitous, had suddenly become grandiose. All was made over upon a mightier scale, each rock and tree being distorted by the passing translucent clouds into a kind of monstrous yet epic proportion.

  Ghostly white ledges broke from the darker mist like fields of distant crusted snow. Castellated crags loomed from the mystic river like fortified islands. Cattle, silent, enormously aggrandized, emerged like fabled beasts of the eld, and stared upon him, their jaws dripping with dew. Bulls roared from the obscure deeps. Dead trees, with stark and sinister arms, menaced warningly. All was as unreal as the world of pain’s delirium, and yet was as beautiful as the poet’s vision; and the ranger, feeling that he was looking upon one of Nature’s rarest displays, removed his hat in worship of it, thrilling with pride and satisfaction over the thought that this was his domain, his to guard and preserve.

  The crowning glow of mystery and grace came as he led his horse out upon a projecting point of rocky ledge to rest. Here the cliff descended abruptly to an enormous depth, and upon the vaporous rolling flood beneath him a dome of darker shadow rested. At the summit of this shadow an aureole of rainbow light, a complete and glorious circle rested, in the midst of which his own image was flung, grotesque and gigantic.

  “The Shadows of the Brocken!” he exclaimed, in ecstasy, all his bitterness, his care, forgotten. “Now I understand Goethe’s lines.” In all his life in the hills he had never before witnessed such a combination of peak and sun and cloud and shadow.

  His love for the range came back upon him with such power that tears misted his eyes and his throat ached. “Where else will I find such scenes as this?” he asked himself. “Where in all the lowlands could such splendors shine? How can I leave this high world in which these wonders come and go? I will not! Here will I bring my bride and build my home. This is my world.”