"They found him shot through the neck, and dying--this morning. As he was
gasping his last breath, he said, 'The ranger knows,' and when they asked,
'What ranger,' he said, 'Cavanagh.' When I heard that I jumped a horse and
beat 'em all over here. Is this true? Did he tell you who the murderers
are?"
Cavanagh did not answer at once. He was like a man caught on a swaying
bridge, and his first instinct was to catch the swing, to get his balance.
"Wait a minute! What is it all to you?"
Again that peculiar grin lighted the small man's dark, unwholesome face.
"It's a fine detective stunt, and besides it means twenty dollars per
column and mebbe a 'boost.' I can't wait, you can't wait! It's up to us to
strike _now_! If these men knew you have their names they'd hike for Texas
or the high seas. Come now! Everybody tells me you're one of these
idealistic highbrow rangers who care more for the future of the West than
most natural-born Westerners. What's your plan? If you'll yoke up with me
we'll run these devils into the earth and win great fame, and you'll be
doing the whole country a service."
The ranger studied the small figure before him with penetrating gaze.
There was deliberative fearlessness in the stranger's face and eyes, and
notwithstanding his calm, almost languid movement, restless energy could
be detected in his voice.
"What is your plan?" the ranger asked.
"Get ourselves deputized by the court, and jump these men before they
realize that there's anything doing. They count the whole country on their
side, but they're mistaken. They've outdone themselves this time, and a
tremendous reaction has set in. Everybody knows you've held an even hand
over these warring Picts and Scots, and the court will be glad to deputize
you to bring them to justice. The old sheriff is paralyzed. Everybody
knows that the assassins are prominent cattle-ranchers, and yet no one
dares move. It's up to you fellows, who represent law and order, to act
quick."
Cavanagh followed him with complete comprehension, and a desire to carry
out the plan seized upon him.
"I'd do it if I could," he said, "but it happens I am nursing a sick man.
I am, perhaps, already exposed to the same disease. I can't leave here for
a week or more. It would not be right for me to expose others--"
"Don't worry about that. Take a hot bath, fumigate your clothing, shave
your head. I'll fix you up, and I'll get some one to take your place."
Catching sight of Swenson and Lize on the bridge, he asked: "Who are those
people? Can't they take your nursing job?"
"No!" answered Cavanagh, bluntly. "It's no use, I can't join you in
this--at least, not now."
"But you'll give me the names which Dunn gave you?"
"No, I can't do that. I shall tell the Supervisor, and he can act as he
sees fit--for the present I'm locked up here."
The other man looked the disappointment he felt. "I'm sorry you don't feel
like opening up. You know perfectly well that nothing will ever be done
about this thing unless the press insists upon it. It's up to you and me
(me representing 'the conscience of the East'"--here he winked an
eye--"and you Federal authority) to do what we can to bring these men to
their punishment. Better reconsider. I'm speaking now as a citizen as well
as a reporter."
There was much truth in what he said, but Cavanagh refused to go further
in the matter until he had consulted with Redfield.
"Very well," replied Hartley, "that's settled. By-the-way, who is your
patient?"
Eloquently, concisely, Ross told the story. "Just a poor old mounted hobo,
a survival of the cowboy West," he said; "but he had the heart of a hero
in him, and I'm doing my best to save him."
"Keep him in the dark, that's the latest theory--or under a red light.
White light brings out the ulcers."
"He hates darkness; that's one reason why I've opened the doors and
windows."
"All wrong! According to Finsen, he wouldn't pit in the dark. However, it
doesn't matter on a cowboy. You've a great story yourself. There's a fine
situation here which I'll play up if you don't object."