Cavanaugh-Forest Ranger

by Garland, Hamlin

  “Have you been vaccinated?”

  “Yes; when I was in the army.”

  “Then you’re all right.”

  “I hope so.”

  There was a certain comic relief in this long-distance diagnosing of a “case” by a boy, and yet the tragic fact beneath it all was that Wetherford was dying, a broken and dishonored husband and father, and that his identity must be concealed from his wife and daughter, who were much more deeply concerned over the ranger than over the desperate condition of his patient. “And this must continue to be so,” Cavanagh decided. And as he stood there looking toward the girl’s fair figure on the bridge, he came to the final, fixed determination never to speak one word or make a sign that might lead to the dying man’s identification. “Of what use is it?” he asked himself. “Why should even Lize be made to suffer? Wetherford’s poor misspent life is already over for her, and for Lee he is only a dim memory.”

  Redfield came near enough to see that the ranger’s face, though tired, showed no sign of illness, and was relieved. “Who is this old herder?” he asked. “Hasn’t he any relatives in the country?”

  “He came from Texas, so he said. You’re not coming in?” he broke off to say to the young physician, whom Lize had shamed into returning to the cabin.

  “I suppose I’ll have to,” he protested, weakly.

  “I don’t see the need of it. The whole place reeks of the poison, and you might carry it away with you. Unless you insist on coming in, and are sure you can prevent further contagion, I shall oppose your entrance. You are in the company of others—I must consider their welfare.”

  The young fellow was relieved. “Well, so long as we know what it is I can prescribe just as well right here,” he said, and gave directions for the treatment, which the ranger agreed to carry out.

  “I tried to bring a nurse,” explained Redfield, “but I couldn’t find anybody but old Lize who would come.”

  “I don’t blame them,” replied Ross. “It isn’t a nice job, even when you’ve got all the conveniences.”

  His eyes, as he spoke, were on the figure of Lee, who still stood on the bridge awed and worshipful, barred of approach by Lize. “She shall not know,” he silently vowed. “Why put her through useless suffering and shame? Edward Wetherford’s disordered life is near its end. To betray him to his wife and daughter would be but the reopening of an old wound.”

  He was stirred to the centre of his heart by the coming of Lee Virginia, so sweet and brave and trustful. His stern mood melted as he watched her there waiting, with her face turned toward him, longing to help. “She would have come alone if necessary,” he declared, with a fuller revelation of the self-sacrificing depth of her love, “and she would come to my side this moment if I called her.”

  To the District Forester he said no more than to Redfield. “Edwards is evidently an old soldier,” he declared. “He was sent up here by Gregg to take the place of a sick herder. He took care of that poor herder till he died, and then helped me to bury him; now here he lies a victim to his own sense of duty, and I shall not desert him.” And to himself he added: “Nor betray him.”

  He went back to his repulsive service sustained and soothed by the little camp of faithful friends on the other side of the stream. The tender grace of the girl’s attitude, her air of waiting, of anxiety, of readiness to serve, made him question the basis of his family pride. He recognized in her the spirit of her sire, tempered, sweetened, made more stable, by something drawn from unknown sources. At the moment he felt that Lee was not merely his equal but his superior in purity of character and in purpose. “What nonsense we talk of heredity, of family,” he thought.

  Standing over the wasted body of his patient, he asked again: “Why let even Lize know? To her Ed Wetherford is dead. She remembers him now as a young, dashing, powerful horseman, a splendid animal, a picturesque lover. Why wring her heart by permitting her to see this wreck of what was once her pride?”

  As for Wetherford himself, nothing mattered very much. He spoke of the past now and then, but not in the phrase of one who longs for the return of happy days—rather in the voice of one who murmurs a half-forgotten song. He called no more for his wife and child, and if he had done so Cavanagh would have reasoned that the call arose out of weakness, and that his better self, his real self, would still desire to shield his secret from his daughter.

  And this was true, for during one of his clearest moments Wetherford repeated his wish to die a stranger. “I’m goin’ out like the old-time West, a rag of what I once was. Don’t let them know—put no name over me—just say: ‘An old cow-puncher lies here.’”

  Cavanagh’s attempt to change his hopeless tone proved unavailing. Enfeebled by his hardships and his prison life, he had little reserve force upon which to draw in fighting such an enemy. He sank soon after this little speech into a coma which continued to hold him in its unbroken grasp as night fell.

  Meantime, seeing no chance of aiding the ranger, Redfield and the Forester prepared to return, but Lee, reinforced by her mother, refused to accompany them. “I shall stay here,” she said, “till he is safely out of it—till I know that he is beyond all danger.”

  Redfield did not urge her to return as vigorously as Dalton expected him to do, but when he understood the girl’s desire to be near her lover, he took off his hat and bowed to her. “You are entirely in the right,” he said. “Here is where you belong.”

  Redfield honored Lize for her sympathetic support of her daughter’s resolution, and expressed his belief that Ross would escape the plague. “I feel that his splendid vigor, combined with the mountain air, will carry him through—even if he should prove not to be immune. I shall run up again day after to-morrow. I shall be very anxious. What a nuisance that the telephone-line is not extended to this point. Ross has been insisting on its value for months.”

  Lee saw the doctor go with some dismay. Young as he was, he was at least a reed to cling to in case the grisly terror seized upon the ranger. “Mr. Redfield, can’t you send a real doctor? It seems so horrible to be left here without instructions.”

  The Forester, before going, again besought Cavanagh not to abandon his work in the Forestry Service, and intimated that at the proper time advancement would be offered him. “The whole policy is but beginning,” said he, “and a practical ranger with your experience and education will prove of greatest value.”

  To this Ross made reply. “At the moment I feel that no promise of advancement could keep me in this country of grafters, poachers, and assassins. I’m weary of it, and all it stands for. However, if I could aid in extending the supervision of the public ranges and in stopping forever this murder and burning that goes on outside the forestry domain, I might remain in the West.”

  “Would you accept the supervisorship of the Washakie Forest?” demanded Dalton.

  Taken by surprise, he stammered: “I might; but am I the man?”

  “You are. Your experience fits you for a position where the fight is hot. The Washakie Forest is even more a bone of contention than this. We have laid out the lines of division between the sheep and the cows, and it will take a man to enforce our regulations. You will have the support of the best citizens. They will all rally, with you as leader, and so end the warfare there.”

  “It can never end till Uncle Sam puts rangers over every section of public lands and lays out the grazing lines as we have done in this forest,” retorted Cavanagh.

  “I know; but to get that requires a revolution in the whole order of things.” Then his fine young face lighted up. “But we’ll get it. Public sentiment is coming our way. The old order is already so eaten away that only its shell remains.”

  “It may be. If these assassins are punished I shall feel hopeful of the change.”

  “I shall recommend you for the supervisorship of the Washakie Forest,” concluded Dalton, decisively. “And so good-bye and good-luck.”

  England, his blood relatives, even the Redfields, seemed very re
mote to the ranger, as he stood in his door that night and watched the sparkle of Swenson’s camp-fire through the trees. With the realization that there waited a brave girl of the type that loves single-heartedly, ready to sacrifice everything to the welfare of her idealized subject, he felt unworthy, selfish, vain.

  “If I should fall sick she would insist on nursing me. For her sake I must give Swenson the most rigid orders not to allow her—no matter what happens—to approach. I will not have her touched by this thing.”

  Beside the blaze Lee and her mother sat for the most part in silence, with nothing to do but to wait the issue of the struggle going on in the cabin, so near and yet so inaccessible to their will. It was as if a magic wall, crystal-clear yet impenetrable, shut them away from the man whose quiet heroism was the subject of their constant thought.

  To the girl this ride up into her lover’s world had been both exalting and awesome—not merely because the rough and precipitous road took her closer to her lover while placing her farther from medical aid, but also because it was so vast a world, so unpeopled and so beautiful.

  It was marvellous, as the dusk fell and the air nipped keen, to see how Lize Wetherford renewed her youth. The excitement seemed to have given her a fresh hold on life. She was wearied but by no means weakened by her ride, and ate heartily of the rude fare which Swenson set before her. “This is what I needed,” she exultantly said; “the open air and these trout. I feel ten years younger already. Many’s the night I’ve camped on the range with your father with nothing but a purp-tent to cover us both, and the wolves howling round us. I’d feel pretty fairly gay if it weren’t for Ross over there in that cabin playin’ nurse and cook all by his lonesomeness.”

  Lee expressed a deep satisfaction from the fact of their nearness. “If he is ill we can help him,” she reiterated.

  She had put behind her all the doubt and fear which his abrupt desertion of her had caused, and, though he had not been able to speak a word to her, his self-sacrifice had made amends. She excused it all as part of his anxious care. Whatever the mood of that other day had been, it had given way to one that was lofty and deeply altruistic. Her one anxiety now was born of a deepening sense of his danger, but against this she bent the full strength of her will. “He shall not die,” she declared beneath her breath. “God will not permit it.”

  There was a touch of frost in the air as they went to their beds, and, though she shivered, Lize was undismayed. “There’s nothing the matter with my heart,” she exulted. “I don’t believe there was anything really serious the matter with me, anyway. I reckon I was just naturally grouchy and worried over you and Ross.”

  Lee Virginia was now living a romance stranger and more startling than any she had ever read. In imagination she was able to look back and down upon the Fork as if she had been carried into another world—a world that was at once primeval yet peaceful: a world of dreaming trees, singing streams, and silent peaks; a realm in which law and order reigned, maintained by one determined young man whose power was derived from the President himself. She felt safe—entirely safe—for just across the roaring mountain torrent the two intrepid guardians of the forest were encamped. One of them, it is true, came of Swedish parentage and the other was a native of England, but they were both American in the high sense of being loyal to the Federal will, and she trusted them more unquestioningly than any other men in all that West save only Redfield. She had no doubt there were others equally loyal, equally to be trusted, but she did not know them.

  She rose to a complete understanding of Cavanagh’s love for “the high country” and his enthusiasm for the cause, a cause which was able to bring together the student from Yale and the graduates of Bergen and of Oxford, and make them comrades in preserving the trees and streams of the mountain States against the encroachments of some of their own citizens, who were openly, short-sightedly, and cynically bent upon destruction, spoliation, and misuse.

  She had listened to the talk of the Forester and the Supervisor, and she had learned from them that Cavanagh was sure of swift advancement, now that he had shown his courage and his skill; and the thought that he might leave the State to take charge of another forest brought her some uneasiness, for she and Lize had planned to go to Sulphur City. She had consented to this because it still left to her the possibility of occasionally seeing or hearing from Cavanagh. But the thought that he might go away altogether took some of the music out of the sound of the stream and made the future vaguely sad.

  * * *

  XV

  WETHERFORD PASSES ON

  For the next two days Cavanagh slept but little, for his patient grew steadily worse. As the flame of his fever mounted, Wetherford pleaded for air. The ranger threw open the doors, admitting freely the cool, sweet mountain wind. “He might as well die of a draught as smother,” was his thought; and by the use of cold cloths he tried to allay the itching and the pain.

  “What I am doing may be all wrong,” he admitted to Swenson, who came often to lean upon the hitching-pole and offer aid. “I have had no training as a nurse, but I must be doing something. The man is burning up, and hasn’t much vitality to spare. I knew a ranger had to be all kinds of things, cowboy, horse-doctor, axe-man, carpenter, surveyor, and all the rest of it, but I didn’t know that he had to be a trained nurse in addition.”

  “How do you feel yourself?” asked his subordinate, anxiously.

  “Just tired; nothing more. I reckon I am going to escape. I should be immune, but you never can tell. The effect of vaccination wears off after a few years.”

  “The women folks over there are terribly worried, and the old lady has made me promise to call her in if you show the slightest signs of coming down.”

  “Tell her to rest easy. I am keeping mighty close watch over myself, and another night will tell the story so far as the old man is concerned. I wish I had a real doctor, but I don’t expect any. It is a long hard climb up here for one of those tenderfeet.”

  He returned to his charge, and Swenson walked slowly away, back to the camp, oppressed with the sense of his utter helplessness.

  Again and again during the day Lee Virginia went to the middle of the bridge, which was the dead-line, and there stood to catch some sign, some wave of the hand from her lover. Strange courtship! and yet hour by hour the tie which bound these young souls together was strengthened. She cooked for him in the intervals of her watch and sent small pencilled notes to him, together with the fish and potatoes, but no scrap of paper came back to her—so scrupulous was Cavanagh to spare her from the faintest shadow of danger.

  Swenson brought verbal messages, it was true, but they were by no means tender, for Cavanagh knew better than to intrust any fragile vessel of sentiment to this stalwart young woodsman. Now that Lee knew the mysterious old man was dying, she longed for his release—for his release would mean her lover’s release. She did not stop to think that it would be long, very long, before she could touch Cavanagh’s hand or even speak with him face to face. At times under Swenson’s plain speaking she grew faint with the horror of the struggle which was going on in that silent cabin.

  This leprous plague, this offspring of crowded and dirty tenements and of foul ship-steerages, seemed doubly unholy here in the clean sanity of the hills. It was a profanation, a hideous curse. “If it should seize upon Ross—” Words failed to express her horror, her hate of it. “Oh God, save him!” she prayed a hundred times each day.

  Twice in the night she rose from her bed to listen, to make sure that Cavanagh was not calling for help. The last time she looked out, a white veil of frost lay on the grass, and the faint light of morning was in the east, and in the exquisite clarity of the air, in the serene hush of the dawn, the pestilence appeared but as the ugly emanation of disordered sleep. The door of the ranger’s cabin stood open, but all was silent. “He is snatching a half-hour’s sleep,” she decided.

  If the guard had carried in his mind the faintest intention of permitting Lize to go to Cavanagh’
s aid, that intention came to no issue, for with the coming of the third night Wetherford was unconscious and unrecognizable to any one who had known him in the days of “the free range.” Lithe daredevil in those days, expert with rope and gun, he was as far from this scarred and swollen body as the soaring eagle is from the carrion which he sees and scorns.

  He was going as the Wild West was going, discredited, ulcerated, poisoned, incapable of rebirth, yet carrying something fine to his grave. He had acted the part of a brave man, that shall be said of him. He had gone to the rescue of the poor Basque, instinctively, with the same reckless disregard of consequences to himself which marked his character when as a cow-boss on the range he had set aside the most difficult tasks for his own rope or gun. His regard for the ranger into whose care he was now about to commit his wife and daughter, persisted in spite of his suffering. In him was his hope, his stay. Once again, in a lucid moment, he reverted to the promise which he had drawn from Cavanagh.

  “If I go, you must take care—of my girl—take care of Lize, too. Promise me that. Do you promise?” he insisted.

  “I promise—on honor,” Ross repeated, and, with a faint pressure of his hand (so slender and weak), Wetherford sank away into the drowse which deepened hour by hour, broken now and then by convulsions, which wrung the stern heart of the ranger till his hands trembled for pity.

  All day, while the clouds sailed by, white as snow and dazzlingly pure, while the stream roared with joy of exploration, and the sunshine fell in dazzling floods upon the world, the ranger bent above his ward or walked the floor of his cabin marvelling that the air and light of this high place should be so powerless to check the march of that relentless plague. It seemed that to open the doors, to fill the room with radiance, must surely kill the mutinous motes which warred upon the tortured body. But in the midst of nature’s sovereign charm the reek of the conflict went up; and he wondered whether even the vigor which his outdoor life had built up could withstand the strain another day.