XIICAVANAGH’S LAST VIGIL BEGINS
On his solitary ride upward and homeward the ranger searched his heart and found it bitter and disloyal. Love had interfered with duty, and pride had checked and defeated love. His path, no longer clear and definite, looped away aimlessly, lost in vague, obscure meanderings. His world had suddenly grown gray.
The magnificent plan of the Chief Forester (to which he had pledged such buoyant allegiance) was now a thing apart, a campaign in which he was to be merely an onlooker. It had once offered something congenial, helpful, inspiring; now it seemed fantastic and futile without the man who shaped it. “I am nearing forty,” he said; “Eleanor is right. I am wasting my time here in these hills; but what else can I do?”
He had no trade, no business, no special skill, save in the ways of the mountaineer, and to return to his ancestral home at the moment seemed a woful confession of failure.
But the cause of his deepest dismay and doubt was the revelation to himself of the essential lawlessness of his love, a force within him which now made his duties as a law-enforcer sadly ironic. After all, was not theman who presumed upon a maiden’s passion and weakness a greater malefactor than he who steals a pearl or strangles a man for his gold? To betray a soul, to poison a young life, is this not the unforgivable crime?
“Here am I, a son of the law, complaining of the lawlessness of the West—fighting it, conquering it—and yet at the same time I permit myself to descend to the level of Neill Ballard, to think as the barbaric man thinks.”
He burned hot with contempt of himself, and his teeth set hard in the resolution to put himself beyond the reach of temptation. “Furthermore, I am concealing a criminal, cloaking a convict, when I should be arresting him,” he pursued, referring back to Wetherford. “And why? Because of a girl’s romantic notion of her father, a notion which can be preserved only by keeping his secret, by aiding him to escape.” And even this motive, he was obliged to confess, had not all been on the highest plane. It was all a part of his almost involuntary campaign to win Virginia’s love. The impulse had been lawless, lawless as the old-time West, and the admission cut deep into his self-respect.
It was again dusk as he rode up to his own hitching-pole and slipped from the saddle.
Wetherford came out, indicating by his manner that he had recovered his confidence once more. “How did you find things in the valley?” he inquired, as they walked away toward the corral.
“Bad,” responded the ranger.
“In what way?”
“The chief has been dismissed and all the rascals are chuckling with glee. I’ve resigned from the service.”
Wetherford was aghast. “What for?”
“I will not serve under any other chief. The best thing for you to do is to go out when I do. I think by keeping on that uniform you can get to the train with me.”
“Did you see Lize and my girl?”
“No, I only remained in town a minute. It was too hot for me. I’m done with it. Wetherford, I’m going back to civilization. No more wild West for me.” The bitterness of his voice touched the older man’s heart, but he considered it merely a mood.
“Don’t lose your nerve; mebbe this ends the reign of terror.”
“Nothing will end the moral shiftlessness of this country but the death of the freebooter. You can’t put new wine into old bottles. These cattle-men, deep in their hearts, sympathize with the wiping-out of those sheep-herders. The cry for justice comes from the man whose ear is not being chewed—the man far off—and from the town-builder who knows the State is being hurt by such atrocities; but the ranchers over on Deer Creek will conceal the assassins—you know that. You’ve had experience with these free-grass warriors; you know what they are capable of. That job was done by men who hated the dagoes—hated ’em because they were rival claimants for the range. It’s nonsense to attempt to fasten it on men like Neill Ballard. The men who did that piece of work are well-known stock-owners.”
“I reckon that’s so.”
“Well, now, who’s going to convict them? I can’t do it. I’m going to pull out as soon as I can put my books in shape, and you’d better go too.”
They were standing at the gate of the corral, and the roar of the mountain stream enveloped them in a cloud of sound.
Wetherford spoke slowly: “I hate to lose my girl, now that I’ve seen her, but I guess you’re right; and Lize, poor old critter! It’s hell’s shame the way I’ve queered her life, and I’d give my right arm to be where I was twelve years ago; but with a price on my head and old age comin’ on, I don’t see myself ever again getting up to par. It’s a losing game for me now.”
There was resignation as well as despair in his voice and Cavanagh felt it, but he said, “There’s one other question that may come up for decision—if that Basque died of smallpox, you may possibly take it.”
“I’ve figured on that, but it will take a day or two to show on me. I don’t feel any ache in my bones yet. If I do come down, you keep away from me. You’ve got to live and take care of Virginia.”
“She should never have returned to this accursed country,” Cavanagh harshly replied, starting back toward the cabin.
The constable, smoking his pipe beside the fireplace, did not present an anxious face; on the contrary, he seemed plumply content as he replied to the ranger’s greeting. He represented very well the type of officer which these disorderly communities produce. Braveand tireless when working along the line of his prejudices, he could be most laxly inefficient when his duties cut across his own or his neighbor’s interests. Being a cattle-man by training, he was glad of the red herring which the Texas officer had trailed across the line of his pursuit.
This attitude still further inflamed Cavanagh’s indignant hate of the country. The theory which the deputy developed was transparent folly. “It was just a case of plain robbery,” he argued. “One of them dagoes had money, and Neill Ballard and that man Edwards just naturally follered him and killed the whole bunch and scooted—that’s my guess.”
Cavanagh’s outburst was prevented by the scratching and whining of a dog at his door. For a moment he wondered at this; his perturbed mind had dropped the memory of the loyal collie.
As he opened the door, the brute, more than half human in his gaze, looked beseechingly at his new master, as if to say, “I couldn’t help it—I was so lonely. And I love you.”
“You poor beastie,” the ranger called, pityingly, and the dog leaped up in a frenzy of joyous relief, putting his paws on his breast, then dropped to the ground, and, crouching low on his front paws, quivered and yawned with ecstasy of worship. It seemed that he could not express his passionate adoration, his relief, except by these grotesque contortions.
“Come in, Laddie!” Ross urged, but this the dog refused to do. “I am a creature of the open air,” heseemed to say. “My duties are of the outer world. I have no wish for a fireside—all I need is a master’s praise and a bit of bread.”
Cavanagh brought some food, and, putting it down outside the door, spoke to him, gently: “Good boy! Eat that and go back to your flock. I’ll come to see you in the morning.”
When Cavanagh, a few minutes later, went to the door the dog was gone, and, listening, the ranger could hear the faint, diminishing bleating of the sheep on the hillside above the corral. The four-footed warden was with his flock.
An hour later the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the bridge gave warning of a visitor, and as Cavanagh went to the door Gregg rode up, seeking particulars as to the death of the herder and the whereabouts of the sheep.
The ranger was not in a mood to invite the sheepman in, and, besides, he perceived the danger to which Wetherford was exposed. Therefore his answers were short. Gregg, on his part, did not appear anxious to enter.
“What happened to that old hobo I sent up?” he asked.
Cavanagh briefly retold his story, and at the end of it Gregg grunted. “You say you burned the tent and all the bedding?”
“Every thread of it. It wasn’t safe to leave it.”
“What ailed the man?”
“I don’t know, but it looked and smelled like smallpox.”
The deputy rose with a spring. “Smallpox! You didn’thandlethe cuss?”
Cavanagh did not spare him. “Somebody had to lend a hand. I couldn’t see him die there alone, and he had to be buried, so I did the job.”
Gregg recoiled a step or two, but the deputy stood staring, the implication of all this sinking deep. “Were you wearing the same clothes you’ve got on?”
“Yes, but I used a slicker while working around the body.”
“Good King!” The sweat broke out on the man’s face. “You ought to be arrested.”
Ross took a step toward him. “I’m at your service.”
“Keep off!” shouted the sheriff.
Ross smiled, then became very serious. “I took every precaution, Mr. Deputy; I destroyed everything that could possibly carry the disease. I burned every utensil, including the saddle, everything but the man’s horse and his dog!”
“The dog!” exclaimed the deputy, seized with another idea. “Not that dog you fed just now?”
“The very same,” replied Cavanagh.
“Don’t you know a dog’s sure to carry the poison in his hair? Why,he jumped on you! Why didn’t you shoot him?” he demanded, fiercely.
“Because he’s a faithful guardian, and, besides, he was with the sheep, and never so much as entered the tent.”
“Do youknowthat?”
“Not absolutely, but he seemed to be on shy terms with the herder, and I’m sure—”
The officer caught up his hat and coat and started for the door. “It’s me for the open air,” said he.
As the men withdrew Ross followed them, and, standing in his door, delivered his final volley. “If this State does not punish those fiends, every decent man should emigrate out of it, turning the land over to the wolves, the wildcats, and other beasts of prey.”
Gregg, as he retreated, called back: “That’s all right, Mr. Ranger, but you’d better keep to the hills for a few weeks. The settlers down below won’t enjoy having a man with smallpox chassayin’ around town. They might rope and tie you.”
Wetherford came out of his hiding-place with a grave face. “I wonder I didn’t think of that collie. They say a cat’s fur will carry disease germs like a sponge. Must be the same with a dog.”
“Well, it’s too late now,” replied Cavanagh. “But they’re right about our staying clear of town. They’ll quarantine us sure. All the same, I don’t believe the dog carried any germs of the disease.”
Wetherford, now that the danger of arrest was over, was disposed to be grimly humorous. “There’s no great loss without some small gain. I don’t think we’ll be troubled by any more visitors—not even by sheriffs or doctors. I reckon you and I are in for a couple of months of the quiet life—the kind we read about.”
Cavanagh, now that he was definitely out of the Forest Service, perceived the weight of every objection which his friends and relatives had made against his goinginto it. It was a lonely life, and must ever be so. It was all very well for a young unmarried man, who loved the woods and hills beyond all things else, and who could wait for advancement, but it was a sad place for one who desired a wife. The ranger’s place was on the trail and in the hills, and to bring a woman into these high silences, into these lone reaches of forest and fell, would be cruel. To bring children into them would be criminal.
All the next day, while Wetherford pottered about the cabin or the yard, Cavanagh toiled at his papers, resolved to leave everything in the perfect order which he loved. Whenever he looked round upon his belongings, each and all so redolent of the wilderness—he found them very dear. His chairs (which he had rived out of slabs), his guns, his robes, his saddles and their accoutrements—all meant much to him. “Some of them must go with me,” he said. “And when I am settled down in the old home I’ll have one room to myself which shall be so completely of the mountain America that when I am within it I can fancy myself back in the camp.”
He thought of South Africa as a possibility, and put it aside, knowing well that no other place could have the same indefinable charm that the Rocky Mountains possessed, for the reason that he had come to them at his most impressionable age. Then, too, the United States, for all their faults, seemed merely an extension of the English form of government.
Wetherford was also moving in deep thought, and at last put his perplexity into a question. “What am I to do? I’m beginning to feel queer. I reckon the chancesfor my having smallpox are purty fair. Maybe I’d better drop down to Sulphur and report to the authorities. I’ve got a day or two before the blossoms will begin to show on me.”
Cavanagh studied him closely. “Now don’t get to thinking you’ve got it. I don’t see how you could attach a germ. The high altitude and the winds up there ought to prevent infection. I’m not afraid for myself, but if you’re able, perhaps we’d better pull out to-morrow.”
Later in the day Wetherford expressed deeper dejection. “I don’t see anything ahead of me anyhow,” he confessed. “If I go back to the ‘pen’ I’ll die of lung trouble, and I don’t know how I’m going to earn a living in the city. Mebbe the best thing I could do would be to take the pox and go under. I’m afraid of big towns,” he continued. “I always was—even when I had money. Now that I am old and broke I daren’t go. No city for me.”
Cavanagh’s patience gave way. “But, man, you can’t stay here! I’m packing up to leave. Your only chance of getting out of the country is to go when I go, and in my company.” His voice was harsh and keen, and the old man felt its edge; but he made no reply, and this sad silence moved Cavanagh to repentance. His irritability warned him of something deeply changing in his own nature.
Approaching the brooding felon, he spoke gently and sadly. “I’m sorry for you, Wetherford, I sure am, but it’s up to you to get clear away so that Lee will never by any possible chance find out that you are alive. Shehas a romantic notion of you as a representative of the old-time West, and it would be a dreadful shock to her if she knew you as you are. It’s hard to leave her, I know, now that you’ve seen her, but that’s the manly thing to do—the only thing to do.”
“Oh, you’re right—of course you’re right. But I wish I could be of some use to her. I wish I could chore round for the rest of my life, where I could kind o’ keep watch over her. I’d be glad enough to play the scullion in her kitchen. But if you’re going to take her—”
“But I’m not,” protested Ross. “I’m going to leave her right here. I can’t take her.”
Wetherford looked at him with steady eyes, into which a keen light leaped. “Don’t you intend to marry her?”
Ross turned away. “No, I don’t—I mean it is impossible!”
“Why not? Don’t tell me you’re already married?” He said this with menacing tone.
“No, I’m not married, but—” He stopped without making his meaning plain. “I’m going to leave the country and—”
Wetherford caught him up. “I reckon I understand what you mean. You consider Lize and me undersirable parents—not just the kind you’d cut out of the herd of your own free will. Well, that’s all right, I don’t blame you so far as I’m concerned. But you can forget me, consider me a dead one. I’ll never bother her nor you.”
Cavanagh threw out an impatient hand. “It is impossible,” he protested. “It’s better for her and betterfor me that I should do so. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going back to my own people.”
Wetherford was thoroughly roused now. Some part of his old-time fire seemed to return to him. He rose from his chair and approached the ranger firmly. “I’ve seen you act like a man, Ross Cavanagh. You’ve been a good partner these last few days—a son couldn’t have treated me better—and I hate like hell to think ill of you; but my girl loves you—I could see that. I could see her lean to you, and I’ve got to know something else right now. You’re going to leave here—you’re going to throw her off. What I want to know is this: Do you leave her as good as you found her? Come, now, I want an answer, as one man to another.”
Cavanagh’s eyes met his with firm but sorrowful gaze. “In the sense in which you mean, I leave her as I found her.”
The old man’s open hand shot out toward his rescuer. “Forgive me, my lad,” he said, humbly; “for a minute I—doubted you.”
Ross took his hand, but slowly replied: “It will be hard for you to understand, when I tell you that I care a great deal for your daughter, but a man like me—an Englishman—cannot marry—or he ought not to marry—to himself alone. There are so many others to consider—his friends, his sisters—”
Wetherford dropped his hand. “I see!” His tone was despairing. “When I was young we married the girls we loved in defiance of man, God, or the cupboard; but you are not that kind. You may be right. I’mnothing but a debilitated old cow-puncher branded by the State—a man who threw away his chance—but I can tell you straight, I’ve learned that nothing but the love of a woman counts. Furthermore,” and here his fire flashed again, “I’d have killed you had you taken advantage of my girl!”
“Which would have been your duty,” declared Cavanagh, wearily.
And in the face of this baffling mood, which he felt but could not understand, the old man fell silent.
XIIICAVANAGH ASKS FOR HELP
Lee Virginia waited with increasing impatience for Ross Cavanagh’s return, expecting each noon to see him appear at the door; but when three days passed without word or sign from him, her uneasiness deepened into alarm. The whole town was profoundly excited over the murder, that she knew, and she began to fear that some of the ranger’s enemies had worked their evil will upon him.
With this vague fear in her heart, she went forth into the street to inquire. One of the first men she met was Sifton, who was sitting, as usual, outside the livery-barn door, smiling, inefficient, content. Of him she asked: “Have you seen Mr. Cavanagh?”
“Yes,” he answered, “I saw him yesterday, just after dinner, down at the post-office. He was writing a letter at the desk. Almost immediately afterward he mounted and rode away. He was much cut up over his chief’s dismissal.”
“Why has he not written to me,” she asked herself, “and why should he have gone away without a word of greeting, explanation, or good-bye? It would have taken but a moment’s time to call at the door.”
The more she dwelt upon this neglect the more significant it became. After the tender look in his eyes, after the ardent clasp of his hand, the thought that he could be so indifferent was at once a source of pain and self-reproach.
With childish frankness she went to Lize and told her what she had learned, her eyes dim with hot tears. “Ross came to town, and went away back to his cabin without coming to see me.”
“Are you sure he’s been here?”
“Yes. Mr. Sifton saw him go. He came in, got some letters at the post-office, and then rode away—” Her voice broke as her disappointment and grief overcame her.
Lize struggled to a sitting position. “There’s some mistake about this. Ross Cavanagh never was the whifflin’ kind of man. You’ve got to remember he’s on duty. Probably the letter was some order that carried him right back to his work.”
“But if he had really cared, he could have ridden by to say just a word; but he didn’t, he went away without a sign, after promising to come.” She buried her face in the coverlet of her mother’s bed, and wept in childish grief and despair.
Lize was forced to acknowledge that the ranger’s action was inexplicable, but she did her best to make light of it. “He may have hurried to town on some errand, and hadn’t a moment to spare. These are exciting days for him, remember. He’ll be in to-morrow sure.”
With a faint hope of this, the girl rose and went about her daily tasks; but the day passed, and another, without word or sign of the recreant lover, and each day brought a deeper sense of loss, but her pride would not permit her to show her grief.
Young Gregg, without knowing in the least the cause of her troubled face, took this occasion to offer comfort. His manner toward her had changed since she no longer had a part in the management of the eating-house, and for that reason she did not repulse him as sharply as she had been wont to do. He really bore Cavanagh no ill-will, and was, indeed, shrewd enough to understand that Lee admired the ranger, and that his own courtship was rather hopeless; nevertheless, he persisted, his respect for her growing as he found her steadfast in her refusal to permit any familiarity.
“See here, Miss Virginia,” he cried, as she was passing him in the hall, “I can see you’re worried about Lize (I mean your mother), and if I can be of any use I hope you’ll call on me.” As she thanked him without enthusiasm, he added: “How is she to-night?”
“I think she’s better.”
“Can I see her?”
His tone was so earnest that the girl was moved to say: “I’ll ask her.”
“I wish you would; I want to say something to her.”
Lize’s voice reached where they stood. “Come in, Joe, the door’s open.”
He accepted her invitation rather awkwardly, but his face was impassive as he looked down upon her.
“Well, how about it?” she asked. “What’s doing in the town?”
“Not much of anything—except talk. The whole country is buzzing over this dismissal of the Chief Forester.”
“They’d better be doing something about that murder.”
“They are; they’re going up there in streams to see where the work was done. The coroner’s inquest was held yesterday.” He grinned. “‘Parties came to their death by persons unknown.’”
Lize scowled. “It’s a wonder they don’t charge it up to Ross Cavanagh or some other ranger.”
“That would be a little too raw, even for this country. They’re all feeling gay over this change in the forestry head; but see here, don’t you want to get out for a ride? I’ve got my new machine out here; it rides like silk.”
“I reckon a hearse is about my kind,” she replied, darkly. “If you could take me up to Cavanagh’s cabin, I’d go,” she added. “I want to see him.”
“I can take you part way,” he instantly declared. “But you’d have to ride a horse the last ten miles.”
“Couldn’t do it, Joe,” she sighed. “These last few days I’ve been about as boneless as an eel. Funny the way a fellow keeps going when he’s got something to do that has to be done. I’ll tell you what, if you want to take me and Lee up to Sulphur, I’ll go ye.”
“Sure thing. What day?”
“Not for a day or two. I’m not quite up to it just now; but by Saturday I’ll be saddle-wise again.”
Joe turned joyously to Lee. “That will be great! Won’t you come out for a spin this minute?”
For a moment Lee was tempted. Anything to get away from this horrible little den and the people who infested it was her feeling, but she distrusted Gregg, and she knew that every eye in the town would be upon her if she went, and, besides, Ross might return while she was away. “No, not to-day,” she replied, finally; but her voice was gentler than it had ever been to him.
The young fellow was moved to explain his position to Lize. “You don’t think much of me, and I don’t blame you. I haven’t been much use so far, but I’m going to reform. If I had a girl like Lee Virginia to live up to, I’d make a great citizen. I don’t lay my arrest up against Cavanagh. I’m ready to pass that by. And as for this other business—this free-range war in which the old man is mixed up—I want you to know that I’m against it. Dad knows his day is short; that’s what makes him so hot. But he’s a bluff—just a fussy old bluff. He knows he has no more right to the Government grass than anybody else, but he’s going to get ahead of the cattle-men if he can.”
“Does he know who burned them sheep-herders?”
“Of course he knows, but ain’t going to say so. You see, that old Basque who was killed was a monopolist, too. He went after that grass without asking anybody’s leave; moreover, he belonged to that Mexican-Dago outfit that everybody hates. The old man isn’t crying over that job; it’s money in his pocket. All the same it’s too good a chance to put the hooks into the cattle-men,hence his offering a reward, and it looks as if something would really be done this time. They say Neill Ballard was mixed up in it, and that old guy that showed me the sheep, but I don’t take much stock in that. Whoever did it was paid by the cattle-men, sure thing.” The young fellow’s tone and bearing made a favorable impression upon Lize. She had never seen this side of him, for the reason that he had hitherto treated her as a bartender. She was acute enough to understand that her social status had changed along with her release from the cash-register, and she was slightly more reconciled, although she could not see her way to providing a living for herself and Lee. For all these reasons she was unwontedly civil to Joe, and sent him away highly elated with the success of his interview.
“I’m going to let him take us up to Sulphur,” she said to Lee. “I want to go to town.”
Lee was silent, but a keen pang ran through her heart, for she perceived in this remark by her mother a tacit acknowledgment of Ross Cavanagh’s desertion of them both. His invitation to them to come and camp with him was only a polite momentary impulse. “I’m ready to go,” she announced, at last. “I’m tired of this place. Let us go to-morrow.”
On the following morning, while they were busy packing for this journey, Redfield rolled up to the door in company with a young man in the uniform of a forester.
“Go ask Reddy to come in,” commanded Lize. “I want to see him.”
Redfield met the girl at the door and presented his companionas “Mr. Dalton, District Forester.” Dalton was a tall young fellow with a marked Southern accent. “Is Cavanagh, the ranger, in town?” he asked.
“No,” Lee replied, with effort; “he was here a few days ago, but he’s gone back to the forest.”
Redfield studied the girl with keen gaze, perceiving a passionate restraint in her face.
“How is your mother?” he asked, politely.
Lee smiled faintly. “She’s able to sit up. Won’t you come in and see her?”
“With pleasure,” assented Redfield, “but I want to see you alone. I have something to say to you.” He turned to his superior. “Just go into the café, Dalton. I’ll see you in a moment.”
Lee Virginia, hitherto ashamed of the house, the furniture, the bed—everything—led the way without a word of apology. It was all detached now, something about to be left behind, like a bad garment borrowed in a time of stress. Nothing mattered since Ross did not return.
Lize, looking unwontedly refined and gentle, was sitting in a big rocking-chair with her feet on a stool, her eyes fixed on the mountains, which showed through the open window. All the morning a sense of profound change, of something passing, had oppressed her. Now that she was about to leave the valley, its charm appealed to her. She was tearing up a multitude of tiny roots of whose existence she had hitherto remained unaware. “I belong here,” she acknowledged, silently. “I’d be homesick anywhere else on God’s earth. It’s rough andfly-bit, and all that, but so am I. I wouldn’t fit in anywhere that Lee belonged.”
She acknowledged an especial liking for Redfield, and she had penetration enough, worldly wisdom enough, to know that Lee belonged more to his world than to her own, and that his guidance and friendship were worth more, much more, than that of all the rest of the country, her own included. Therefore, she said: “I’m mighty glad to see you, Reddy. Sit down. You’ve got to hear my little spiel this time.”
Redfield, perched on the edge of a tawdry chair, looked about (like the charity visitor in a slum kitchen) without intending to express disgust; but it was a dismal room in which to be sick, and he pitied the woman the more profoundly as he remembered her in the days when “all out-doors” was none too wide for her.
Lize began, abruptly: “I’m down, but not out; in fact, I was coming up to see you this afternoon. Lee and I are just about pulling out for good.”
“Indeed! Why not go back with me?”
“You can take the girl back if you want to, but now that I’m getting my chance at you I may not go.”
Redfield’s tone was entirely cordial as he turned to Lee. “I came hoping to carry you away. Will you come?”
“I’m afraid I can’t unless mother goes,” she replied, sadly.
Lize waved an imperative hand. “Fade away, child. I want to talk with Mr. Redfield alone. Go, see!”
Thus dismissed, Lee went back to the restaurant, whereshe found the Forester just sitting down to his luncheon. “Mr. Redfield will be out in a few minutes,” she explained.
“Won’t you join me?” he asked, in the frank accent of one to whom women are comrades. “The Supervisor has been telling me about you.”
She took a seat facing him, feeling something refined in his long, smoothly shaven, boyish face. He seemed very young to be District Forester, and his eyes were a soft brown with small wrinkles of laughter playing round their corners.
He began at once on the subject of his visit. “Redfield tells me you are a friend of Mr. Cavanagh’s; did you know that he had resigned?”
She faced him with startled eyes. “No, indeed. Has he done so?”
“Yes, the Supervisor got a letter yesterday enclosing his resignation, and asking to be relieved at once. And when I heard of it I asked the Supervisor to bring me down to see him; he’s too good a man to lose.”
“Why did he resign?”
“He seemed very bitter over the chief’s dismissal; but I hope to persuade him to stay in the service; he’s too valuable a man to lose just now when the war is so hot. I realize that his salary is too small; but there are other places for him. Perhaps when he knows that I have a special note to him from the chief he will reconsider. He’s quite capable of the Supervisor’s position, and Mr. Redfield is willing to resign in his favor. I’m telling you all this because Mr. Redfield has toldme of your interest in Mr. Cavanagh—or rather his interest in you.”
Sam Gregg, entering the door at this moment, came directly to the Forester’s table. He was followed by the sheriff, a bearded old man with a soiled collar and a dim eye.
Gregg growled out, “You’d better keep your man Cavanagh in the hills, Mr. Forester, or somebody will take a pot-shot at him.”
“Why, what’s new?”
“His assistant is down with smallpox.”
“Smallpox!” exclaimed Dalton.
Every jaw was fixed and every eye turned upon the speaker.
“Smallpox!” gasped Lee.
Gregg resumed, enjoying the sensation he was creating. “Yes, that Basque herder of mine—the one up near Black Tooth—sent word he was sick, so I hunted up an old tramp by the name of Edwards to take his place. Edwards found the dago dying of pox, and skipped out over the range, leaving him to die alone. Cavanagh went up and found the dago dead, and took care of him—result is, he’s full of germs, and has brought his apprentice down with it, and both of ’em must be quarantined right where they are.”
“Good heavens, man!” exclaimed Dalton. “This is serious business. Are you sure it’s smallpox?”
“One of my men came from there last night. I was there myself on Monday, so was the deputy. The sheriff missed Tom this morning, but I reached him by’phone, and Cavanagh admitted to us that the Basque died of smallpox, and that he buried him with his own hands.”
The sheriff spoke up. “The criminal part of it is this, Mr. Dalton: Cavanagh didn’t report the case when he came down here, just went about leaving a trail of poison. Why didn’t he report it? He should be arrested.”
“Wait a moment,” said Dalton. “Perhaps it wasn’t pox, perhaps it was only mountain-fever. Cavanagh is not the kind of man to involve others in a pestilence. I reckon he knew it was nothing but a fever, and, not wishing to alarm his friends, he just slid into town and out again.”
A flash of light, of heat, of joy went through Lee’s heart as she listened to Dalton’s defence of Cavanagh. “That was the reason why he rode away,” she thought. “He was afraid of bringing harm to us.” And this conviction lighted her face with a smile, even while the Forester continued his supposition by saying, “Of course, proper precautions should be taken, and as we are going up there, the Supervisor and I will see that a quarantine is established if we find it necessary.”
Gregg was not satisfied: “Cavanagh admitted to the deputy and to me that he believed the case to be smallpox, and said that he had destroyed the camp and everything connected with it except the horse and the dog, and yet he comes down here infectin’ everybody he meets.” He turned to Lee. “You’d better burn the bed he slept on. He’s left a trail of germs wherever he went. I say theman is criminally liable, and should be jailed if he lives to get back to town.”
Lee’s mind was off now on another tangent. “Suppose it is true?” she asked herself. “Suppose he has fallen sick away up there, miles and miles from any nurse or doctor—”
“There’s something queer about the whole business,” pursued Gregg. “For instance, who is this assistant he’s got? Johnson said there was an old man in ranger uniform potterin’ round. Why didn’t he send word by him? Why did he let me come to the door? He might have involvedmein the disease. I tell you, if you don’t take care of him the people of the county will.”
The Forester looked grave. “If heknewit was pox and failed to report it he certainly did wrong; but you say he took care of this poor shepherd—nursed him till he died, and buried him, taking all precautions—you can’t complain of that, can you? That’s the act of a good ranger and a brave man.Youwouldn’t have done it!” he ended, addressing Gregg. “Sickness up there two full miles above sea-level is quite a different proposition from sickness in Sulphur City or the Fork. I shall not condemn Mr. Cavanagh till I hear his side of the story.”
Lee turned a grateful glance upon him. “You must be right. I don’t believe Mr. Cavanagh would deceive any one.”
“Well, we’ll soon know the truth,” said Dalton, “for I’m going up there. If the ranger has been exposed, he must not be left alone.”
“He ain’t alone,” declared the sheriff. “Tom ’phoned me that he had an assistant.”
“Swenson, I suppose,” said Redfield, who entered at this moment. “Swenson is his assistant.”
“I didn’t see him myself,” Gregg continued, “but I understood the deputy to say that he was an old man.”
“Swenson is a young man,” corrected Redfield.
The sheriff insisted. “Tom said it was an old man—a stranger to him—tall, smooth-shaven, not very strong, he said—’peared to be a cook. He had helped nurse the dago, so Tom said.”
“That’s very curious,” mused Redfield. “There isn’t an old man in the service of this forest. There’s a mistake somewhere.”
“Well,” concluded Gregg, “that’s what he said. I thought at first it might be that old hobo Edwards, but this feller being in uniform and smooth-shaven—” His face changed, his voice deepened. “Say, by the Lord! I believe it was Edwards, and, furthermore, Edwards is the convict that Texas marshal was after the other day, and this man Cavanagh—your prize ranger—is harborin’ him.”
“What nonsense!” exclaimed Redfield.
The sheriff banged his hand upon the table. “That’s the whole mystery. I see it all now. He’s up there concealing this man. He’s given out this smallpox scare just to keep the officers away from him. Now you’ve got it!”
The thunder in his voice drew toward him all those who remained in the dining-room, and Lee found herselfringed about by a dozen excited men. But she did not flinch; she was too deeply concerned over Cavanagh’s fate to be afraid, and, besides, Redfield and the Forester were beside her.
The Supervisor was staggered by Gregg’s accusation, and by certain confirmatory facts in his own possession, but he defended Cavanagh bravely. “You’re crazy,” he replied. “Why should Ross do such a foolish thing? What is his motive? What interest would he have in this man Edwards, whom you call a tramp? He can’t be a relative and certainly not a friend of Cavanagh’s, for you say he is a convict. Come, now, your hatred of Cavanagh has gone too far.”
Gregg was somewhat cooled by this dash of reason, but replied: “I don’t know what relation he is, but these are facts. He’s concealing an escaped convict, and he knows it.”
Dalton put in a quiet word. “What is the use of shouting a judgment against a man like Cavanagh before you know the facts? He’s one of the best and ablest rangers on this forest. I don’t know why he has resigned, but I’m sure—”
“Has he resigned?” asked Gregg, eagerly.
“He has.”
“A damn good job for him. I was about to circulate a petition to have him removed.”
“If all the stockmen in the valley had signed a petition against him, it wouldn’t have done any good,” replied Dalton. “We know a good man when we see him. I’m here to offer him promotion, not to punish him.”
Lee, looking about at the faces of these men, and seeing disappointment in their faces, lost the keen sting of her own humiliation. “In the midst of such a fight as this, how can he give time or thought to me?” Painful as the admission was, she was forced to admit that she was a very humble factor in a very large campaign. “But suppose he falls ill!” Her face grew white and set, and her lips bitter. “That would be the final, tragic touch,” she thought, “to have him come down of a plague from nursing one of Sam Gregg’s sheep-herders.” Aloud she said: “His resignation comes just in time, doesn’t it? He can now be sick without loss to the service.”
Dalton answered her. “The Supervisor has not accepted his resignation. On the contrary, I shall offer him a higher position. His career as a forester is only beginning. He would be foolish to give up the work now, when the avenues of promotion are just opening. I can offer him very soon the supervision of a forest.”
As they talked Lee felt herself sinking the while her lover rose. It was all true. The Forester was right. Ross was capable of any work they might demand of him. He was too skilled, too intelligent, too manly, to remain in the forest, heroic as its duties seemed.
Upon this discussion, Lize, hobbling painfully, appeared. With a cry of surprise, Lee rose to meet her.
“Mother, you must not do this!”
She waved her away. “I’m all right,” she said, “barring the big marbles in my slippers.” Then she turned to Dalton. “Now what’s it all about? Is it true that Ross is down?”
“No. So far as we know, he is well.”
“Well, I’m going to find out. I don’t intend to set here and have him up there without a cook or a nurse.”
At this moment a tall, fair young fellow, dressed in a ranger’s uniform, entered the room, and made his way directly to the spot where Lee, her mother, and Redfield were standing. “Mr. Supervisor, Cavanagh has sent me to tell you that he needs a doctor. He’s got a sick man up at The Station, and he’s afraid it’s a case of smallpox.” He turned to Lee. “He told me to tell you that he would have written, only he was afraid to even send a letter out.”
“What does he need?” asked Redfield.
“He needs medicine and food, a doctor, and he ought to have a nurse.”
“That’s my job,” said Lize.
“Nonsense!” said Redfield. “You’re not fit to ride a mile. I won’t hear of your going.”
“You wait and see. I’m goin’, and you can’t stop me.”
“Who is the man with him?” asked the Forester.
“I don’t know. An old herder, he said. He said he could take care of him all right for the present, but that if he were taken down himself—”
Lee’s mounting emotion broke from her in a little cry. “Oh, Mr. Redfield, please let me go too! I want to help—I must help!”
Redfield said: “I’ll telephone to Sulphur City and ask Brooks to get a nurse, and come down as soon as possible. Meanwhile I’ll go out to see what the conditions are.”
“I’m going too, I tell you,” announced Lize. “I’vehad the cussed disease, and I’m not afraid of it. We had three sieges of it in my family. You get me up there, and I’ll do the rest.”
“But you are ill?”
“I was, but I’m not now.” Her voice was firmer than it had been for days. “All I needed was something to do. Ross Cavanagh has been like a son to me for two years; he’s the one man in this country I’d turn my hand over for—barrin’ yourself, Reddy—and it’s my job to see him through this pinch.”
In spite of all opposition, she had her way. Returning to her room to get such clothing as she needed for her stay in the hills, she waited for Redfield to send a carriage to her. “I can’t ride a horse no more,” she sorrowfully admitted.
Lee’s secret was no secret to any one there. Her wide eyes and heaving breast testified to the profound stir in her heart. She was in an anguish of fear lest Ross should already be in the grip of his loathsome enemy. That it had come to him by way of a brave and noble act only made the situation the more tragic.