Part 27

"Been hunting?" queried the ranger, still with cheery, polite interest.

"Oh no; just visiting one of my sheep-camps."

Cavanagh's voice was a little less suave. "Not on this creek," he declared. "I moved your herder last week." He walked forward. "That's a heavy load for a short trip to a sheep-camp." He put his hand on the pack. "I guess you'll have to open this, for I heard two shots yesterday morning up where that flock of mountain-sheep is running, and, furthermore, I can see blood-stains on this saddle-blanket."

Neither of the men made answer, but the old man turned an inquiring look at his young leader.

The ranger flung his next sentence out like the lash of a whip. "Open this sack or I cut the ropes!"

Gregg threw out a hand in command. "Open it up, Edwards!" he said, sullenly.

With mechanical readiness the guide alighted from his horse, loosened the cinch on the pack-horse, and disclosed the usual camp-bed.

"Put off that bedding!" insisted the ranger.

Off came the outfit, and under the tent lay the noble head of a wild ram--a look of reproach still in his splendid yellow eyes.

Cavanagh's face hardened. "I thought so. Now heave it back and cinch up. It's you to the nearest magistrate, which happens to be Higley, of Roaring Fork. I'll make an example of you fellows."

There was nothing for Gregg to say and nothing for Edwards to do but obey, for a resolute ranger with an excellent weapon of the latest and most approved angular pattern stood ready to enforce his command; and when the pack was recinched, Cavanagh waved an imperative hand. "I guess I'll have to take charge of your guns," he said, and they yielded without a word of protest. "Now march! Take the left-hand trail. I'll be close behind."

A couple of hours of silent travel brought them to the ranger's cabin, and there he ordered a dismount.

As the coffee was boiling he lectured them briefly. "You fellows are not entirely to blame," he remarked, philosophically. "You've been educated to think a game warden a joke and Uncle Sam a long way off. But things have changed a bit. The law of the State has made me game warden, and I'm going to show you how it works. It's my duty to see that you go down the road--and down you go!"

Edwards, the guide, was plainly very uneasy, and made several attempts to reach Cavanagh's private ear, and at last succeeded. "I've been fooled into this," he urged. "I was hard up and a stranger in the country, and this young fellow hired me to guide him across the range. I didn't shoot a thing. I swear I didn't. If you'll let me off, I'll hit the trail to the West and never look back. For God's sake, don't take me down the road! Let me off."

"I can't do that," replied Cavanagh; but his tone was kindlier, for he perceived that the old fellow was thin, hollow-chested, and poorly clad. "You knew you were breaking the laws, didn't you?"

This the culprit admitted. "But I was working for Sam Gregg, and when Joe asked me to go show him the trail, I didn't expect to get cinched for killing game. I didn't fire a shot--now that's the God's truth."

"Nevertheless," retorted Ross, "you were packing the head, and I must count you in the game."

Edwards fell silent then, but something in his look deepened the ranger's pity. His eyes were large and dark, and his face so emaciated that he seemed fit only for a sanitarium.

The trip to the Fork (timed to the gait of a lazy pack-horse) was a tedious eight hours' march, and it was nearly seven o'clock when they arrived at the outskirts of the village. There had been very few words spoken by Cavanagh, and those which the prisoners uttered were not calculated to cheer the way. Joe blamed his guide for their mishap. "You should have known how far the sound of our guns would carry," he said.

As they were nearing the village he called out: "See here, Cavanagh, there's no use taking me through town under arrest. I'll cough up all we got right now. How much is the damage?"

"I can't receive your fine," replied Ross, "and, besides, you took your chances when you shot that sheep. You lost out, and I'm not going to let you off. This poaching must stop. You go right along with your guide."

Again Edwards drew near, and pled in a low voice: "See here, Mr. Ranger, I have special reasons why I don't want to go into this town under arrest. I wish you'd let me explain."

There was deep emotion in his voice, but Ross was firm. "I'm sorry for you," he said, "but my duty requires me to take you before a magistrate--"

"But you don't know my case," he replied, with bitter intensity. "I'm out 'on parole.' I can't afford to be arrested in this way. Don't you see?"

Ross looked at him closely. "Are you telling me the truth?"

"Would you have mercy on me if I were?"

"I should be sorry for you, but I couldn't let you go."

"You won't believe me, but it's the God Almighty's truth: I didn't know Joe intended to kill that sheep. He asked me to show him over the pass. I had no intention of killing anything. I wish to God you would let me go!" His voice was tense with pleading.