"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 you _know_ that?"
"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 going into 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 chances for 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. She has
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?"