Part 37

"A man that builds trail, lays bridges, burns brush, fights fire, rides the round-up, and covers seventy-five miles of trail every week on eighty dollars per month, and feeds himself and his horses, isn't what I would call enjoying a soft snap."

"What do you do it for?"

"God knows! I've been asking myself that question all day to-day."

"This playin' game warden has some outs, too. That was a wild crowd last night. The town is the same old hell-hole it was when I knew it years ago. Fine girl of Lize Wetherford's. She blocked me all right." He smiled wanly. "I certainly was on my way to the green timber when she put the bars up."

Ross made no comment, and the other went on, in a tone of reminiscent sadness. "Lize has changed terribly. I used to know her when she was a girl. Judas Priest! but she could ride and shoot in those days!" His eyes kindled with the memory of her. "She could back a horse to beat any woman that ever crossed the range, but I didn't expect to see her have such a skein of silk as that girl. She sure looks the queen to me."

Cavanagh did not greatly relish this line of conversation, but the pause enabled him to say: "Miss Wetherford is not much Western; she got her training in the East. She's been with an aunt ever since her father's death."

"He's dead, is he?"

"So far as anybody knows, he is."

"Well, he's no loss. I knew him, too. He was all kinds of a fool; let a few slick ones seduce him with fizz-water and oysters on the half-shell--that's the kind of a weak sister he was. He got on the wrong side of the rustler line-up--you know all about that, I reckon? Fierce old days, those. We didn't know anything about forest rangers or game wardens in them days."

The stranger's tone was now that of a man quite certain of himself. He had become less furtive under the influence of the food and fire.

Ross defended Wetherford for Virginia's sake. "He wasn't altogether to blame, as I see it. He was the Western type in full flower, that's all. He had to go like the Indian and the buffalo. And these hobos like Ballard and Gregg will go next."

Edwards sank back into his chair. "I reckon that's right," he agreed, and made offer to help clear away the supper dishes.

"No, you're tired," replied Ross; "rest and smoke. I'll soon be done."

The poacher each moment seemed less of the hardened criminal, and more and more of the man prematurely aged by sickness and dissipation, and gradually the ranger lost all feeling of resentment.

As he sat down beside the fire, Edwards said: "Them Wetherford women think a whole lot of you. 'Pears like they'd both fight for you. Are you sweet on the girl?"

"Now, see here, old man," Ross retorted, sharply, "you want to do a lot of thinking before you comment on Miss Wetherford. I won't stand for any nasty clack."

Edwards meekly answered: "I wasn't going to say anything out of the way. I was fixin' for to praise her."

"All the same, I don't intend to discuss her with you," was Cavanagh's curt answer.

The herder fell back into silence while the ranger prepared his bunk for the night. The fact that he transferred some of the blankets from his own bed to that of his visitor did not escape Edwards's keen eyes, and with grateful intent he said:

"I can give you a tip, Mr. Ranger," said he, breaking out of a silence. "The triangle outfit is holding more cattle on the forest than their permits call for."

"How do you know?"

"I heard one of the boys braggin' about it."

"Much obliged," responded Ross. "I'll look into it."

Edwards went on: "Furthermore, they're fixing for another sheep-kill over there, too; all the sheepmen are armed. That's why I left the country. I don't want to run any more chances of being shot up. I've had enough of trouble; I can't afford to be hobnobbing with judges and juries."

"When does your parole end?" asked Ross.

Edwards forced a grin. "I was handing you one when I said that," he declared, weakly. "I was workin' up sympathy. I'm not out on parole; I'm just a broken-down old cow-puncher herdin' sheep in order to keep clear of the liquor belt."

This seemed reasonable, and the ranger remarked, by way of dropping the subject: "I've nothing to say further than this--obey the rules of the forest, and you won't get into any further trouble with me. And as for being shot up by the cow-men, you'll not be disturbed on any national forest. There never has been a single herder shot nor a sheep destroyed on this forest."

"I'm mighty glad to hear that," replied Edwards, with sincere relief. "I've had my share of shooting up and shooting down. All I ask now is quiet and the society of sheep. I take a kind of pleasure in protecting the fool brutes. It's about all I'm good for."