One morning, as he topped the rise between the sawmill and his own
station, Cavanagh heard two rifle-shots in quick succession snapping
across the high peak on his left. Bringing his horse to a stand, he
unslung his field-glasses, and slowly and minutely swept the tawny slopes
of Sheep Mountain from which the forbidden sounds seemed to come.
"A herder shooting coyotes," was his first thought; then remembering that
there were no camps in that direction, and that a flock of mountain-sheep
(which he had been guarding carefully) habitually fed round that grassy
peak, his mind changed. "I wonder if those fellows are after those sheep?"
he mused, as he angled down the slope. "I reckon it's up to me to see."
He was tired and hungry, a huge moraine lay between, and the trail was
long and rough. "To catch them in the act is impossible. However," he
reflected, "they have but two trails along which to descend. One of these
passes my door, and the other, a very difficult trail, leads down the
South Fork. I'll have time to get breakfast and change horses. They'll
probably wait till night before attempting to go out, anyway."
In less than three hours he was over on the trail in the canon, quite
certain that the hunters were still above him. He rode quietly up the
valley, pausing often to listen and to scrutinize the landscape; but no
sign of camp-fire and no further rifle-shots came, and at last he went
into camp upon the trail, resolved to wait till the poachers appeared, a
ward which his experience as a soldier helped him to maintain without
nodding.
In these long hours his thought played about the remembrance of his last
visit to the Fork and his hour with Lee. He wondered what she was doing at
the moment. How charming she had looked there at Redfields'--so girlish in
form, so serious and womanly of face!
He felt as never before the ineludible loneliness of the ranger's life.
Here he sat in the midst of a mighty forest with many hostile minds all
about him, and it must be confessed he began to wonder whether his
services to the nation were worth so much hardship, such complete
isolation. The stream sang of the eternities, and his own short span of
life (half gone already without any permanent accomplishment) seemed
pitifully ephemeral. The guardians of these high places must forever be
solitary. No ranger could rightfully be husband and father, for to bring
women and children into these solitudes would be cruel.
He put all this aside--for the time--by remembering that he was a soldier
under orders, and that marriage was a long way off, and so smoked his pipe
and waited for the dawn, persistent as a Sioux, and as silent as a fox.
At daylight, there being still no sign of his quarry, he saddled his
horse, and was about to ride up the trail when he caught the sound of
voices and the sharp click of iron hoofs on the rocks above him. With his
horse's bridle on his arm he awaited the approaching horseman, resolute
and ready to act.
As the marauders rounded the elbow in the trail, he was surprised to
recognize in the leader young Gregg. The other man was a stranger, an
older man, with a grizzled beard, and tall and stooping figure.
"Hello Joe," called the ranger, "you're astir early!"
The youth's fat face remained imperturbable, but his eyes betrayed
uneasiness. "Yes, it's a long pull into town."
"Been hunting?" queried the ranger, still with cheery, polite interest.
"Oh no; just visiting one of my sheep-camps."
Cavanagh's voice was a little less suave. "Not on this creek," he
declared. "I moved your herder last week." He walked forward. "That's a
heavy load for a short trip to a sheep-camp." He put his hand on the pack.
"I guess you'll have to open this, for I heard two shots yesterday morning
up where that flock of mountain-sheep is running, and, furthermore, I can
see blood-stains on this saddle-blanket."
Neither of the men made answer, but the old man turned an inquiring look
at his young leader.
The ranger flung his next sentence out like the lash of a whip. "Open this
sack or I cut the ropes!"
Gregg threw out a hand in command. "_Open it up, Edwards!_" he said,
sullenly.
With mechanical readiness the guide alighted from his horse, loosened the
cinch on the pack-horse, and disclosed the usual camp-bed.
"Put off that bedding!" insisted the ranger.
Off came the outfit, and under the tent lay the noble head of a wild
ram--a look of reproach still in his splendid yellow eyes.
Cavanagh's face hardened. "I thought so. Now heave it back and cinch up.
It's you to the nearest magistrate, which happens to be Higley, of Roaring
Fork. I'll make an example of you fellows."
There was nothing for Gregg to say and nothing for Edwards to do but obey,
for a resolute ranger with an excellent weapon of the latest and most
approved angular pattern stood ready to enforce his command; and when the
pack was recinched, Cavanagh waved an imperative hand. "I guess I'll have
to take charge of your guns," he said, and they yielded without a word of
protest. "Now march! Take the left-hand trail. I'll be close behind."
A couple of hours of silent travel brought them to the ranger's cabin, and
there he ordered a dismount.
As the coffee was boiling he lectured them briefly. "You fellows are not
entirely to blame," he remarked, philosophically. "You've been educated to
think a game warden a joke and Uncle Sam a long way off. But things have
changed a bit. The law of the State has made me game warden, and I'm going
to show you how it works. It's my duty to see that you go down the
road--and down you go!"
Edwards, the guide, was plainly very uneasy, and made several attempts to
reach Cavanagh's private ear, and at last succeeded. "I've been fooled
into this," he urged. "I was hard up and a stranger in the country, and
this young fellow hired me to guide him across the range. I didn't shoot a
thing. I swear I didn't. If you'll let me off, I'll hit the trail to the
West and never look back. For God's sake, don't take me down the road! Let
me off."
"I can't do that," replied Cavanagh; but his tone was kindlier, for he
perceived that the old fellow was thin, hollow-chested, and poorly clad.
"You knew you were breaking the laws, didn't you?"
This the culprit admitted. "But I was working for Sam Gregg, and when Joe
asked me to go show him the trail, I didn't expect to get cinched for
killing game. I didn't fire a shot--now that's the God's truth."
"Nevertheless," retorted Ross, "you were packing the head, and I must
count you in the game."
Edwards fell silent then, but something in his look deepened the ranger's
pity. His eyes were large and dark, and his face so emaciated that he
seemed fit only for a sanitarium.
The trip to the Fork (timed to the gait of a lazy pack-horse) was a
tedious eight hours' march, and it was nearly seven o'clock when they
arrived at the outskirts of the village. There had been very few words
spoken by Cavanagh, and those which the prisoners uttered were not
calculated to cheer the way. Joe blamed his guide for their mishap. "You
should have known how far the sound of our guns would carry," he said.
As they were nearing the village he called out: "See here, Cavanagh,
there's no use taking me through town under arrest. I'll cough up all we
got right now. How much is the damage?"
"I can't receive your fine," replied Ross, "and, besides, you took your
chances when you shot that sheep. You lost out, and I'm not going to let
you off. This poaching must stop. You go right along with your guide."
Again Edwards drew near, and pled in a low voice: "See here, Mr. Ranger, I
have special reasons why I don't want to go into this town under arrest. I
wish you'd let me explain."
There was deep emotion in his voice, but Ross was firm. "I'm sorry for
you," he said, "but my duty requires me to take you before a
magistrate--"
"But you don't know my case," he replied, with bitter intensity. "I'm out
'on parole.' I can't afford to be arrested in this way. Don't you see?"