"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 better for 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'm nothing 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.