Chapter 15

The young fellow was moved to explain his position to Lize. "You don't think much of me, and I don't blame you. I haven't been much use so far, but I'm going to reform. If I had a girl like Lee Virginia to live up to, I'd make a great citizen. I don't lay my arrest up against Cavanagh. I'm ready to pass that by. And as for this other business--this free-range war in which the old man is mixed up--I want you to know that I'm against it. Dad knows his day is short; that's what makes him so hot. But he's a bluff--just a fussy old bluff. He knows he has no more right to the Government grass than anybody else, but he's going to get ahead of the cattle-men if he can."

"Does he know who burned them sheep-herders?"

"Of course he knows, but ain't going to say so. You see, that old Basque who was killed was a monopolist, too. He went after that grass without asking anybody's leave; moreover, he belonged to that Mexican-Dago outfit that everybody hates. The old man isn't crying over that job; it's money in his pocket. All the same it's too good a chance to put the hooks into the cattle-men, hence his offering a reward, and it looks as if something would really be done this time. They say Neill Ballard was mixed up in it, and that old guy that showed me the sheep, but I don't take much stock in that. Whoever did it was paid by the cattle-men, sure thing." The young fellow's tone and bearing made a favorable impression upon Lize. She had never seen this side of him, for the reason that he had hitherto treated her as a bartender. She was acute enough to understand that her social status had changed along with her release from the cash-register, and she was slightly more reconciled, although she could not see her way to providing a living for herself and Lee. For all these reasons she was unwontedly civil to Joe, and sent him away highly elated with the success of his interview.

"I'm going to let him take us up to Sulphur," she said to Lee. "I want to go to town."

Lee was silent, but a keen pang ran through her heart, for she perceived in this remark by her mother a tacit acknowledgment of Ross Cavanagh's desertion of them both. His invitation to them to come and camp with him was only a polite momentary impulse. "I'm ready to go," she announced, at last. "I'm tired of this place. Let us go to-morrow."

On the following morning, while they were busy packing for this journey, Redfield rolled up to the door in company with a young man in the uniform of a forester.

"Go ask Reddy to come in," commanded Lize. "I want to see him."

Redfield met the girl at the door and presented his companion as "Mr. Dalton, District Forester." Dalton was a tall young fellow with a marked Southern accent. "Is Cavanagh, the ranger, in town?" he asked.

"No," Lee replied, with effort; "he was here a few days ago, but he's gone back to the forest."

Redfield studied the girl with keen gaze, perceiving a passionate restraint in her face.

"How is your mother?" he asked, politely.

Lee smiled faintly. "She's able to sit up. Won't you come in and see her?"

"With pleasure," assented Redfield, "but I want to see you alone. I have something to say to you." He turned to his superior. "Just go into the café, Dalton. I'll see you in a moment."

Lee Virginia, hitherto ashamed of the house, the furniture, the bed--everything--led the way without a word of apology. It was all detached now, something about to be left behind, like a bad garment borrowed in a time of stress. Nothing mattered since Ross did not return.

Lize, looking unwontedly refined and gentle, was sitting in a big rocking-chair with her feet on a stool, her eyes fixed on the mountains, which showed through the open window. All the morning a sense of profound change, of something passing, had oppressed her. Now that she was about to leave the valley, its charm appealed to her. She was tearing up a multitude of tiny roots of whose existence she had hitherto remained unaware. "I belong here," she acknowledged, silently. "I'd be homesick anywhere else on God's earth. It's rough and fly-bit, and all that, but so am I. I wouldn't fit in anywhere that Lee belonged."

She acknowledged an especial liking for Redfield, and she had penetration enough, worldly wisdom enough, to know that Lee belonged more to his world than to her own, and that his guidance and friendship were worth more, much more, than that of all the rest of the country, her own included. Therefore, she said: "I'm mighty glad to see you, Reddy. Sit down. You've got to hear my little spiel this time."

Redfield, perched on the edge of a tawdry chair, looked about (like the charity visitor in a slum kitchen) without intending to express disgust; but it was a dismal room in which to be sick, and he pitied the woman the more profoundly as he remembered her in the days when "all out-doors" was none too wide for her.

Lize began, abruptly: "I'm down, but not out; in fact, I was coming up to see you this afternoon. Lee and I are just about pulling out for good."

"Indeed! Why not go back with me?"

"You can take the girl back if you want to, but now that I'm getting my chance at you I may not go."

Redfield's tone was entirely cordial as he turned to Lee. "I came hoping to carry you away. Will you come?"

"I'm afraid I can't unless mother goes," she replied, sadly.

Lize waved an imperative hand. "Fade away, child. I want to talk with Mr. Redfield alone. Go, see!"

Thus dismissed, Lee went back to the restaurant, where she found the Forester just sitting down to his luncheon. "Mr. Redfield will be out in a few minutes," she explained.

"Won't you join me?" he asked, in the frank accent of one to whom women are comrades. "The Supervisor has been telling me about you."

She took a seat facing him, feeling something refined in his long, smoothly shaven, boyish face. He seemed very young to be District Forester, and his eyes were a soft brown with small wrinkles of laughter playing round their corners.

He began at once on the subject of his visit. "Redfield tells me you are a friend of Mr. Cavanagh's; did you know that he had resigned?"

She faced him with startled eyes. "No, indeed. Has he done so?"

"Yes, the Supervisor got a letter yesterday enclosing his resignation, and asking to be relieved at once. And when I heard of it I asked the Supervisor to bring me down to see him; he's too good a man to lose."

"Why did he resign?"

"He seemed very bitter over the chief's dismissal; but I hope to persuade him to stay in the service; he's too valuable a man to lose just now when the war is so hot. I realize that his salary is too small; but there are other places for him. Perhaps when he knows that I have a special note to him from the chief he will reconsider. He's quite capable of the Supervisor's position, and Mr. Redfield is willing to resign in his favor. I'm telling you all this because Mr. Redfield has told me of your interest in Mr. Cavanagh--or rather his interest in you."

Sam Gregg, entering the door at this moment, came directly to the Forester's table. He was followed by the sheriff, a bearded old man with a soiled collar and a dim eye.

Gregg growled out, "You'd better keep your man Cavanagh in the hills, Mr. Forester, or somebody will take a pot-shot at him."

"Why, what's new?"

"His assistant is down with smallpox."

"_Smallpox_!" exclaimed Dalton.

Every jaw was fixed and every eye turned upon the speaker.

"Smallpox!" gasped Lee.

Gregg resumed, enjoying the sensation he was creating. "Yes, that Basque herder of mine--the one up near Black Tooth--sent word he was sick, so I hunted up an old tramp by the name of Edwards to take his place. Edwards found the dago dying of pox, and skipped out over the range, leaving him to die alone. Cavanagh went up and found the dago dead, and took care of him--result is, he's full of germs, and has brought his apprentice down with it, and both of 'em must be quarantined right where they are."

"Good heavens, man!" exclaimed Dalton. "This is serious business. Are you sure it's smallpox?"

"One of my men came from there last night. I was there myself on Monday, so was the deputy. The sheriff missed Tom this morning, but I reached him by 'phone, and Cavanagh admitted to us that the Basque died of smallpox, and that he buried him with his own hands."

The sheriff spoke up. "The criminal part of it is this, Mr. Dalton: Cavanagh didn't report the case when he came down here, just went about leaving a trail of poison. Why didn't he report it? He should be arrested."

"Wait a moment," said Dalton. "Perhaps it wasn't pox, perhaps it was only mountain-fever. Cavanagh is not the kind of man to involve others in a pestilence. I reckon he knew it was nothing but a fever, and, not wishing to alarm his friends, he just slid into town and out again."

A flash of light, of heat, of joy went through Lee's heart as she listened to Dalton's defence of Cavanagh. "That was the reason why he rode away," she thought. "He was afraid of bringing harm to us." And this conviction lighted her face with a smile, even while the Forester continued his supposition by saying, "Of course, proper precautions should be taken, and as we are going up there, the Supervisor and I will see that a quarantine is established if we find it necessary."

Gregg was not satisfied: "Cavanagh admitted to the deputy and to me that he believed the case to be smallpox, and said that he had destroyed the camp and everything connected with it except the horse and the dog, and yet he comes down here infectin' everybody he meets." He turned to Lee. "You'd better burn the bed he slept on. He's left a trail of germs wherever he went. I say the man is criminally liable, and should be jailed if he lives to get back to town."

Lee's mind was off now on another tangent. "Suppose it is true?" she asked herself. "Suppose he has fallen sick away up there, miles and miles from any nurse or doctor--"

"There's something queer about the whole business," pursued Gregg. "For instance, who is this assistant he's got? Johnson said there was an old man in ranger uniform potterin' round. Why didn't he send word by him? Why did he let me come to the door? He might have involved _me_ in the disease. I tell you, if you don't take care of him the people of the county will."

The Forester looked grave. "If he _knew_ it was pox and failed to report it he certainly did wrong; but you say he took care of this poor shepherd--nursed him till he died, and buried him, taking all precautions--you can't complain of that, can you? That's the act of a good ranger and a brave man. _You_ wouldn't have done it!" he ended, addressing Gregg. "Sickness up there two full miles above sea-level is quite a different proposition from sickness in Sulphur City or the Fork. I shall not condemn Mr. Cavanagh till I hear his side of the story."

Lee turned a grateful glance upon him. "You must be right. I don't believe Mr. Cavanagh would deceive any one."

"Well, we'll soon know the truth," said Dalton, "for I'm going up there. If the ranger has been exposed, he must not be left alone."

"He ain't alone," declared the sheriff. "Tom 'phoned me that he had an assistant."

"Swenson, I suppose," said Redfield, who entered at this moment. "Swenson is his assistant."

"I didn't see him myself," Gregg continued, "but I understood the deputy to say that he was an old man."

"Swenson is a young man," corrected Redfield.

The sheriff insisted. "Tom said it was an old man--a stranger to him--tall, smooth-shaven, not very strong, he said--'peared to be a cook. He had helped nurse the dago, so Tom said."

"That's very curious," mused Redfield. "There isn't an old man in the service of this forest. There's a mistake somewhere."

"Well," concluded Gregg, "that's what he said. I thought at first it might be that old hobo Edwards, but this feller being in uniform and smooth-shaven--" His face changed, his voice deepened. "Say, by the Lord! I believe it was Edwards, and, furthermore, Edwards is the convict that Texas marshal was after the other day, and this man Cavanagh--your prize ranger--is harborin' him."

"What nonsense!" exclaimed Redfield.

The sheriff banged his hand upon the table. "That's the whole mystery. I see it all now. He's up there concealing this man. He's given out this smallpox scare just to keep the officers away from him. Now you've got it!"

The thunder in his voice drew toward him all those who remained in the dining-room, and Lee found herself ringed about by a dozen excited men. But she did not flinch; she was too deeply concerned over Cavanagh's fate to be afraid, and, besides, Redfield and the Forester were beside her.

The Supervisor was staggered by Gregg's accusation, and by certain confirmatory facts in his own possession, but he defended Cavanagh bravely. "You're crazy," he replied. "Why should Ross do such a foolish thing? What is his motive? What interest would he have in this man Edwards, whom you call a tramp? He can't be a relative and certainly not a friend of Cavanagh's, for you say he is a convict. Come, now, your hatred of Cavanagh has gone too far."

Gregg was somewhat cooled by this dash of reason, but replied: "I don't know what relation he is, but these are facts. He's concealing an escaped convict, and he knows it."

Dalton put in a quiet word. "What is the use of shouting a judgment against a man like Cavanagh before you know the facts? He's one of the best and ablest rangers on this forest. I don't know why he has resigned, but I'm sure--"

"Has he resigned?" asked Gregg, eagerly.

"He has."

"A damn good job for him. I was about to circulate a petition to have him removed."

"If all the stockmen in the valley had signed a petition against him, it wouldn't have done any good," replied Dalton. "We know a good man when we see him. I'm here to offer him promotion, not to punish him."

Lee, looking about at the faces of these men, and seeing disappointment in their faces, lost the keen sting of her own humiliation. "In the midst of such a fight as this, how can he give time or thought to me?" Painful as the admission was, she was forced to admit that she was a very humble factor in a very large campaign. "But suppose he falls ill!" Her face grew white and set, and her lips bitter. "That would be the final, tragic touch," she thought, "to have him come down of a plague from nursing one of Sam Gregg's sheep-herders." Aloud she said: "His resignation comes just in time, doesn't it? He can now be sick without loss to the service."

Dalton answered her. "The Supervisor has not accepted his resignation. On the contrary, I shall offer him a higher position. His career as a forester is only beginning. He would be foolish to give up the work now, when the avenues of promotion are just opening. I can offer him very soon the supervision of a forest."

As they talked Lee felt herself sinking the while her lover rose. It was all true. The Forester was right. Ross was capable of any work they might demand of him. He was too skilled, too intelligent, too manly, to remain in the forest, heroic as its duties seemed.

Upon this discussion, Lize, hobbling painfully, appeared. With a cry of surprise, Lee rose to meet her.

"Mother, you must not do this!"

She waved her away. "I'm all right," she said, "barring the big marbles in my slippers." Then she turned to Dalton. "Now what's it all about? Is it true that Ross is down?"

"No. So far as we know, he is well."

"Well, I'm going to find out. I don't intend to set here and have him up there without a cook or a nurse."

At this moment a tall, fair young fellow, dressed in a ranger's uniform, entered the room, and made his way directly to the spot where Lee, her mother, and Redfield were standing. "Mr. Supervisor, Cavanagh has sent me to tell you that he needs a doctor. He's got a sick man up at The Station, and he's afraid it's a case of smallpox." He turned to Lee. "He told me to tell you that he would have written, only he was afraid to even send a letter out."

"What does he need?" asked Redfield.

"He needs medicine and food, a doctor, and he ought to have a nurse."

"That's my job," said Lize.

"Nonsense!" said Redfield. "You're not fit to ride a mile. I won't hear of your going."

"You wait and see. I'm goin', and you can't stop me."

"Who is the man with him?" asked the Forester.

"I don't know. An old herder, he said. He said he could take care of him all right for the present, but that if he were taken down himself--"

Lee's mounting emotion broke from her in a little cry. "Oh, Mr. Redfield, please let me go too! I want to help--I must help!"

Redfield said: "I'll telephone to Sulphur City and ask Brooks to get a nurse, and come down as soon as possible. Meanwhile I'll go out to see what the conditions are."

"I'm going too, I tell you," announced Lize. "I've had the cussed disease, and I'm not afraid of it. We had three sieges of it in my family. You get me up there, and I'll do the rest."

"But you are ill?"

"I was, but I'm not now." Her voice was firmer than it had been for days. "All I needed was something to do. Ross Cavanagh has been like a son to me for two years; he's the one man in this country I'd turn my hand over for--barrin' yourself, Reddy--and it's my job to see him through this pinch."

In spite of all opposition, she had her way. Returning to her room to get such clothing as she needed for her stay in the hills, she waited for Redfield to send a carriage to her. "I can't ride a horse no more," she sorrowfully admitted.

Lee's secret was no secret to any one there. Her wide eyes and heaving breast testified to the profound stir in her heart. She was in an anguish of fear lest Ross should already be in the grip of his loathsome enemy. That it had come to him by way of a brave and noble act only made the situation the more tragic.

XIV

THE PEST-HOUSE

Cavanagh had kept a keen watch over Wetherford, and when one night the old man began to complain of the ache in his bones his decision was instant.

"You've got it," he said. "It's up to us to move down the valley to-morrow."

Wetherford protested that he would as soon die in the hills as in the valley. "I don't want Lee Virginia to know, but if I seem liable to fade out, I'd like Lize to be told that I didn't forget her, and that I came back to find out how she was. I hate to be a nuisance to you, and so I'll go down the valley if you say so."

As he was about to turn in that night Ross heard a horse cross the bridge, and with intent to warn the rider of his danger, went to the door and called out: "Halt! Who's there?"

"A friend," replied the stranger, in a weak voice.

Ross permitted his visitor to ride up to the pole. "I can't ask you in," he explained. "I've a sick man inside. Who are you, and what can I do for you?"

Notwithstanding this warning the rider dropped from his saddle, and came into the light which streamed from the door.

"My name is Dunn," he began. "I'm from Deer Creek."

"I know you," responded the ranger. "You're that rancher I saw working in the ditch the day I went to telephone, and you've come to tell me something about that murder."

The other man broke into a whimper. "I'm a law-abiding man, Mr. Cavanagh," he began, tremulously. "I've always kept the law, and never intended to have anything to do with that business. I was dragged into it against my will. I've come to you because you're an officer of the Federal law. You don't belong here. I trust you. You represent the President, and I want to tell you what I know--only I want you to promise not to bring me into it. I'm a man of a family, and I can't bear to have them know the truth."

There was deep agitation and complete sincerity in the rancher's choked and hesitant utterance, and Cavanagh turned cold with a premonition of what he was about to disclose. "I am not an officer of the law, Mr. Dunn, not in the sense you mean, but I will respect your wishes."

"I know that you are not an officer of the county law, but you're not a cattle-man. It is your business to keep the peace in the wild country, and you do it, everybody knows that; but I can't trust the officers of this country, they're all afraid of the cowboys. You're not afraid, and you represent the United States, and I'll tell you. I can't bear it any longer!" he wailed. "I must tell somebody. I can't sleep and I can't eat. I've been like a man in a nightmare ever since. I had no hand in the killing--I didn't even see it done; but I knew it was going to happen. I saw the committee appointed. The meeting that decided it was held in my barn, but I didn't know what they intended to do. You believe me, don't you?" He peered up at Cavanagh with white face and wild eyes.

"Go on," replied the ranger; "I'll protect you--if I can. Go on. It's your duty--tell all you know."

The troubled man, after a little silence, resumed. "Sometimes I feel that I'd be happier in jail than I am walking about in the sunshine. I never dreamed civilized men could do such deeds. I thought they were only going to scare the herders and drive them out, as they've done so many times before. I can see now that they used my barn for a meeting-place because everybody believed me to be a man of peace. And I am. I'm over seventy years of age, Mr. Cavanagh, and I've been a law-abiding citizen all my life."

His mind, shattered by the weight of his ghastly secret, was in confusion, and, perceiving this, Cavanagh began to question him gently. One by one he procured the names of those who voted to "deal with" the herders. One by one he obtained also the list of those named on "the Committee of Reprisal," and as the broken man delivered himself of these accusing facts he grew calmer. "I didn't know--I couldn't _believe_--that the men on that committee could chop and burn--" His utterance failed him again, and he fell silent abruptly.

"They must have been drunk--mad drunk," retorted Cavanagh. "And yet who would believe that even drink could inflame white men to such devil's work? When did you first know what had been done?"

"That night after it was done one of the men, my neighbor, who was drawn on the committee, came to my house and asked me to give him a bed. He was afraid to go home. 'I can't face my wife and children,' he said. He told me what he'd seen, and then when I remembered that it had all been decided in my stable, and the committee appointed there, I began to tremble. You believe I'm telling the truth, don't you?" he again asked, with piteous accent.

"Yes, I believe you. You must tell this story to the judge. It will end the reign of the cattle-men."

"Oh no, I can't do that."

"You must do that. It is your duty as a Christian man and citizen."

"No, no; I'll stay and help you--I'll do anything but that. I'm afraid to tell what I know. They would burn me alive. I'm not a Western man. I've never been in a criminal court. I don't belong to this wild country. I came out here because my daughter is not strong, and now--" He broke down altogether, and leaning against his horse's side, sobbed pitifully.

Cavanagh, convinced that the old man's mind was too deeply affected to enable him to find his way back over the rough trail that night, spoke to him gently. "I'll get you something to eat," he said. "Sit down here, and rest and compose yourself."

Wetherford turned a wild eye on the ranger as he reentered. "Who's out there?" he asked. "Is it the marshal?"

"No, it's only one of the ranchers from below; he's tired and hungry, and I'm going to feed him," Ross replied, filled with a vivid sense of the diverse characters of the two men he was serving.

Dunn received the food with an eager hand, and after he had finished his refreshment, Cavanagh remarked: "The whole country should be obliged to you for your visit to me. I shall send your information to Supervisor Redfield."