_ CHAPTER 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.
Once Lee Virginia approached close enough to hear his voice as he warned her to go back. "You can do nothing," he called to her. "Please go away." His face was haggard with weariness, and her heart filled with bitter resentment to think that this repulsive warfare, this painful duty, should be thrust upon one so fine.
He himself felt as though his youth were vanishing, and that in these few days he had entered upon the sober, care-filled years of middle life. The one sustaining thought, his one allurement, lay in the near presence of the girl to whom he could call, but could not utter one tender word. She was there where he could see her watching, waiting at the bridge. "The sound of the water helps me bear the suspense," she said to Swenson, and the occasional sight of her lover, the knowledge that he was still unbroken, kept her from despair.
The day was well advanced when the sound of rattling pebbles on the hill back of his cabin drew his attention, and a few moments later a man on a weary horse rode up to his door and dropped heavily from the saddle. He was a small, dark individual, with spectacles, plainly of the city.
"Beware! Smallpox!" called Ross, as his visitor drew near the door.
The new-comer waved his hand contemptuously. "I've had it. Are you Ross Cavanagh?"
"I am!"
"My name is Hartley. I represent the Denver _Round-up_. I'm interested in this sheep-herder killing--merely as a reporter," he added, with a fleeting smile. "Did you know old man Dunn, of Deer Creek, had committed suicide?"
Cavanagh started, and his face set. "No!"
"They found him shot through the neck, and dying--this morning. As he was gasping his last breath, he said, 'The ranger knows,' and when they asked, 'What ranger,' he said, 'Cavanagh.' When I heard that I jumped a horse and beat 'em all over here. Is this true? Did he tell you who the murderers are?"
Cavanagh did not answer at once. He was like a man caught on a swaying bridge, and his first instinct was to catch the swing, to get his balance. "Wait a minute! What is it all to you?"
Again that peculiar grin lighted the small man's dark, unwholesome face. "It's a fine detective stunt, and besides it means twenty dollars per column and mebbe a 'boost.' I can't wait, you can't wait! It's up to us to strike _now_! If these men knew you have their names they'd hike for Texas or the high seas. Come now! Everybody tells me you're one of these idealistic highbrow rangers who care more for the future of the West than most natural-born Westerners. What's your plan? If you'll yoke up with me we'll run these devils into the earth and win great fame, and you'll be doing the whole country a service."
The ranger studied the small figure before him with penetrating gaze. There was deliberative fearlessness in the stranger's face and eyes, and notwithstanding his calm, almost languid movement, restless energy could be detected in his voice.
"What is your plan?" the ranger asked.
"Get ourselves deputized by the court, and jump these men before they realize that there's anything doing. They count the whole country on their side, but they're mistaken. They've outdone themselves this time, and a tremendous reaction has set in. Everybody knows you've held an even hand over these warring Picts and Scots, and the court will be glad to deputize you to bring them to justice. The old sheriff is paralyzed. Everybody knows that the assassins are prominent cattle-ranchers, and yet no one dares move. It's up to you fellows, who represent law and order, to act quick."
Cavanagh followed him with complete comprehension, and a desire to carry out the plan seized upon him.
"I'd do it if I could," he said, "but it happens I am nursing a sick man. I am, perhaps, already exposed to the same disease. I can't leave here for a week or more. It would not be right for me to expose others--"
"Don't worry about that. Take a hot bath, fumigate your clothing, shave your head. I'll fix you up, and I'll get some one to take your place." Catching sight of Swenson and Lize on the bridge, he asked: "Who are those people? Can't they take your nursing job?"
"No!" answered Cavanagh, bluntly. "It's no use, I can't join you in this--at least, not now."
"But you'll give me the names which Dunn gave you?"
"No, I can't do that. I shall tell the Supervisor, and he can act as he sees fit--for the present I'm locked up here."
The other man looked the disappointment he felt. "I'm sorry you don't feel like opening up. You know perfectly well that nothing will ever be done about this thing unless the press insists upon it. It's up to you and me (me representing 'the conscience of the East'"--here he winked an eye--"and you Federal authority) to do what we can to bring these men to their punishment. Better reconsider. I'm speaking now as a citizen as well as a reporter."
There was much truth in what he said, but Cavanagh refused to go further in the matter until he had consulted with Redfield.
"Very well," replied Hartley, "that's settled. By-the-way, who is your patient?"
Eloquently, concisely, Ross told the story. "Just a poor old mounted hobo, a survival of the cowboy West," he said; "but he had the heart of a hero in him, and I'm doing my best to save him."
"Keep him in the dark, that's the latest theory--or under a red light. White light brings out the ulcers."
"He hates darkness; that's one reason why I've opened the doors and windows."
"All wrong! According to Finsen, he wouldn't pit in the dark. However, it doesn't matter on a cowboy. You've a great story yourself. There's a fine situation here which I'll play up if you don't object."
Cavanagh smiled. "Would my objection have any weight?"
The reporter laughed. "Not much; I've got to carry back some sort of game. Well, so long! I must hit the trail over the hill."
Cavanagh made civil answer, and returned to his patient more than half convinced that Hartley was right. The "power of the press" might prove to be a very real force in this pursuit.
As the journalist was about to mount his horse he discovered Lee Virginia on the other side of the creek. "Hello!" said he, "I wonder what this pretty maiden means?" And, dropping his bridle-rein again, he walked down to the bridge.
Swenson interposed his tall figure. "What do you want?" he asked, bluntly. "You don't want to get too close. You've been talking to the ranger."
Hartley studied him coolly. "Are you a ranger, too?"
"No, only a guard."
"Why are you leaving Cavanagh to play it alone in there?"
Lee explained. "He won't let any of us come near him."
"Quite right," retorted Hartley, promptly. "They say smallpox has lost its terrors, but when you're eight hours' hard trail from a doctor, or a hospital, it's still what I'd call a formidable enemy. However, Cavanagh's immune, so he says."
"We don't know that," Lee said, and her hands came together in a spasm of fear. "Are you a doctor?"
"No, I'm only a newspaper man; but I've had a lot of experience with plagues of all sorts--had the yellow fever in Porto Rico, and the typhoid in South Africa; that's why I'm out here richochetting over the hills. But who are you, may I ask? You look like the rose of Sharon."
"My name is Lee Wetherford," she answered, with childish directness, for there was something compelling in the man's voice and eyes. "And this is my mother." She indicated Lize, who was approaching.
"_You_ are not out here for your health," he stated, rather thoughtfully. "How happens it you're here?"
"I was born here--in the Fork."
His face remained expressionless. "I don't believe it. Can such maidens come out of Roaring Fork--nit! But I don't mean that. What are you doing up here in this wilderness?"
Lize took a part in the conversation. "Another inspector?" she asked, as she lumbered up.
"That's me," he replied; "Sherlock Holmes, Vidocque, all rolled into one."
"My mother," again volunteered Lee.
Hartley's eyes expressed incredulity; but he did not put his feelings into words, for he perceived in Lize a type with which he was entirely familiar--one to be handled with care. "What are you two women doing here? Are you related to one of these rangers?"
Lize resented this. "You're asking a good many questions, Mr. Man."
"That's my trade," was the unabashed reply, "and I'm not so old but that I can rise to a romantic situation." Thereupon he dropped all direct interrogation, and with an air of candor told the story of his mission. Lize, entirely sympathetic, invited him to lunch, and he was soon in possession of their story, even to the tender relationship between Lee Virginia and the plague-besieged forest ranger.
"We're not so mighty disinterested," he said, referring to his paper. "_The Round-up_ represents the New West in part, but to us the New West means opportunity to loot water-sites and pile up unearned increment. Oh yes, we're on the side of the fruit and alfalfa grower, because it pays. If the boss of my paper happened to be in the sheep business, as Senator Blank White is, we would sing a different tune. Or if I were a Congressman representing a district of cattle-men, I'd be very slow about helping to build up any system that would make me pay for my grass. As it is, I'm commissioned to make it hot for the ranchers that killed those dagoes, and I'm going to do it. If this country had a man like Cavanagh for sheriff, we'd have the murderers in two days. He knows who the butchers are, and I'd like his help; but he's nailed down here, and there's no hope of his getting away. A few men like him could civilize this cursed country."
Thereupon he drew from three pairs of lips a statement of the kind of man Ross Cavanagh was, but most significant of all were the few words of the girl, to whom this man of the pad and pencil was a magician, capable of exalting her hero and of advancing light and civilization by the mere motion of his hand. She liked him, and grew more and more willing to communicate, and he, perceiving in her something unusual, lingered on questioning. Then he rose. "I must be going," he said to Lee. "You've given me a lovely afternoon."
Lee Virginia was all too ignorant of the ways of reporters to resent his note-taking, and she accepted his hand, believing him to be the sincere admirer of her ranger. "What are you going to do?" she asked.
"I'm going back to Sulphur to spread the report of Cavanagh's quarantine." Again that meaning smile. "I don't want any other newspaper men mixed up in my game. I'm lonesome Ned in stunts like this, and I hope if they _do_ come up you'll be judiciously silent. Good-bye."
Soon after the reporter left, Cavanagh called to Swenson: "The old man can't last through another such a night as last night was, and I wish you would persuade Mrs. Wetherford and her daughter to return to the valley. They can do nothing here--absolutely _nothing_. Please say that."
Swenson repeated his commands with all the emphasis he could give them, but neither Lize nor Lee would consent to go. "It would be heathenish to leave him alone in this lonesome hole," protested Lize.
"I shall stay till he is free," added Lee. And with uneasy heart she crossed the bridge and walked on and on toward the cabin till she was close enough to detect the lines of care on her lover's haggard face.
"Stop!" he called, sharply. "Keep away. Why don't you obey me? Why don't you go back to the valley?"
"Because I will not leave you alone--I can't! Please let me stay!"
"I beg of you go back."
The roar of the stream made it necessary to speak loudly, and he could not put into his voice the tenderness he felt at the moment, but his face was knotted with pain as he asked: "Don't you see you add to my uneasiness--my pain?"
"We're so anxious about you," she answered. "It seems as though we should be doing something to help you."
He understood, and was grateful for the tenderness which brought her so near to him, but he was forced to be stern.
"There is nothing you can do--nothing more than you are doing. It helps me to know that you are there, but you must not cross the bridge. Please go back!" There was pleading as well as command in his voice, and with a realization of the passion his voice conveyed, she retraced her steps, her heart beating quickly with the joy which his words conveyed.
At sunset Redfield returned, bringing with him medicines but no nurse. "Nobody will come up here," he said. "I reckon Ross is doomed to fight it out alone. The solitude, the long trail, scares the bravest of them away. I tried and tried--no use. Eleanor would have come, of course--demanded to come; but I would not permit that. She commissioned me to bring you both down to the ranch."
Lee Virginia thanked him, but reiterated her wish to stay until all possible danger to Cavanagh was over.
Redfield crossed the bridge, and laid the medicines down outside the door.
"The nurse from Sulphur refused to come when she found that her patient was in a mountain cabin. I'm sorry, old man; I did the best I could."
"Never mind," replied Cavanagh. "I'm still free from any touch of fever. I'm tired, of course, but good for another night of it. My main anxiety concerns Lee--get her to go home with you if you can."
"I'll do the best I can," responded Redfield, "but meanwhile you must _not_ think of getting out of the Forest Service. I have some cheering news for you. The President has put a good man into the chief's place."
Cavanagh's face lighted up. "That'll help some," he exclaimed; "but who's the man?"
Redfield named him. "He was a student under the chief, and the chief says he's all right, which satisfies me. Furthermore, he's a real forester, and not a political jobber or a corporation attorney."
"That's good," repeated Cavanagh; "and yet--" he said, sadly, "it leaves the chief out just the same."
"No, the chief is not out. He's where he can fight for the idea to better advantage than when he was a subordinate under another man. Anyhow, he asks us all to line up for the work and not to mind him. The work, he says, is bigger than any man. Here's that resignation of yours," he said, taking Cavanagh's letter from his pocket; "I didn't put it on file. What shall I do with it?"
"Throw it to me," said Cavanagh, curtly.
Redfield tossed it over the hitching-pole, and Ross took it up, looked at it for a moment in silence, then tore it into bits and threw it on the ground.
"What are your orders, Mr. Supervisor?" he asked, with a faint, quizzical smile around his eyes.
"There's nothing you can do but take care of this man. But as soon as you are able to ride again, I've got some special work for you. I want you to join with young Bingham, the ranger on Rock Creek, and line up the 'Triangle' cattle. Murphy is reported to have thrown on the forest nearly a thousand head more than his permit calls for. I want you to see about that. Then complete your maps so that I can turn them in on the first of November, and about the middle of December you are to take charge of this forest in my stead. Eleanor has decided to take the children abroad for a couple of years, and as I am to be over there part of the time, I don't feel justified in holding down the Supervisor's position. I shall resign in your favor. Wait, now!" he called, warningly. "The District Forester and I framed all this up as we rode down the hill yesterday, and it goes. Oh yes, there's one thing more. Old man Dunn--"
"I know."
"How did you learn it?"
"A reporter came boiling over the ridge about noon to-day, wanting me to give him the names which Dunn had given me. I was strongly tempted to do as he asked me to--you know these newspaper men are sometimes the best kind of detectives for running down criminals; but on second thought I concluded to wait until I had discussed the matter with you. I haven't much faith in the county authorities."
"Ordinarily I would have my doubts myself," replied Redfield, "but the whole country is roused, and we're going to round up these men this time, sure. The best men and the big papers all over the West are demanding an exercise of the law, and the reward we have offered--" He paused, suddenly. "By-the-way, that reward will come to you if you can bring about the arrest of the criminals."
"The reward should go to Dunn's family," replied the ranger, soberly. "Poor chap, he's sacrificed himself for the good of the State."
"That's true. His family is left in bad shape--"
Cavanagh broke off the conversation suddenly. "I must go back to--" he had almost said "back to Wetherford." "My patient needs me!" he exclaimed.
"How does he seem?"
"He's surely dying. In my judgment he can't last the night, but so long as he's conscious it's up to me to be on the spot."
Redfield walked slowly back across the river, thinking on the patient courage of the ranger.
"It isn't the obvious kind of thing, but it's courage all the same," he said to himself.
Meanwhile Lize and Virginia, left alone beside the fire, had drawn closer together.
The girl's face, so sweet and so pensive, wrought strongly upon the older woman's sympathy. Something of her own girlhood came back to her. Being freed from the town and all its associations, she became more considerate, more thoughtful. She wished to speak, and yet she found it very hard to begin. At last she said, with a touch of mockery in her tone: "You like Ross Cavanagh almost as well as I do myself, don't you?"
The girl flushed a little, but her eyes remained steady. "I would not be here if I did not," she replied.
"Neither would I. Well, now, I have got something to tell you--something I ought to have told you long ago--something that Ross ought to know. I intended to tell you that first day you came back, but I couldn't somehow get to it, and I kept putting it off and putting it off till--well, then I got fond of you, and every day made it harder." Here she made her supreme effort. "Child, I'm an old bluff. I'm not your mother at all."
Lee stared at her in amazement. "What do you mean?" she asked.
"I mean your real mother died when you was a tiny little babe. You see, I was your father's second wife; in fact, you weren't a year old when we married. Ed made me promise never to let you know. We were to bring you up just the same as if you was a child to both of us. Nobody knows but Reddy. I told him the day we started up here."
The girl's mind ran swiftly over the past as she listened. The truth of the revelation reached her instantly, explaining a hundred strange things which had puzzled her all her life. The absence of deep affection between herself and Lize was explained. Their difference in habit, temperament, thought--all became plain. "But my mother!" she said, at last. "Who _was_ my mother?"
"I never saw her. You see, Ed came into the country bringing you, a little motherless babe. He always said your mother was a fine woman, but I never so much as saw a picture of her. She was an educated woman, he said--a Southern woman--and her name was Virginia, but that's about all I can tell you of her. Now, I am going to let Ross know all of this as soon as I can. It will make a whole lot of difference in what he thinks of you."
She uttered all this much as a man would have done, with steady voice and with bright eyes, but Lee Virginia could feel beneath her harsh inflections the deep emotion which vibrated there, and her heart went out toward the lonely woman in a new rush of tenderness. Now that she was released from the necessity of excusing her mother's faults--faults she could now ignore; now that she could look upon her as a loyal friend, she was moved to pity and to love, and, rising, she went to her and put her arm about her neck, and said: "This won't make any difference. I am going to stay with you and help you just the same."
The tears came to the old woman's eyes, and her voice broke as she replied: "I knew you would say that, Lee Virginia, but all the same I don't intend to have you do any such thing. You've got to cut loose from me altogether, because some fine chap is going to come along one of these days, and he won't want me even as a _step_-mother-in-law. No, I have decided that you and me had better live apart. I'll get you a place to live up in Sulphur, where I can visit you now and again; but I guess I am elected to stay right here in the Fork. They don't like me, and I don't like them; but I have kind o' got used to their ways of looking at me sidewise; they don't matter as much as it would up there in the city."
Lee turned back wistfully toward the story of her mother. "Where did my mother meet my father? Do you know that?"
"No, I don't. It was a runaway match, Ed said. I never did know who her folks were--only I know they thought she was marrying the wrong man."
The girl sighed as her mind took in the significance of her mother's coming to this wild country, leaving all that she knew and loved behind. "Poor little mother. It must have been very hard for her."
"I am afraid she did have a hard time, for Ed admitted to me that he hadn't so much as a saddle when he landed in the State. He hadn't much when I met him first, but everybody liked him. He was one of the handsomest men that ever jumped a saddle. But he was close-mouthed. You never could get anything out of him that he didn't want to tell, and I was never able to discover what he had been doing in the southern part of the State."
As she pondered on her changed relationship to Lize, Lee's heart lightened. It _would_ make a difference to Ross. It would make a difference to the Redfields. Traitorous as it seemed, it was a great relief--a joy--to know that her own mother, her real mother, had been "nice." "She _must_ have been nice or Lize would not have said so," she reasoned, recalling that her stepmother had admitted her feeling of jealousy.
At last Lize rose. "Well, now, dearie, I reckon we had better turn in. It is getting chilly and late."
As they were about to part at the door of the tent Virginia took Lize's face between her hands. "Good-night, mother," she said, and kissed her, to show her that what she had said would not make any difference.
But Lize was not deceived. This unwonted caress made perfectly plain to her the relief which filled the girl's heart.
* * * * *
Lee Virginia was awakened some hours later by a roaring, crackling sound, and by the flare of a yellow light upon her tent. Peering out, she saw flames shooting up through the roof of the ranger's cabin, while beside it, wrapped in a blanket, calmly contemplating it, stood Cavanagh with folded arms. A little nearer to the bridge Redfield was sitting upon an upturned box.
With a cry of alarm she aroused her mother, and Lize, heavy-eyed, laggard with sleep, rose slowly and peered out at the scene with eyes of dull amazement. "Why don't they try to put it out?" she demanded, as she took in the import of the passive figures.
Dressing with tremulous haste, Lee stepped from the tent just in time to see Swenson come from behind the burning building and join the others in silent contemplation of the scene. There was something uncanny in the calm inaction of the three strong men.
A dense fog hung low, enveloping the whole canon in a moist, heavy, sulphurous veil, through which the tongues of flame shot with a grandiose effect; but the three foresters, whose shadows expanded, contracted, and wavered grotesquely, remained motionless as carven figures of ebony. It was as if they were contemplating an absorbing drama, in whose enactment they had only the spectator's curious interest.
Slowly, wonderingly, the girl drew near and called to Cavanagh, who turned quickly, crying out: "Don't come too close, and don't be frightened. I set the place on fire myself. The poor old herder died last night, and is decently buried in the earth, and now we are burning the cabin and every thread it contains to prevent the spread of the plague. Hugh and Swenson have divided their garments with me, and this blanket which I wear is my only coat. All that I have is in that cabin now going up in smoke--my guns, pictures, everything."
"How could you do it?" she cried out, understanding what his sacrifice had been.
"I couldn't," he replied. "The Supervisor did it. They had to go. The cabin was saturated with poison; it had become to me a plague spot, and there was no other way to stamp it out. I should never have felt safe if I had carried out even so much as a letter."
Dumb and shivering with the chill of the morning, Lee Virginia drew nearer, ever nearer. "I am so sorry," she said, and yearned toward him, eager to comfort him, but he warningly motioned her away.
"Please don't come any nearer, for I dare not touch you."
"But you are not ill?" she cried out, with a note of apprehension in her voice.
He smiled in response to her question. "No, I feel nothing but weariness and a little depression. I can't help feeling somehow as if I were burning up a part of myself in that fire--the saddle I have ridden for years, my guns, ropes, spurs, everything relating to the forest, are gone, and with them my youth. I have been something of a careless freebooter myself, I fear; but that is all over with now." He looked her in the face with a sad and resolute glance. "The Forest Service made a man of me, taught me to regard the future. I never accepted responsibility till I became a ranger, and in thinking it all over I have decided to stay with it, as the boys say, 'till the spring rains.'"
"I am very glad of that," she said.
"Yes; Dalton thinks I can qualify for the position of Supervisor, and Redfield may offer me the supervision of this forest. If he does, I will accept it--if you will go with me and share the small home which the Supervisor's pay provides. Will you go?"
In the light of his burning cabin, and in the shadow of the great peaks, Lee Virginia could not fail of a certain largeness and dignity of mood. She neither blushed nor stammered, as she responded: "I will go anywhere in the world with you."
He could not touch so much as the hem of her garment, but his eyes embraced her, as he said: "God bless you for the faith you seem to have in me!"
* * * * *
Redfield's voice interrupted with hearty clamor. "And now, Miss Virginia, you go back and rustle some breakfast for us all. Swenson, bring the horses in and harness my team; I'm going to take these women down the canon. And, Ross, you'd better saddle up as soon as you feel rested and ride across the divide, and go into camp in that little old cabin by the dam above my house. You'll have to be sequestered for a few days, I reckon, till we see how you're coming out. I'll telephone over to the Fork and have the place made ready for you, and I'll have the doctor go up there to meet you and put you straight. If you're going to be sick we'll want you where we can look after you. Isn't that so, Lee Virginia?"
"Indeed it is," replied the girl, earnestly.
"But I'm not going to be sick," retorted Cavanagh. "I refuse to be sick."
"Quite right," replied Redfield; "but all the same we want you where we can get at you, and where medical aid of the right sort is accessible. I'm going to fetch my bed over here and put you into it. You need rest."
Lee still lingered after Redfield left them. "Please do as Mr. Redfield tells you," she pleaded, "for I shall be very anxious till you get safely down the mountains. If that poor old man has any relatives they ought to be told how kind you have been. You could not have been kinder to one of your own people."
These words from her had a poignancy of meaning which made his reply difficult. His tone was designedly light as he retorted: "I would be a fraud if I stood here listening to your praise without saying--without confessing--how deadly weary I got of the whole business. It was simply that there was nothing else to do. I had to go on."
Her mind still dwelt on the tragic event. "I wish he could have had some kind of a service. It seems sort of barbarous to bury him without any one to say a prayer over him. But I suppose that was impossible. Surely some one ought to mark his grave, for some of his people may come and want to know where he lies."
He led her thoughts to pleasanter paths. "I am glad you are going with the Supervisor. You _are_ going, are you not?"
"Yes, for a few days, till I'm sure you're safe."
"I shall be tempted to pretend being sick just to keep you near me," he was saying, when Redfield returned, bringing his sleeping-couch. Unrolling this under a tree beside the creek, the Supervisor said: "Now, get into that."
Cavanagh resigned Lee with a smile. "Good-night," he said. "Oh, but it's good to remember that I shall see you to-morrow!"
With a happy glance and a low "Good-bye" she turned away.
Laying aside his blanket and his shoes, Cavanagh crept into the snug little camp-bed. "Ah," he breathed, with a delicious sense of relief, "I feel as if I could sleep a week!" And in an instant his eyes closed in slumber so profound that it was barren even of dreams.
When he awoke it was noon, and Swenson, the guard, was standing over him. "I'm sorry, but it's time to be moving," he said; "it's a long ride over there."
"What time is it?" inquired Cavanagh, with some bewilderment.
"Nearly noon. I've got some coffee ready. Want some?"
"Do I? Just watch me!" And he scrambled out of his bed with vigor, and stretched himself like a cat, exclaiming: "Wow! but it does feel good to know that I am out of jail!"
Going down to the stream, he splashed his face and neck in the clear cold water, and the brisk rubbing which followed seemed to clear his thought as well as sharpen his appetite.
"You seem all right so far," hazarded the guide.
"I am all right, and I'll be all right to-morrow, if that's what you mean," replied Cavanagh. "Well, now, pack up, and we'll pull out."
For a few moments after he mounted his horse Cavanagh looked about the place as if for the last time--now up at the hill, now down at the meadow, and last of all at the stream. "I hope you'll enjoy this station as much as I have, Swenson. It's one of the prettiest on the whole forest."
Together they zigzagged up the side of the hill to the north, and then with Cavanagh in the lead (followed by his pack-horse), they set up the long lateral moraine which led by a wide circle through the wooded park toward the pass. The weather was clear and cold. The wind bit, and Cavanagh, scantily clothed as he was, drew his robe close about his neck, saying: "I know now how it feels to be a blanket Indian. I must say I prefer an overcoat."
A little later the keen eyes of the guard, sweeping the mountain-side, were suddenly arrested. "There's a bunch of cowboys coming over the pass!" he called.
"I see them," responded Cavanagh. "Get out your glasses and tell me who they are."
Swenson unslung his field-glasses and studied the party attentively. "Looks like Van Horne's sorrel in the lead, and that bald-face bay just behind looks like the one Gregg rides. The other two I don't seem to know."
"Perhaps it's the sheriff after me for harboring Edwards," suggested Cavanagh.
But Swenson remained sober. He did not see the humor of the remark. "What are they doing on the forest, anyhow?" he asked.
Half an hour later the two parties came face to face on a little stretch of prairie in the midst of the wooded valley. There were four in the sheriff's party: Gregg, the deputy, and a big man who was a stranger to Cavanagh. Their horses were all tired, and the big civilian looked saddle-weary.
"Good evenin', gentlemen!" called the sheriff, in Southern fashion, as he drew near.
"Good evenin', Mr. Sheriff," Cavanagh civilly answered. "What's the meaning of this invasion of my forest?"
The sheriff, for answer, presented the big stranger. "Mr. Cavanagh, this is Mr. Simpson, the county attorney."
Cavanagh nodded to the attorney. "I've heard of Mr. Simpson," he said.
Simpson answered the question Ross had asked. "We were on our way to your station, Mr. Cavanagh, because we understand that this old man Dunn who shot himself had visited you before his death, giving you information concerning the killing of the Mexican sheep-herders. Is that true?"
"It is."
"When did he visit you?"
"Two days ago, or maybe three. I am a little mixed about it. You see, I have been pretty closely confined to my shack for a few days."
Gregg threw in a query. "How _is_ the old man?"
"He's all right; that is to say, he's dead. Died last night."
The sheriff looked at Simpson meaningly. "Well, I reckon that settles his score, judge. Even if he was implicated, he's out of it now."
"He couldn't have been implicated," declared the ranger, "for he was with me at the time the murder was committed. I left him high on the mountain in the Basque herder's camp. I can prove an alibi for him. Furthermore, he had no motive for such work."
"What did Dunn tell you?" demanded the sheriff. "What names did he give you?"
"Wait a moment," replied Cavanagh, who felt himself to be on his own territory, and not to be hurried. "There's a reward offered for the arrest of these men, is there not?"
"There is," replied the attorney.
"Well, before I make my statement I'd like to request that my share of the reward, if there is any coming to me, shall be paid over to the widow of the man who gave me the information. Poor chap, he sacrificed himself for the good of the State, and his family should be spared all the suffering possible."
"Quite right, Mr. Cavanagh. You may consider that request granted. Now for the facts."
"Before going into that, Mr. Attorney, I'd like to speak to you alone."
"Very well, sir," replied the attorney. Then waving his hand toward the others, he said: "Boys, just ride off a little piece, will you?"
When they were alone, Cavanagh remarked: "I don't think it wise to give these names to the wind, for if we do, there will be more fugitives."
"I see your point," Simpson agreed.
Thereupon, rapidly and concisely, the ranger reported what Dunn had said, and the attorney listened thoughtfully without speaking to the end; then he added: "That tallies with what we have got from Ballard."
"Was Ballard in it?" asked Cavanagh.
"Yes, we forced a confession from him."
"If he was in it, it was merely for the pay. He represented some one else."
"What makes you think that?"
"Because he was crazy to return to the show with which he used to perform, and desperately in need of money. Have you thought that Gregg might have had a hand in this affair? Dunn said he had, although he was not present at any of the meetings."
This seemed to surprise the attorney very much. "But he's a sheepman!" he exclaimed.
"I know he is; but he's also a silent partner in the Triangle cattle outfit, and is making us a lot of trouble. And, besides, he had it in for these dagoes, as he calls them, because they were sheeping territory which he wanted himself."
"I don't think he's any too good for it," responded Simpson, "but I doubt if he had any hand in the killing; he's too cunning and too cowardly. But I'll keep in mind what you have said, and if he is involved in any degree, he'll have to go down the road with the others--his money can't save him."
As they came back to the party Cavanagh thought he detected in Gregg's eyes a shifting light that was not there before, but he made no further attempt to impress his opinion upon the attorney or the sheriff. He only said: "Well, now, gentlemen, I must go on over the divide. I have an appointment with the doctor over there; also with a bed and a warmer suit of clothes than I have on. If I can be of any service to you when I am out of quarantine, I hope you will call upon me."
"It is possible that we may need you in order to locate some of the men whose names you have given me."
"Very good," replied Cavanagh. "If they come upon the forest anywhere, the Supervisor and I will find them for you."
So they parted, and Cavanagh and his guard resumed their slow journey across the range. _