The Old Sheep-herder





The ranger was awakened in the first faint dawn by the passing of the

girl's light feet as she went across the hall to her mother's room, and a

moment later he heard the low murmur of her voice. Throwing off his

blankets and making such scant toilet as he needed, he stepped into the

hall and waited for her to return.



Soon she came toward him, a smile of confidence and pleasure on her lips.



"How is she?" he asked.



"Quite comfortable."



"And you?" His voice was very tender.



"I am a little tired," she acknowledged. "I didn't sleep very well."



"You didn't sleep at all," he declared, regretfully.



"Oh yes, I did," she replied, brightly.



She appeared a little pale but by no means worn. Indeed, her face had

taken on new charm with its confession of feminine weakness, its

expression of trust in him.



These two ardent souls confronted each other in absorbed silence with

keener perception, with new daring, with new intimacy, till he recalled

himself with effort. "You must let me help you if there's anything I can

do. Remember, I'm your big brother."



"I remember," she answered, smilingly, "and I'm going out to see what my

big brother is to have for breakfast."



Cavanagh found the street empty, silent, and utterly commonplace. And as

he walked past Halsey's saloon the tumult of the night seemed born of a

vision in disordered sleep--and yet it had happened! From these reeking

little dens a score of foul tatterdemalions had issued, charged with

malicious fury. Each of these shacks seemed the lurking-place of a species

of malevolent insect whose sting was out for every comer.



The rotting sidewalks, the tiny shops, with their dusty fly-specked

windows, the groggeries, from whose open doors a noisome vapor streamed,

poisoning the morning air--all these typed the old-time West as Redfield

and his farmstead typed the new.



"Once I would have laughed at this town," he said; "but now it is

disgusting--something to be wiped out as one expunges an obscene mark upon

a public wall."



As for the attack upon himself, terrifying as it had seemed to Lee

Virginia, it was in reality only another lively episode in the history of

the town, another disagreeable duty in the life of a ranger. It was all a

part of his job.



He went forth to his duties with a deepened conviction of the essential

lawlessness of the State and of America in general; for this spirit of mob

law was to be found in some form throughout the land. He was disgusted,

but not beaten. His resolution to carry out the terms of his contract with

the Government remained unshaken.



He carried with him, also, a final disturbing glimpse of Eliza

Wetherford's girl that did indeed threaten his peace of mind. There was an

involuntary appeal, a wistful depth, to her glance which awakened in him

an indignant pity, and also blew into flame something not so

creditable--something which smoldered beneath his conscious will. He

perceived in her a spirit of yielding which was difficult to resist. He

understood, much more clearly than at his first meeting with her, how

impossible it was for her to remain in this country (where law was a joke

and women a ribald jest) without being corrupted. She had not escaped her

heritage of passion, and her glances, innocent as they were, roused, even

in him, something lawless.



As he climbed the long hill he grappled deeply with this new and

inexplicable weakness. He had always been a decent fellow as respects

women, and had maintained the same regard for the moral code that he

instinctively bore toward the laws of his adopted country. He could not,

therefore, regard this girl (low as her parentage seemed) in the light of

license; for (he thought) whatever of evil may have been planted deep in

her nature by her ill-assorted father and mother, she is at the moment

sweet and fine, and the man who would awaken her other self should be

accursed.



In this mood, too, he acknowledged the loneliness of his life for the

first time, and rode his silent way up the trail like one in a dream. He

went over his life story in detail, wondering if he had not made a mistake

in leaving England, in taking out his American citizenship. He considered

again, very seriously, the question of going back to live on the estate of

his mother, and once more decided that its revenue was too small. To

return to it meant an acceptance of the restricted life of an English

farmer, and, worst of all, an acquiescence in the social despotism which

he had come to feel and to hate.



The English empire to him was falling apart. Its supremacy was already

threatened by Germany, whereas the future of the States appealed to his

imagination. Here the problems of popular government and of industry were

to be worked out on the grandest scale. The West inspired him. "Some day

each of these great ranges will be a national forest, and each of these

canons will contain its lake, its reservoir." There was something fine in

this vision of man's conquest of nature. "Surely in this development there

is a place for me," he said.



Start at any place he pleased, his mind circled and came back to Lee

Virginia. He reproached himself for not having remained one more day to

help her. She was in the midst of a most bleak and difficult pass, and

whether she came through or not depended on something not derived from

either her father or her mother. The test of her character was being

made.



"Happily the father is dead, and his exploits fading to a dim legend; but

the mother may live for years to dishearten and corrupt. It is foolish of

the girl to stay, and yet to have her go would leave me and the whole

valley poorer."



He perceived in her a symbol. "She is the new West just as the mother

represents the old, and the law of inheritance holds in her as it holds in

the State. She is a mixture of good and evil, of liberty and license. She

must still draw forward, for a time, the dead weight of her past, just as

the West must bear with and gradually slough off its violent moods."



His pony plodded slowly, and the afternoon was half-spent before he came

in sight of the long, low log-cabin which was the only home he possessed

in all America. For the first time since he built it, the station seemed

lonely and disheartening. "Would any woman, for love of me, come to such a

hearthstone?" he asked himself. "And if she consented to do so, could I be

so selfish as to exact such sacrifice? No, the forest ranger in these

attitudes must be young and heart-free; otherwise his life would be

miserably solitary."



He unsaddled his horse and went about his duties with a leaden pall over

his spirit, a fierce turmoil in his brain. He was no longer single-hearted

in his allegiance to the forest. He could not banish that appealing

girlish face, that trusting gaze. Lee Virginia needed him as he needed

her; and yet--and yet--the people's lands demanded his care, his social

prejudices forbade his marriage.



He was just dishing out his rude supper when the feet of a horse on the

log bridge announced a visitor.



With a feeling of pleasure as well as relief, he rose to greet the

stranger. "Any visitor is welcome this night," he said.



The horseman proved to be his former prisoner, the old man Edwards, who

slipped from his saddle with the never-failing grace of the cow-man, and

came slowly toward the cabin. He smiled wearily as he said: "I'm on your

trail, Mr. Ranger, but I bear no malice. You were doing your duty. Can you

tell me how far it is to Ambro's camp?"



There was something forlorn in the man's attitude, and Cavanagh's heart

softened. "Turn your horse into the corral and come to supper," he

commanded, with Western bluntness; "we'll talk about all that later."



Edwards accepted his hospitality without hesitation, and when he had

disposed of his mount and made himself ready for the meal, he came in and

took a seat at the table in silence, while the ranger served him and

waited for his explanation.



"I'm going up to take Ambro's place," he began, after a few minutes of

silent eating. "Know where his camp is?"



"I do," replied Ross, to whom the stranger now appeared in pathetic guise.

"Any man of his age consenting to herd sheep is surely hard hit by the

rough hand of the world," he reasoned, and the closer he studied his

visitor the plainlier he felt his ungoverned past. His chest was hollow,

his eyes unnaturally large, and his hands thin, but he still displayed

faint lines of the beauty and power he had once gloried in. His clothing

was worn and poor, and Ross said: "You'll need plenty of bedding up

there."



"Is it high?"



"About eleven thousand feet."



"Jehosaphat! How will I stand that kind of air? Still, it may be it's what

I need. I've been living down in the low country for ten years, and I'm a

little bit hide-bound."



"Lung trouble?"



"Oh no; old age, I reckon."



"You're not old--not more than fifty-five."



"I'm no colt," he admitted; "and, besides, I've lived pretty swift."



In this was the hint of a confession, but Cavanagh did not care to have

him proceed further in that line. "I suppose Gregg paid your fine?"



"Yes."



"In any other town in the State you'd have gone down the line."



He roused himself. "See here, Mr. Ranger, you've no warrant to believe me,

but I told you the God's truth. Young Gregg got me to ride into the range

and show him the trail. I didn't intend to get mixed up with a game

warden. I've had all the confinement I need."



"Well, it's a closed incident now," interposed Ross; "we won't reopen it.

Make yourself at home."



The stranger, hungry as he was, ate with unexpected gentility, and, as the

hot coffee sent its cheerful glow through his body, he asked, with

livening interest, a good many questions about the ranger and the Forest

Service. "You fellers have to be all-round men. The cowboys think you have

a snap, but I guess you earn your money."



"A man that builds trail, lays bridges, burns brush, fights fire, rides

the round-up, and covers seventy-five miles of trail every week on eighty

dollars per month, and feeds himself and his horses, isn't what I would

call enjoying a soft snap."



"What do you do it for?"



"God knows! I've been asking myself that question all day to-day."



"This playin' game warden has some outs, too. That was a wild crowd last

night. The town is the same old hell-hole it was when I knew it years ago.

Fine girl of Lize Wetherford's. She blocked me all right." He smiled

wanly. "I certainly was on my way to the green timber when she put the

bars up."



Ross made no comment, and the other went on, in a tone of reminiscent

sadness. "Lize has changed terribly. I used to know her when she was a

girl. Judas Priest! but she could ride and shoot in those days!" His eyes

kindled with the memory of her. "She could back a horse to beat any woman

that ever crossed the range, but I didn't expect to see her have such a

skein of silk as that girl. She sure looks the queen to me."



Cavanagh did not greatly relish this line of conversation, but the pause

enabled him to say: "Miss Wetherford is not much Western; she got her

training in the East. She's been with an aunt ever since her father's

death."



"He's dead, is he?"



"So far as anybody knows, he is."



"Well, he's no loss. I knew him, too. He was all kinds of a fool; let a

few slick ones seduce him with fizz-water and oysters on the

half-shell--that's the kind of a weak sister he was. He got on the wrong

side of the rustler line-up--you know all about that, I reckon? Fierce old

days, those. We didn't know anything about forest rangers or game wardens

in them days."



The stranger's tone was now that of a man quite certain of himself. He had

become less furtive under the influence of the food and fire.



Ross defended Wetherford for Virginia's sake. "He wasn't altogether to

blame, as I see it. He was the Western type in full flower, that's all. He

had to go like the Indian and the buffalo. And these hobos like Ballard

and Gregg will go next."



Edwards sank back into his chair. "I reckon that's right," he agreed, and

made offer to help clear away the supper dishes.



"No, you're tired," replied Ross; "rest and smoke. I'll soon be done."



The poacher each moment seemed less of the hardened criminal, and more and

more of the man prematurely aged by sickness and dissipation, and

gradually the ranger lost all feeling of resentment.



As he sat down beside the fire, Edwards said: "Them Wetherford women think

a whole lot of you. 'Pears like they'd both fight for you. Are you sweet

on the girl?"



"Now, see here, old man," Ross retorted, sharply, "you want to do a lot of

thinking before you comment on Miss Wetherford. I won't stand for any

nasty clack."



Edwards meekly answered: "I wasn't going to say anything out of the way. I

was fixin' for to praise her."



"All the same, I don't intend to discuss her with you," was Cavanagh's

curt answer.



The herder fell back into silence while the ranger prepared his bunk for

the night. The fact that he transferred some of the blankets from his own

bed to that of his visitor did not escape Edwards's keen eyes, and with

grateful intent he said:



"I can give you a tip, Mr. Ranger," said he, breaking out of a silence.

"The triangle outfit is holding more cattle on the forest than their

permits call for."



"How do you know?"



"I heard one of the boys braggin' about it."



"Much obliged," responded Ross. "I'll look into it."



Edwards went on: "Furthermore, they're fixing for another sheep-kill over

there, too; all the sheepmen are armed. That's why I left the country. I

don't want to run any more chances of being shot up. I've had enough of

trouble; I can't afford to be hobnobbing with judges and juries."



"When does your parole end?" asked Ross.



Edwards forced a grin. "I was handing you one when I said that," he

declared, weakly. "I was workin' up sympathy. I'm not out on parole; I'm

just a broken-down old cow-puncher herdin' sheep in order to keep clear of

the liquor belt."



This seemed reasonable, and the ranger remarked, by way of dropping the

subject: "I've nothing to say further than this--obey the rules of the

forest, and you won't get into any further trouble with me. And as for

being shot up by the cow-men, you'll not be disturbed on any national

forest. There never has been a single herder shot nor a sheep destroyed on

this forest."



"I'm mighty glad to hear that," replied Edwards, with sincere relief.

"I've had my share of shooting up and shooting down. All I ask now is

quiet and the society of sheep. I take a kind of pleasure in protecting

the fool brutes. It's about all I'm good for."



He did, indeed, look like a man in the final year of life as he spoke.

"Better turn in," he said, in kindlier tone; "I'm an early riser."



The old fellow rose stiffly, and, laying aside his boots and trousers,

rolled into his bunk and was asleep in three minutes.



Cavanagh himself was very tired, and went to bed soon after, to sleep

dreamlessly till daylight. He sprang from his bed, and after a plunge in

the stream set about breakfast; while Edwards rose from his bunk, groaning

and sighing, and went forth to wrangle the horses, rubbing his hands and

shivering as he met the keen edge of the mountain wind. When he returned,

breakfast was ready, and again he expressed his gratitude.



"Haven't you any slicker?" asked Cavanagh. "It looks like rain."



"No, I'm run down pretty low," he replied. "The truth is, Mr. Ranger, I

blew in all my wages at roulette last week."



Ross brought out a canvas coat, well worn but serviceable. "Take this

along with you. It's likely to storm before we reach the sheep-camp. And

you don't look very strong. You must take care of yourself."



Edwards was visibly moved by this kindness. "Sure you can spare it?"



"Certain sure; I've another," returned the ranger, curtly.



It was hardly more than sunrise as they mounted their ponies and started

on their trail, which led sharply upward after they left the canon. The

wind was strong and stinging cold. Over the high peaks the gray-black

vapor was rushing, and farther away a huge dome of cloud was advancing

like an army in action. It was all in the day's work of the ranger, but

the plainsman behind him turned timorous eyes toward the sky. "It looks

owly," he repeated. "I didn't know I was going so high--Gregg didn't say

the camp was so near timber-line."



"You've cut out a lonesome job for yourself," Ross assured him, "and if

you can find anything else to do you'd better give this up and go back."



"I'm used to being lonesome," the stranger said, "but I can't stand the

cold and the wet as I used to. I never was a mountaineer."



Taking pity on the shivering man, Cavanagh turned off the trail into a

sheltered nook behind some twisted pine-trees. "How do you expect to take

care of your sheep a thousand feet higher than this?" he demanded as they

entered the still place, where the sun shone warm.



"That's what I'm asking myself," replied Edwards. He slipped from his

horse and crouched close to the rock. "My blood is mostly ditch-water,

seems like. The wind blows right through me."



"How do you happen to be reduced to herding sheep? You look like a man who

has seen better days."



Edwards, chafing his thin fingers to warm them, made reluctant answer:

"It's a long story, Mr. Ranger, and it concerns a whole lot of other

people--some of them decent folks--so I'd rather not go into it."



"John Barleycorn was involved, I reckon."



"Sure thing--he's generally always in it."



"You'd better take my gloves--it's likely to snow in half an hour. Go

ahead--I'm a younger man than you are."



The other made a decent show of resistance, but finally accepted the

offer, saying: "You certainly are white to me. I want to apologize for

making that attempt to sneak away that night--I had a powerful good reason

for not staying any longer."



Ross smiled a little. "You showed bad judgment--as it turned out."



"I sure did. That girl can shoot. Her gun was steady as a door-knob. She

filled the door. Where did she learn to hold a gun like that?"



"Her father taught her, so she said."



"She wouldn't remember me--an old cuss like me--but I've seen her with

Wetherford when she was a kidlet. I never thought she'd grow up into such

a 'queen.' She's a wonder."



Strange to say, Ross no longer objected to the old man's words of

admiration; on the contrary, he encouraged him to talk on.



"Her courage is greater than you know. When she came to that hotel it was

a place of dirt and vermin. She has transformed it. She's now engaged on

the reformation of her mother."



"Lize was straight when I knew her," remarked the other, in the tone of

one who wishes to defend a memory. "Straight as a die."



"In certain ways she's straight now, but she's been hard pushed at times,

and has traded in liquor to help out--then she's naturally a slattern."



"She didn't used to be," asserted Edwards; "she was a mighty handsome

woman when I used to see her riding around with Ed."



"She's down at the heel now, quite like the town."



"She looked sick to me. You shouldn't be too hard on a sick woman, but she

ought to send her girl away or get out. As you say, the Fork is no kind of

a place for such a girl. If I had a son, a fine young feller like that

girl is, do you suppose I'd let him load himself up with an old soak like

me? No, sir; Lize has no right to spoil that girl's life. I'm nothing but

a ham-strung old cow-puncher, but I've too much pride to saddle my pack on

the shoulders of my son the way Lize seems to be doin' with that girl."



He spoke with a good deal of feeling, and the ranger studied him with

deepening interest. He had taken on dignity in the heat of his protest,

and in his eyes blazed something that was both manly and admirable.



Cavanagh took his turn at defending Lize. "As a matter of fact, she tried

to send her daughter away, but Lee refuses to go, insisting that it is her

duty to remain. In spite of her bad blood the girl is surprisingly true

and sweet. She makes me wonder whether there is as much in heredity as we

think."



"Her blood ain't so bad. Wetherford was a fool and a daredevil, but he

came of good Virginia stock--so I've heard."



"Well, whatever was good in both sire and dame this girl seems to have

mysteriously gathered to herself."



The old man looked at him with a bright sidelong glance. "You are a little

sweet on the girl, eh?"



Ross began to regret his confidence. "She's making a good fight, and I

feel like helping her."



"And she rather likes being helped by you. I could see that when she

brought the coffee to you. She likes to stand close--"



Ross cut him short. "We'll not discuss her any further."



"I don't mean any harm, Mr. Ranger; we hobos have a whole lot of time to

gossip, and I'm old enough to like a nice girl in a fatherly way. I reckon

the whole valley rides in to see her, just the way you do."



Cavanagh winced. "You can't very well hide a handsome woman in a cattle

country."



Edwards smiled again, sadly. "Not in my day you couldn't. Why, a girl like

that would 'a' been worth a thousand head o' steers. I've seen a man come

in with a span of mules and three ordinary female daughters, and without

cinching a saddle to a pony accumulate five thousand cattle." Then he grew

grave again. "Don't happen to have a picture of the girl, do you?"



"If I did, would I show it to you?"



"You might. You might even give it to me."



Cavanagh looked at the man as if he were dreaming. "You must be crazy."



"Oh no, I'm not. Sheep-herders do go twisted, but I'm not in the business

long enough for that. I'm just a bit nutty about that girl."



He paused a moment. "So if you have a picture, I wish you'd show it to

me."



"I haven't any."



"Is that right?"



"That's right. I've only seen her two or three times, and she isn't the

kind that distributes her favors."



"So it seems. And yet you're just the kind of figure to catch a girl's

eye. She likes you--I could see that, but you've got a good opinion of

yourself. You're an educated man--do you intend to marry her?"



"See here, Mr. Sheep-herder, you better ride on up to your camp," and Ross

turned to mount his horse.



"Wait a minute," called the other man, and his voice surprised the ranger

with a note of authority. "I was terribly taken with that girl, and I owe

you a whole lot; but I've got to know one thing. I can see you're full of

her, and jealous as a bear of any other suitor. Now I want to know whether

you intend to marry her or whether you're just playing with her?"



Ross was angry now. "What I intend to do is none of your business."



The other man was suddenly ablaze with passion. His form had lost its

stoop. His voice was firm. "I merely want to say that if you play the goat

with that girl, I'll kill you!"



Ross stared at him quite convinced that he had gone entirely mad. "That's

mighty chivalrous of you, Mr. Sheep-herder," he replied, cuttingly; "but

I'm at a loss to understand this sudden indignation on your part."



"You needn't be--I'm her father!"



Cavanagh fairly reeled before this retort. His head rang as if he had been

struck with a club. He perceived the truth of the man's words instantly.

He gasped: "Good God, man! are you Ed Wetherford?"



The answer was quick. "That's who I am!" Then his voice changed. "But I

don't want the women to know I'm alive--I didn't intend to let anybody

know it. My fool temper has played hell with me again"--then his voice

grew firmer--"all the same, I mean it. If you or any man tries to abuse

her, I'll kill him! I've loaded her up with trouble, as you say, but I'm

going to do what I can to protect her--now that I'm in the county again."



Ross, confused by this new complication in the life of the girl he was

beginning to love, stared at his companion in dismay. Was it not enough

that Virginia's mother should be a slattern and a termagant? At last he

spoke: "Where have you been all these years?"



"In the Texas 'pen.' I served nine years there."



"What for?"



"Shooting a man. It was a case of self-defence, but his family had more

money and influence than I did, so I went down the road. As soon as I was

out I started north--just the way a dog will point toward home. I didn't

intend to come here, but some way I couldn't keep away. I shied round the

outskirts of the Fork, picking up jobs of sheep-herding just to have time

to turn things over. I know what you're thinking about--you're saying to

yourself, 'Well, here's a nice father-in-law?' Well, now, I don't know

anything about your people, but the Wetherfords are as good as anybody. If

I hadn't come out into this cursed country, where even the women go

shootin' wild, I would have been in Congress; but being hot-headed, I must

mix in. I'm not excusing myself, you understand; I'm not a desirable

addition to any man's collection of friends, but I can promise you

this--no one but yourself shall ever know who I am. At the same time, you

can't deceive my girl without my being named in the funeral that will

follow."



It was a singular place for such an exchange of confidences. Wetherford

stood with his back against his pony, his face flushed, his eyes bright as

though part of his youth had returned to him, while the ranger, slender,

erect, and powerful, faced him with sombre glance. Overhead the detached

clouds swept swift as eagles, casting shadows cold as winter, and in the

dwarfed century-old trees the wind breathed a sad monody. Occasionally the

sun shone warm and golden upon the group, and then it seemed spring, and

the far-off plain a misty sea.



At last Cavanagh said: "You are only a distant and romantic figure to

Lee--a part of the dead past. She remembers you as a bold rider and a

wondrously brave and chivalrous father."



"Does she?" he asked, eagerly.



"Yes, and she loves to talk of you. She knows the town's folk despise your

memory, but that she lays to prejudice."



"She must never know. You must promise never to tell her."



"I promise that," Cavanagh said, and Edwards went on:



"If I could bring something to her--prove to her I'm still a man--it might

do to tell her, but I'm a branded man now, and an old man, and there's no

hope for me. I worked in one of the machine-shops down there, and it took

the life out of me. Then, too, I left a bad name here in the Fork--I know

that. Those big cattle-men fooled me into taking their side of the war. I

staked everything I had on them, and then they railroaded me out of the

county. So, you see, I'm double-crossed, no matter where I turn."



Every word he uttered made more apparent to Cavanagh that Lee Virginia

would derive nothing but pain and disheartenment from a knowledge that her

father lived. "She must be spared this added burden of shameful

inheritance," he decided.



The other man seemed to understand something of the ranger's indignant

pity, for he repeated: "I want you to swear not to let Lee know I'm

alive, no matter what comes; she must not be saddled with my record. Let

her go on thinking well of me. Give me your word!" He held out an

insistent palm.



Ross yielded his hand, and in spite of himself his tenderness for the

broken man deepened. The sky was darkening to the west, and with a glance

upward he said: "I reckon we'd better make your camp soon or you'll be

chilled to the bone."



They mounted hastily and rode away, each feeling that his relationship to

the other had completely changed. Wetherford marvelled over the evident

culture and refinement of the ranger. "He's none too good for her, no

matter who he is," he said.



Upon leaving timber-line they entered upon a wide and sterile slope high

on the rocky breast of the great peak, whose splintered crest lorded the

range. Snow-fields lay all about, and a few hundred feet higher up the

canons were filled with ice. It was a savage and tempest-swept spot in

which to pitch a tent, but there among the rocks shivered the minute

canvas home of the shepherd, and close beside it, guarded by a lone dog,

and lying like a thick-spread flock of rimy bowlders (almost unnoticeable

in their silent immobility) huddled the sheep.



"There's your house," shouted Ross to Wetherford.



The older man, with white face of dismay, looked about him, unable to make

reply.



The walls of the frail teepee, flapping in the breeze, appeared hardly

larger than a kerchief caught upon a bush, and the disheartened collie

seemed nervously apprehensive of its being utterly swept away. The great

peaks were now hid by the rain, and little could be seen but wet rocks,

twisted junipers, and the trickling gray streams of icy water. The eastern

landscape was naked, alpine, splendid yet appalling, and the voices of the

sheep added to the dreary message of the scene.



"Hello there!" shouted Ross, wondering at the absence of human life about

the camp. "Hello the house!"



Receiving no answer to his hail, he turned to Wetherford. "Looks like Joe

has pulled out and left the collie to 'tend the flock. He's been kind o'

seedy for some days."



Dismounting, he approached the tent. The collie, who knew him, seemed to

understand his errand, for he leaped upon him as if to kiss his cheek.

Ross put him down gently. "You're almost too glad to see me, old fellow. I

wonder how long you've been left here alone?"



Thereupon he opened the tied flap, but started back with instant

perception of something wrong, for there, on his pile of ragged quilts,

lay the Basque herder, with flushed face and rolling eyes, crazed with

fever and entirely helpless. "You'd better not come in here, Wetherford,"

Ross warned. "Joe is here, horribly sick, and I'm afraid it's something

contagious. It may be smallpox."



Wetherford recoiled a step. "Smallpox! What makes you think that?"



"Well, these Basques have been having it over in their settlement, and,

besides, it smells like it." He listened a moment. "I'm afraid Joe's in

for it. He's crazy with it. But he's a human being, and we can't let him

die here alone. You rustle some wood for the stove, and I'll see what I

can do for him."



Wetherford was old and wasted and thin-blooded, but he had never been a

coward, and in his heart there still burned a small flame of his youthful,

reckless, generous daring. Pushing Cavanagh one side, he said, with firm

decision: "You keep out o' there. I'm the one to play nurse. This is my

job."



"Nonsense; I am younger and stronger than you."



"Get away!" shouted the older man. "Gregg hired me to do this work, and it

don't matter whether I live or die; but you've got something to do in the

world. My girl needs you, and she don't need me, so get out o' here and

stay out. Go bring me that wood, and I'll go in and see what's the

matter."



Cavanagh looked him in the face an instant. "Very well," said he, "I'll do

as you say. There's no use of our both taking chances."



It was beginning to rain, and the tent was dark and desolate, but as the

fire in the little stove commenced to snarl, and the smoke to pour out of

the pipe, the small domicile took on cheer. Wetherford knew how to care

for the sick, and in the shelter of the canvas wall developed unforeseen

vigor and decision. It was amazing to Cavanagh to witness his change of

manner.



Soon a pan of water was steaming, and some hot stones were at the

sufferer's feet, and when Wetherford appeared at the door of the tent his

face was almost happy. "Kill a sheep. There isn't a thing but a heel of

bacon and a little flour in the place."



As the ranger went about his outside duties he had time to take into full

account the tragic significance of the situation. He was not afraid of

death, but the menace of sickness under such surroundings made his blood

run cold. It is such moments as these that the wilderness appalls. Twenty

miles of most difficult trail lay between his own cabin and this spot. To

carry the sick man on his horse would not only be painful to the sufferer

but dangerous to the rescuer, for if the Basque were really ill of

smallpox contagion would surely follow. On the other hand, to leave him to

die here unaided seemed inhuman, impossible.



"There is only one thing to do," he called to Wetherford, "and that is for

me to ride back to the station and bring up some extra bedding and my own

tent, and so camp down beside you."



"All right; but remember I've established a quarantine. I'll crack your

head if you break over the line an inch."



There was no longer any feeling of reaching up or reaching down between

the two men--they were equals. Wetherford, altogether admirable, seemed to

have regained his manhood as he stood in the door of the tent confronting

the ranger. "This Basque ain't much of a find, but, as you say, he's

human, and we can't let him lie here and die, I'll stay with him till you

can find a doctor or till he dies."



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





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