"That's my trade," was the unabashed reply, "and I'm not so old but that I
can rise to a romantic situation." Thereupon he dropped all direct
interrogation, and with an air of candor told the story of his mission.
Lize, entirely sympathetic, invited him to lunch, and he was soon in
possession of their story, even to the tender relationship between Lee
Virginia and the plague-besieged forest ranger.
"We're not so mighty disinterested," he said, referring to his paper.
"_The Round-up_ represents the New West in part, but to us the New West
means opportunity to loot water-sites and pile up unearned increment. Oh
yes, we're on the side of the fruit and alfalfa grower, because it pays.
If the boss of my paper happened to be in the sheep business, as Senator
Blank White is, we would sing a different tune. Or if I were a Congressman
representing a district of cattle-men, I'd be very slow about helping to
build up any system that would make me pay for my grass. As it is, I'm
commissioned to make it hot for the ranchers that killed those dagoes, and
I'm going to do it. If this country had a man like Cavanagh for sheriff,
we'd have the murderers in two days. He knows who the butchers are, and
I'd like his help; but he's nailed down here, and there's no hope of his
getting away. A few men like him could civilize this cursed country."
Thereupon he drew from three pairs of lips a statement of the kind of man
Ross Cavanagh was, but most significant of all were the few words of the
girl, to whom this man of the pad and pencil was a magician, capable of
exalting her hero and of advancing light and civilization by the mere
motion of his hand. She liked him, and grew more and more willing to
communicate, and he, perceiving in her something unusual, lingered on
questioning. Then he rose. "I must be going," he said to Lee. "You've
given me a lovely afternoon."
Lee Virginia was all too ignorant of the ways of reporters to resent his
note-taking, and she accepted his hand, believing him to be the sincere
admirer of her ranger. "What are you going to do?" she asked.
"I'm going back to Sulphur to spread the report of Cavanagh's quarantine."
Again that meaning smile. "I don't want any other newspaper men mixed up
in my game. I'm lonesome Ned in stunts like this, and I hope if they _do_
come up you'll be judiciously silent. Good-bye."
Soon after the reporter left, Cavanagh called to Swenson: "The old man
can't last through another such a night as last night was, and I wish you
would persuade Mrs. Wetherford and her daughter to return to the valley.
They can do nothing here--absolutely _nothing_. Please say that."
Swenson repeated his commands with all the emphasis he could give them,
but neither Lize nor Lee would consent to go. "It would be heathenish to
leave him alone in this lonesome hole," protested Lize.
"I shall stay till he is free," added Lee. And with uneasy heart she
crossed the bridge and walked on and on toward the cabin till she was
close enough to detect the lines of care on her lover's haggard face.
"Stop!" he called, sharply. "Keep away. Why don't you obey me? Why don't
you go back to the valley?"
"Because I will not leave you alone--I can't! Please let me stay!"
"I beg of you go back."
The roar of the stream made it necessary to speak loudly, and he could not
put into his voice the tenderness he felt at the moment, but his face was
knotted with pain as he asked: "Don't you see you add to my uneasiness--my
pain?"
"We're so anxious about you," she answered. "It seems as though we should
be doing something to help you."
He understood, and was grateful for the tenderness which brought her so
near to him, but he was forced to be stern.
"There is nothing you can do--nothing more than you are doing. It helps me
to know that you are there, but you must not cross the bridge. Please go
back!" There was pleading as well as command in his voice, and with a
realization of the passion his voice conveyed, she retraced her steps, her
heart beating quickly with the joy which his words conveyed.
At sunset Redfield returned, bringing with him medicines but no nurse.
"Nobody will come up here," he said. "I reckon Ross is doomed to fight it
out alone. The solitude, the long trail, scares the bravest of them away.
I tried and tried--no use. Eleanor would have come, of course--demanded to
come; but I would not permit that. She commissioned me to bring you both
down to the ranch."
Lee Virginia thanked him, but reiterated her wish to stay until all
possible danger to Cavanagh was over.
Redfield crossed the bridge, and laid the medicines down outside the
door.
"The nurse from Sulphur refused to come when she found that her patient
was in a mountain cabin. I'm sorry, old man; I did the best I could."
"Never mind," replied Cavanagh. "I'm still free from any touch of fever.
I'm tired, of course, but good for another night of it. My main anxiety
concerns Lee--get her to go home with you if you can."
"I'll do the best I can," responded Redfield, "but meanwhile you must
_not_ think of getting out of the Forest Service. I have some cheering
news for you. The President has put a good man into the chief's place."
Cavanagh's face lighted up. "That'll help some," he exclaimed; "but who's
the man?"
Redfield named him. "He was a student under the chief, and the chief says
he's all right, which satisfies me. Furthermore, he's a real forester, and
not a political jobber or a corporation attorney."
"That's good," repeated Cavanagh; "and yet--" he said, sadly, "it leaves
the chief out just the same."
"No, the chief is not out. He's where he can fight for the idea to better
advantage than when he was a subordinate under another man. Anyhow, he
asks us all to line up for the work and not to mind him. The work, he
says, is bigger than any man. Here's that resignation of yours," he said,
taking Cavanagh's letter from his pocket; "I didn't put it on file. What
shall I do with it?"
"Throw it to me," said Cavanagh, curtly.
Redfield tossed it over the hitching-pole, and Ross took it up, looked at
it for a moment in silence, then tore it into bits and threw it on the
ground.
"What are your orders, Mr. Supervisor?" he asked, with a faint, quizzical
smile around his eyes.
"There's nothing you can do but take care of this man. But as soon as you
are able to ride again, I've got some special work for you. I want you to
join with young Bingham, the ranger on Rock Creek, and line up the
'Triangle' cattle. Murphy is reported to have thrown on the forest nearly
a thousand head more than his permit calls for. I want you to see about
that. Then complete your maps so that I can turn them in on the first of
November, and about the middle of December you are to take charge of this
forest in my stead. Eleanor has decided to take the children abroad for a
couple of years, and as I am to be over there part of the time, I don't
feel justified in holding down the Supervisor's position. I shall resign
in your favor. Wait, now!" he called, warningly. "The District Forester
and I framed all this up as we rode down the hill yesterday, and it goes.
Oh yes, there's one thing more. Old man Dunn--"
"I know."
"How did you learn it?"
"A reporter came boiling over the ridge about noon to-day, wanting me to
give him the names which Dunn had given me. I was strongly tempted to do
as he asked me to--you know these newspaper men are sometimes the best
kind of detectives for running down criminals; but on second thought I
concluded to wait until I had discussed the matter with you. I haven't
much faith in the county authorities."
"Ordinarily I would have my doubts myself," replied Redfield, "but the
whole country is roused, and we're going to round up these men this time,
sure. The best men and the big papers all over the West are demanding an
exercise of the law, and the reward we have offered--" He paused,
suddenly. "By-the-way, that reward will come to you if you can bring about
the arrest of the criminals."
"The reward should go to Dunn's family," replied the ranger, soberly.
"Poor chap, he's sacrificed himself for the good of the State."
"That's true. His family is left in bad shape--"
Cavanagh broke off the conversation suddenly. "I must go back to--" he had
almost said "back to Wetherford." "My patient needs me!" he exclaimed.
"How does he seem?"
"He's surely dying. In my judgment he can't last the night, but so long as
he's conscious it's up to me to be on the spot."
Redfield walked slowly back across the river, thinking on the patient
courage of the ranger.
"It isn't the obvious kind of thing, but it's courage all the same," he
said to himself.
Meanwhile Lize and Virginia, left alone beside the fire, had drawn closer
together.
The girl's face, so sweet and so pensive, wrought strongly upon the older
woman's sympathy. Something of her own girlhood came back to her. Being
freed from the town and all its associations, she became more considerate,
more thoughtful. She wished to speak, and yet she found it very hard to
begin. At last she said, with a touch of mockery in her tone: "You like
Ross Cavanagh almost as well as I do myself, don't you?"
The girl flushed a little, but her eyes remained steady. "I would not be
here if I did not," she replied.
"Neither would I. Well, now, I have got something to tell you--something I
ought to have told you long ago--something that Ross ought to know. I
intended to tell you that first day you came back, but I couldn't somehow
get to it, and I kept putting it off and putting it off till--well, then I
got fond of you, and every day made it harder." Here she made her supreme
effort. "Child, I'm an old bluff. I'm not your mother at all."
Lee stared at her in amazement. "What do you mean?" she asked.
"I mean your real mother died when you was a tiny little babe. You see, I
was your father's second wife; in fact, you weren't a year old when we
married. Ed made me promise never to let you know. We were to bring you up
just the same as if you was a child to both of us. Nobody knows but Reddy.
I told him the day we started up here."
The girl's mind ran swiftly over the past as she listened. The truth of
the revelation reached her instantly, explaining a hundred strange things
which had puzzled her all her life. The absence of deep affection between
herself and Lize was explained. Their difference in habit, temperament,
thought--all became plain. "But my mother!" she said, at last. "Who _was_
my mother?"
"I never saw her. You see, Ed came into the country bringing you, a little
motherless babe. He always said your mother was a fine woman, but I never
so much as saw a picture of her. She was an educated woman, he said--a
Southern woman--and her name was Virginia, but that's about all I can tell
you of her. Now, I am going to let Ross know all of this as soon as I can.
It will make a whole lot of difference in what he thinks of you."
She uttered all this much as a man would have done, with steady voice and
with bright eyes, but Lee Virginia could feel beneath her harsh
inflections the deep emotion which vibrated there, and her heart went out
toward the lonely woman in a new rush of tenderness. Now that she was
released from the necessity of excusing her mother's faults--faults she
could now ignore; now that she could look upon her as a loyal friend, she
was moved to pity and to love, and, rising, she went to her and put her
arm about her neck, and said: "This won't make any difference. I am going
to stay with you and help you just the same."
The tears came to the old woman's eyes, and her voice broke as she
replied: "I knew you would say that, Lee Virginia, but all the same I
don't intend to have you do any such thing. You've got to cut loose from
me altogether, because some fine chap is going to come along one of these
days, and he won't want me even as a _step_-mother-in-law. No, I have
decided that you and me had better live apart. I'll get you a place to
live up in Sulphur, where I can visit you now and again; but I guess I am
elected to stay right here in the Fork. They don't like me, and I don't
like them; but I have kind o' got used to their ways of looking at me
sidewise; they don't matter as much as it would up there in the city."
Lee turned back wistfully toward the story of her mother. "Where did my
mother meet my father? Do you know that?"
"No, I don't. It was a runaway match, Ed said. I never did know who her
folks were--only I know they thought she was marrying the wrong man."
The girl sighed as her mind took in the significance of her mother's
coming to this wild country, leaving all that she knew and loved behind.
"Poor little mother. It must have been very hard for her."
"I am afraid she did have a hard time, for Ed admitted to me that he
hadn't so much as a saddle when he landed in the State. He hadn't much
when I met him first, but everybody liked him. He was one of the
handsomest men that ever jumped a saddle. But he was close-mouthed. You
never could get anything out of him that he didn't want to tell, and I was
never able to discover what he had been doing in the southern part of the
State."
As she pondered on her changed relationship to Lize, Lee's heart
lightened. It _would_ make a difference to Ross. It would make a
difference to the Redfields. Traitorous as it seemed, it was a great
relief--a joy--to know that her own mother, her real mother, had been
"nice." "She _must_ have been nice or Lize would not have said so," she
reasoned, recalling that her stepmother had admitted her feeling of
jealousy.
At last Lize rose. "Well, now, dearie, I reckon we had better turn in. It
is getting chilly and late."
As they were about to part at the door of the tent Virginia took Lize's
face between her hands. "Good-night, mother," she said, and kissed her, to
show her that what she had said would not make any difference.
But Lize was not deceived. This unwonted caress made perfectly plain to
her the relief which filled the girl's heart.
* * * * *
Lee Virginia was awakened some hours later by a roaring, crackling sound,
and by the flare of a yellow light upon her tent. Peering out, she saw
flames shooting up through the roof of the ranger's cabin, while beside
it, wrapped in a blanket, calmly contemplating it, stood Cavanagh with
folded arms. A little nearer to the bridge Redfield was sitting upon an
upturned box.
With a cry of alarm she aroused her mother, and Lize, heavy-eyed, laggard
with sleep, rose slowly and peered out at the scene with eyes of dull
amazement. "Why don't they try to put it out?" she demanded, as she took
in the import of the passive figures.
Dressing with tremulous haste, Lee stepped from the tent just in time to
see Swenson come from behind the burning building and join the others in
silent contemplation of the scene. There was something uncanny in the calm
inaction of the three strong men.
A dense fog hung low, enveloping the whole canon in a moist, heavy,
sulphurous veil, through which the tongues of flame shot with a grandiose
effect; but the three foresters, whose shadows expanded, contracted, and
wavered grotesquely, remained motionless as carven figures of ebony. It
was as if they were contemplating an absorbing drama, in whose enactment
they had only the spectator's curious interest.
Slowly, wonderingly, the girl drew near and called to Cavanagh, who turned
quickly, crying out: "Don't come too close, and don't be frightened. I set
the place on fire myself. The poor old herder died last night, and is
decently buried in the earth, and now we are burning the cabin and every
thread it contains to prevent the spread of the plague. Hugh and Swenson
have divided their garments with me, and this blanket which I wear is my
only coat. All that I have is in that cabin now going up in smoke--my
guns, pictures, everything."
"How could you do it?" she cried out, understanding what his sacrifice had
been.
"I couldn't," he replied. "The Supervisor did it. They had to go. The
cabin was saturated with poison; it had become to me a plague spot, and
there was no other way to stamp it out. I should never have felt safe if I
had carried out even so much as a letter."
Dumb and shivering with the chill of the morning, Lee Virginia drew
nearer, ever nearer. "I am so sorry," she said, and yearned toward him,
eager to comfort him, but he warningly motioned her away.
"Please don't come any nearer, for I dare not touch you."
"But you are not ill?" she cried out, with a note of apprehension in her
voice.
He smiled in response to her question. "No, I feel nothing but weariness
and a little depression. I can't help feeling somehow as if I were burning
up a part of myself in that fire--the saddle I have ridden for years, my
guns, ropes, spurs, everything relating to the forest, are gone, and with
them my youth. I have been something of a careless freebooter myself, I
fear; but that is all over with now." He looked her in the face with a sad
and resolute glance. "The Forest Service made a man of me, taught me to
regard the future. I never accepted responsibility till I became a ranger,
and in thinking it all over I have decided to stay with it, as the boys
say, 'till the spring rains.'"
"I am very glad of that," she said.
"Yes; Dalton thinks I can qualify for the position of Supervisor, and
Redfield may offer me the supervision of this forest. If he does, I will
accept it--if you will go with me and share the small home which the
Supervisor's pay provides. Will you go?"
In the light of his burning cabin, and in the shadow of the great peaks,
Lee Virginia could not fail of a certain largeness and dignity of mood.
She neither blushed nor stammered, as she responded: "I will go anywhere
in the world with you."
He could not touch so much as the hem of her garment, but his eyes
embraced her, as he said: "God bless you for the faith you seem to have in
me!"
* * * * *
Redfield's voice interrupted with hearty clamor. "And now, Miss Virginia,
you go back and rustle some breakfast for us all. Swenson, bring the
horses in and harness my team; I'm going to take these women down the
canon. And, Ross, you'd better saddle up as soon as you feel rested and
ride across the divide, and go into camp in that little old cabin by the
dam above my house. You'll have to be sequestered for a few days, I
reckon, till we see how you're coming out. I'll telephone over to the Fork
and have the place made ready for you, and I'll have the doctor go up
there to meet you and put you straight. If you're going to be sick we'll
want you where we can look after you. Isn't that so, Lee Virginia?"
"Indeed it is," replied the girl, earnestly.
"But I'm not going to be sick," retorted Cavanagh. "I refuse to be sick."
"Quite right," replied Redfield; "but all the same we want you where we
can get at you, and where medical aid of the right sort is accessible. I'm
going to fetch my bed over here and put you into it. You need rest."
Lee still lingered after Redfield left them. "Please do as Mr. Redfield
tells you," she pleaded, "for I shall be very anxious till you get safely
down the mountains. If that poor old man has any relatives they ought to
be told how kind you have been. You could not have been kinder to one of
your own people."
These words from her had a poignancy of meaning which made his reply
difficult. His tone was designedly light as he retorted: "I would be a
fraud if I stood here listening to your praise without saying--without
confessing--how deadly weary I got of the whole business. It was simply
that there was nothing else to do. I had to go on."
Her mind still dwelt on the tragic event. "I wish he could have had some
kind of a service. It seems sort of barbarous to bury him without any one
to say a prayer over him. But I suppose that was impossible. Surely some
one ought to mark his grave, for some of his people may come and want to
know where he lies."
He led her thoughts to pleasanter paths. "I am glad you are going with the
Supervisor. You _are_ going, are you not?"
"Yes, for a few days, till I'm sure you're safe."
"I shall be tempted to pretend being sick just to keep you near me," he
was saying, when Redfield returned, bringing his sleeping-couch. Unrolling
this under a tree beside the creek, the Supervisor said: "Now, get into
that."
Cavanagh resigned Lee with a smile. "Good-night," he said. "Oh, but it's
good to remember that I shall see you to-morrow!"
With a happy glance and a low "Good-bye" she turned away.
Laying aside his blanket and his shoes, Cavanagh crept into the snug
little camp-bed. "Ah," he breathed, with a delicious sense of relief, "I
feel as if I could sleep a week!" And in an instant his eyes closed in
slumber so profound that it was barren even of dreams.
When he awoke it was noon, and Swenson, the guard, was standing over him.
"I'm sorry, but it's time to be moving," he said; "it's a long ride over
there."
"What time is it?" inquired Cavanagh, with some bewilderment.
"Nearly noon. I've got some coffee ready. Want some?"
"Do I? Just watch me!" And he scrambled out of his bed with vigor, and
stretched himself like a cat, exclaiming: "Wow! but it does feel good to
know that I am out of jail!"
Going down to the stream, he splashed his face and neck in the clear cold
water, and the brisk rubbing which followed seemed to clear his thought as
well as sharpen his appetite.
"You seem all right so far," hazarded the guide.
"I am all right, and I'll be all right to-morrow, if that's what you
mean," replied Cavanagh. "Well, now, pack up, and we'll pull out."
For a few moments after he mounted his horse Cavanagh looked about the
place as if for the last time--now up at the hill, now down at the meadow,
and last of all at the stream. "I hope you'll enjoy this station as much
as I have, Swenson. It's one of the prettiest on the whole forest."
Together they zigzagged up the side of the hill to the north, and then
with Cavanagh in the lead (followed by his pack-horse), they set up the
long lateral moraine which led by a wide circle through the wooded park
toward the pass. The weather was clear and cold. The wind bit, and
Cavanagh, scantily clothed as he was, drew his robe close about his neck,
saying: "I know now how it feels to be a blanket Indian. I must say I
prefer an overcoat."
A little later the keen eyes of the guard, sweeping the mountain-side,
were suddenly arrested. "There's a bunch of cowboys coming over the pass!"
he called.
"I see them," responded Cavanagh. "Get out your glasses and tell me who
they are."
Swenson unslung his field-glasses and studied the party attentively.
"Looks like Van Horne's sorrel in the lead, and that bald-face bay just
behind looks like the one Gregg rides. The other two I don't seem to
know."
"Perhaps it's the sheriff after me for harboring Edwards," suggested
Cavanagh.
But Swenson remained sober. He did not see the humor of the remark. "What
are they doing on the forest, anyhow?" he asked.
Half an hour later the two parties came face to face on a little stretch
of prairie in the midst of the wooded valley. There were four in the
sheriff's party: Gregg, the deputy, and a big man who was a stranger to
Cavanagh. Their horses were all tired, and the big civilian looked
saddle-weary.
"Good evenin', gentlemen!" called the sheriff, in Southern fashion, as he
drew near.
"Good evenin', Mr. Sheriff," Cavanagh civilly answered. "What's the
meaning of this invasion of my forest?"
The sheriff, for answer, presented the big stranger. "Mr. Cavanagh, this
is Mr. Simpson, the county attorney."
Cavanagh nodded to the attorney. "I've heard of Mr. Simpson," he said.
Simpson answered the question Ross had asked. "We were on our way to your
station, Mr. Cavanagh, because we understand that this old man Dunn who
shot himself had visited you before his death, giving you information
concerning the killing of the Mexican sheep-herders. Is that true?"
"It is."
"When did he visit you?"
"Two days ago, or maybe three. I am a little mixed about it. You see, I
have been pretty closely confined to my shack for a few days."