"Then it wasn't smallpox?"
"I reckon that's what it was; it sure was fierce. I judge it's a case of
Injun burial--no ceremony--right here in the rocks. I'll let you dig the
hole (I'm just about all in), but mind you keep to the windward all the
time. I don't want you spotted."
Cavanagh understood the necessity for these precautions, but first of all
came his own need of food and rest. Turning his tired horse to grass, he
stretched himself along a grassy, sunny cranny between the rocks, and
there ate and afterward slept, while all about him the lambs called and
the conies whined.
He was awakened by a pebble tossed upon him, and when he arose, stiff and
sore, but feeling stronger and in better temper, the sun was wearing low.
Setting to work at his task, he threw the loose rock out of a hollow in
the ledge near by, and to this rude sepulchre Wetherford dragged the dead
man, refusing all aid, and there piled a cairn of rocks above his grave.
The ranger was deeply moved by the pitiless contrast of the scene and the
drama. The sun was still shining warmly aslant the heavens; the wind,
crisp and sweet, wandered by on laggard wings, the conies cried from the
ledges; the lambs were calling--and in the midst of it one tattered
fragment of humanity was heaping the iron earth upon another, stricken,
perhaps, by the same dread disease.
Wetherford himself paused to moralize. "I suppose that chap has a mother
somewhere who is wondering where her boy is. This isn't exactly Christian
burial, but it's all he'll get, I reckon; for whether it was smallpox or
plain fever, nobody's going to uselessly resurrect him. Even the coyotes
will fight shy of his meat."
Nevertheless, the ranger took a hand at the end and rolled some huge
bowlders upon the grave, to insure the wolves' defeat.
"Now burn the bedding," he commanded--"the whole camp has got to go--and
your clothing, too, after we get down the hill."
"What will we do with the sheep?"
"Drive them over the divide and leave them."
All these things Wetherford did, and leaving the camp in ashes behind him,
Cavanagh drove the sheep before him on his homeward way. As night fell,
the dog, at his command, rounded them up and put them to bed, and the men
went on down the valley, leaving the brave brute on guard, pathetic figure
of faithful guardianship.
"It hurts me to desert you, old fellow," called the ranger, looking back,
"but there's no help for it. I'll come up in the morning and bring you
some biscuit."
The collie seemed to understand. He waggled his tail and whined, as though
struggling to express his wonder and pain, and Ross, moved to pity,
called: "Come on, boy, never mind the sheep! Come along with us!"
But the dog, leaping from side to side, uttered a short howl and a sharp
bark, as if to say: "I can't! I can't!"
"He's onto _his_ job," remarked Wetherford. "It beats all how human they
do seem sometimes. I've no manner of doubt that dago's booted him all over
the place many a time, and yet he seemed horrible sorry about his master's
trouble. Every few minutes, all night long, he'd come pattering and
whining round the door of the tent--didn't come in, seemed just trying to
ask how things were coming. He was like a child, lonesome and grieving."
It was long after dark when they entered the canon just above the cabin,
and Wetherford was shivering from cold and weakness.
"Now you pull up just outside the gate, and wait there till I bring out
some blankets; then you've got to strip to the skin and start the world
all over again," said Cavanagh. "I'll build a fire here, and we'll cremate
your past. How about it?"
"I'm willing," responded Wetherford. "You can burn everything that belongs
to me but my wife and my girl."
All through the ceremony which followed ran this self-banter. "I'll be all
ranger, barring a commission," he said, with a grin, as he put on the
olive-yellow shirt and a pair of dusty-green trousers. "And here goes my
past!" he added, as he tossed his contaminated rags upon the fire.
"What a corking opportunity to make a fresh start," commented Cavanagh. "I
hope you see it."
"I see it; but it's hard to live up to your mark."
When every precaution had been taken, the ranger led the freshly scrubbed,
scoured, and transformed fugitive to his cabin.
"Why, man, you're fit for the State Legislature," he exclaimed, as they
came into the full light. "My clothes don't precisely meet every demand
you make upon them, but they give you an air of command. I wish your wife
could see you now."
Wetherford was quite serious as he answered: "This uniform means more to
me than you think. I wish I was entitled to wear it. The wild-wood is just
about populous enough for me."
"Good for you!" responded Cavanagh. "To convert a man of your record to a
belief in conservation is to demonstrate once again the regenerative power
of an idea." Then, seeing that Wetherford was really in earnest, he added:
"You can stay with me as long as you wish. Perhaps in time you might be
able to work into the service as a guard, although the chief is getting
more and more insistent on real foresters."
There were tears in Wetherford's eyes as he said: "You cannot realize what
this clean, warm uniform means to me. For nine years I wore the prison
stripes; then I was turned loose with a shoddy suit and a hat a size too
big for me--an outfit that gave me away everywhere I went. Till my hair
and beard sprouted I had a hard rustle of it, but my clothes grew old
faster than my beard. At last I put every cent I had earned into a poor
old horse, and a faded saddle, and once mounted I kept a-moving north." He
smoothed the sleeve of his coat. "It is ten years since I was dressed like
a man."
"You need not worry about food or shelter for the present," replied
Cavanagh, gently. "Grub is not costly here, and house-rent is less than
nominal, so make yourself at home and get strong."
Wetherford lifted his head. "But I want to do something. I want to redeem
myself in some way. I don't want my girl to know who I am, but I'd like to
win her respect. I can't be what you say she thinks I was, but if I had a
chance I might show myself a man again. I wouldn't mind Lize knowing that
I am alive--it might be a comfort to her; but I don't want even her to be
told till I can go to her in my own duds."
"She's pretty sick," said Cavanagh. "I telephoned Lee Virginia last night,
and if you wish you may ride down with me to-morrow and see her."
The old man fell a-tremble. "I daren't do that. I can't bear to tell her
where I've been!"
"She needn't know. I will tell her you've been out of your mind. I'll say
anything you wish! You can go to her in the clothes you have on if you
like--she will not recognize you as the prisoner I held the other night.
You can have your beard trimmed, and not even the justice will know you."
All reserve had vanished out of the convict's heart, and with choking
voice he thanked his young host. "I'll never be a burden to you," he
declared, in firmer voice. "And if my lung holds out, I'll show you I'm
not the total locoe that I 'pear to be."
No further reference was made to Lee Virginia, but Ross felt himself to be
more deeply involved than ever by these promises; his fortunes seemed to
be inextricably bound up with this singular and unhappy family. Lying in
his bunk (after the lights were out), he fancied himself back in his
ancestral home, replying to the questions of his aunts and uncles, who
were still expecting him to bring home a rich and beautiful American
heiress. Some of the Cavanaghs were drunkards and some were vixens, but
they were on the whole rather decent, rather decorous and very dull, and
to them this broken ex-convict and this slattern old barmaid would seem
very far from the ideal they had formed of the family into which Ross was
certain to marry.
But as he recalled the spot in which he lay and the uniform which hung
upon the wall, he was frank to admit that the beautiful and rich heiress
of whom his family dreamed was a very unsubstantial vision indeed, and
that, to be honest with himself, he had nothing to offer for such shining
good-fortune.
At breakfast next morning he said: "I must ride back and take some bread
to the dog. I can't go away and leave him there without saying 'hello.'"
"Let me do that," suggested Wetherford. "I'm afraid to go down to the
Fork. I reckon I'd better go back and tend the sheep till Gregg sends some
one up to take my place."
"That might be too late to see Lize. Lee's voice showed great anxiety. She
may be on her death-bed. No; you'd better go down with me to-day," he
urged. And at last the old man consented.
Putting some bread in his pockets, Ross rode off up the trail to see how
the dog and his flock were faring. He had not gone far when he heard the
tinkle of the bells and the murmur of the lambs, and a few moments later
the collie came toward him with the air of a boy who, having assumed to
disregard the orders of his master, expects a scolding. He plainly said:
"I've brought my sheep to you because I was lonesome. Please forgive me."
Cavanagh called to him cheerily, and tossed him a piece of bread, which he
caught in his teeth but did not swallow; on the contrary, he held it while
leaping for joy of the praise he heard in his new-found master's voice.
Turning the flock upward again toward the higher peaks, the ranger
commanded the collie to their heels, and so, having redeemed his promise,
rode back to the cabin, where he found Wetherford saddled and ready for
his momentous trip to the valley. He had shaved away his gray beard, and
had Ross been unprepared for these changes he would have been puzzled to
account for this decidedly military figure sitting statuesquely on his
pony before the door.
"You can prove an alibi," he called, as he drew near. "Gregg himself would
never recognize you now."
Wetherford was in no mood for joking. "Lize will. I wore a mustache in the
old days, and there's a scar on my chin."
As he rode he confided this strange thing to Cavanagh. "I know," said he,
"that Lize is old and wrinkled, for I've seen her, but all the same I
can't realize it. That heavy-set woman down there is not Lize. My Lize is
slim and straight. This woman whom you know has stolen her name and face,
that's all. I can't explain exactly what I feel, but Lee Virginia means
more to me now than Lize."
"I think I understand you," said Cavanagh, with sympathy in his voice.
The nearer Wetherford came to the actual meeting with his wife the more he
shook. At last he stopped in the road. "I don't believe I can do it," he
declared. "I'll be like a ghost to her. What's the use of it? She'll only
be worried by my story. I reckon I'd better keep dark to everybody. Let me
go back. I'm plum scared cold."
While still he argued, two men on horseback rounded a sharp turn in the
trail and came face to face with the ranger. Wetherford's face went
suddenly gray. "My God, there's the deputy!"
"Keep quiet. I'll do the talking," commanded Cavanagh, who was instant in
his determination to shield the man. "Good-morning, gentlemen," he called,
cheerily, "you're abroad early!"
The man in front was the deputy sheriff of the county; his companion was a
stranger.
"That was a horrible mess you stumbled on over on Deer Creek," the deputy
remarked.
"It certainly was. Have any arrests been made?"
"Not yet, but we're on a clew. This is Marshal Haines, of Dallas, Mr.
Cavanagh," pursued the deputy. The two men nodded in token of the
introduction, and the deputy went on: "You remember that old cuss that
used to work for Gregg?"
Again Cavanagh nodded.
"Well, that chap is wanted by the Texas authorities. Mr. Haines, here,
wants to see him mighty bad. He's an escaped convict with a bad record."
"Is that so?" exclaimed Cavanagh. "I thought he seemed a bit gun-shy."
"The last seen of him was when Sam Gregg sent him up to herd sheep. I
think he was mixed up in that killing, myself--him and Ballard--and we're
going up to get some track of him. Didn't turn up at your station, did
he?"
"Yes, he came by some days ago, on his way, so he said, to relieve that
sick Basque, Ambro. I went up a couple of days ago, and found the Basque
dead and the old man gone. I buried the herder the best I could, and I'm
on my way down to report the case."
The deputy mused: "He may be hanging 'round some of the lumber-camps. I
reckon we had better go up and look the ground over, anyhow. We might just
chance to overhaul him."
"He may have pulled out over the range," suggested the ranger. "Anyhow,
it's a long way up there, and you'll probably have to camp at my place
to-night. You'll find the key hanging up over the door. Go in and make
yourself comfortable."
The deputy thanked him, and was about to ride on when Cavanagh added: "I
burned that Basque's tent and bedding for fear of contagion. His outfit
was worthless, anyhow. You'll find the sheep just above my cabin, and the
horse in my corral."
"The old man didn't take the horse, eh? Well, that settles it; he's sure
at one of the camps. Much obliged. Good-day."
As the two officers rode away Wetherford leaned heavily on his pommel and
stared at the ranger with wide eyes. His face was drawn and his lips dry.
"They'll get me! My God, they'll get me!" he said.
"Oh no, they won't," rejoined Cavanagh. "You're all right yet. They
suspected nothing. How could they, with you in uniform and in my
company?"
"All the same, I'm scared. That man Haines had his eyes on me every
minute. He saw right through me. They'll get me, and they'll charge me up
with that killing."
"No, they won't, I tell you," insisted the ranger. "Haines suspected
nothing. I had his eye. He never saw you before, and has nothing but a
description to go by. So cheer up. Your uniform and your position with me
will make you safe--perfectly safe. They'll find the Basque's camp burned
and the sheep in charge of the dog, and they'll fancy that you have
skipped across the range. But see here, old man," and he turned on him
sharply, "you didn't tell me the whole truth. You said you were out on
parole."
"I couldn't tell you the whole truth," replied the fugitive. "But I will
now. I was in for a life sentence. I was desperate for the open air and
homesick for the mountains, and I struck down one of the guards. I was
willing to do anything to get out. I thought if I could get back to this
country and my wife and child I'd be safe. I said I'd be willing to go
back to the pen if necessary, but I'm not. I can't do it. I'd die there in
that hell. You must save me for my girl's sake."
His voice and eyes were wild with a kind of desperate fury of fear, and
Cavanagh, moved to pity, assured him of his aid. "Now listen," he said.
"I'm going to shield you on account of your work for that poor shepherd
and for your daughter's sake. It's my duty to apprehend you, of course,
but I'm going to protect you. The safest thing for you to do is to go back
to my cabin. Ride slow, so as not to get there till they're gone. They'll
ride over to the sawmill, without doubt. If they come back this way,
remember that the deputy saw you only as a ragged old man with a long
beard, and that Haines has nothing but a printed description to go by.
There's no use trying to flee. You are a marked man in that uniform, and
you are safer right here with me than anywhere else this side of Chicago.
Haines is likely to cross the divide in the belief that you have gone that
way, and, if he does, you have no one but the deputy to deal with."
He succeeded at last in completely rousing the older man's courage.
Wetherford rose to meet his opportunity. "I'll do it," he said, firmly.
"That's the talk!" exclaimed Cavanagh, to encourage him. "You can throw
them off the track this time, and when I come back to-morrow I'll bring
some other clothing for you, and then we'll plan some kind of a scheme
that will get you out of the country. I'll not let them make a scapegoat
of you."
The ranger watched the fugitive, as he started back over the trail in this
desperate defiance of his pursuers, with far less confidence in the
outcome than he had put into words.
"All depends on Wetherford himself. If his nerve does not fail him, if
they take the uniform for granted, and do not carry the matter to the
Supervisor, we will pull the plan through." And in this hope he rode away
down the trail with bent head, for all this bore heavily upon his
relationship to the girl waiting for him in the valley. He had thought
Lize a burden, a social disability, but a convict father now made the
mother's faults of small account.
The nearer he drew to the meeting with Lee Virginia the more important
that meeting became. After all, woman is more important than war. The love
of home and the child persists through incredible vicissitudes; the
conqueror returns from foreign lands the lover still; and in the deep of
flooded mines and on the icy slopes of arctic promontories dead men have
been found holding in their rigid hands the pictured face of some fair
girl. In the presence of such irrefutable testimony, who shall deny the
persistence and the reality of love?
Cavanagh had seen Virginia hardly more than a score of times, and yet she
filled his thought, confused his plans, making of his brain a place of
doubt and hesitation. For her sake he had entered upon a plan to shield a
criminal, to harbor an escaped convict. It was of no avail to argue that
he was moved to shield Wetherford because of his heroic action on the
peak. He knew perfectly well that it was because he could not see that
fair, brave girl further disgraced by the discovery of her father's
identity, for in the searching inquiry which would surely follow his
secret would develop.
To marry her, knowing the character of her father and her mother, was
madness, and the voice within him warned him of his folly. "Pure water
cannot be drawn from corrupt sources," it is said. Nevertheless, the
thought of having the girl with him in the wilderness filled him with
divine recklessness. He was bewitched by the satin smoothness of her skin,
the liquid light of her eye, the curve of her cheek, the swell of her
bosom, and, most of all, by the involuntary movement of yielding which
betrayed her trust and her love. While still he debated, alternately
flushed with resolve to be happy and chilled by some strange dejection, he
met Swenson, the young guard who guarded the forest on the south Fork.
As he rode up, Cavanagh perceived in the other man's face something
profoundly serious. He did not smile in greeting, as was usual with him,
and, taking some letters from his pocket, passed them over in ominous
silence.
Cavanagh, upon looking them over, selected a letter evidently from Mrs.
Redfield, and stuffed the others into his coat-pocket. It was a closely
written letter, and contained in its first sentence something which deeply
affected him. Slipping from his saddle, he took a seat upon a stone, that
he might the better read and slowly digest what was contained therein. He
read on slowly, without any other movement than that which was required to
turn the leaves. It was a passionate plea from Eleanor Redfield against
his further entanglement with Lize Wetherford's girl.
"You cannot afford to marry her. You simply cannot. The old mother is too
dreadful, and may live on for years. The girl is attractive, I grant you,
but she's tainted. If there is anything in the law of heredity, she will
develop the traits of her mother or her father sooner or later. You must
not marry her, Ross; and if you cannot, what will you do? There's only one
thing to do. Keep away. I enclose a letter from your sister, pleading with
me to urge you to visit them this winter. She is not very strong, as you
can see by her writing, and her request will give you an excuse for
breaking off all connection with this girl. I am sorry for her, Ross, but
you can't marry her. You must not--you must not! Ride over and see us
soon, and we will talk it all out together."
He opened another letter, but did not read it. He was too profoundly
shaken by the first. He felt the pure friendship, the fine faith, and the
guardianship of the writer, and he acknowledged the good sense of all she
said, and yet--and yet--
When he looked up Swenson was staring down at him with a face of such
bitterness that it broke through even the absorbed and selfish meditation
into which he had been thrown.
"What's the matter, Swenson? You look as if you had lost a friend."
"I have," answered the guard, shortly, "and so have you. The chief is
out."
"What?"
"They've got him!" he exclaimed. "He's out."