"Quite right," retorted Hartley, promptly. "They say smallpox has lost its
terrors, but when you're eight hours' hard trail from a doctor, or a
hospital, it's still what I'd call a formidable enemy. However, Cavanagh's
immune, so he says."
"We don't know that," Lee said, and her hands came together in a spasm of
fear. "Are you a doctor?"
"No, I'm only a newspaper man; but I've had a lot of experience with
plagues of all sorts--had the yellow fever in Porto Rico, and the typhoid
in South Africa; that's why I'm out here richochetting over the hills. But
who are you, may I ask? You look like the rose of Sharon."
"My name is Lee Wetherford," she answered, with childish directness, for
there was something compelling in the man's voice and eyes. "And this is
my mother." She indicated Lize, who was approaching.
"_You_ are not out here for your health," he stated, rather thoughtfully.
"How happens it you're here?"
"I was born here--in the Fork."
His face remained expressionless. "I don't believe it. Can such maidens
come out of Roaring Fork--nit! But I don't mean that. What are you doing
up here in this wilderness?"
Lize took a part in the conversation. "Another inspector?" she asked, as
she lumbered up.
"That's me," he replied; "Sherlock Holmes, Vidocque, all rolled into
one."
"My mother," again volunteered Lee.
Hartley's eyes expressed incredulity; but he did not put his feelings into
words, for he perceived in Lize a type with which he was entirely
familiar--one to be handled with care. "What are you two women doing here?
Are you related to one of these rangers?"