Part 40

Cavanagh fairly reeled before this retort. His head rang as if he had been struck with a club. He perceived the truth of the man's words instantly. He gasped: "Good God, man! are you Ed Wetherford?"

The answer was quick. "That's who I am!" Then his voice changed. "But I don't want the women to know I'm alive--I didn't intend to let anybody know it. My fool temper has played hell with me again"--then his voice grew firmer--"all the same, I mean it. If you or any man tries to abuse her, I'll kill him! I've loaded her up with trouble, as you say, but I'm going to do what I can to protect her--now that I'm in the county again."

Ross, confused by this new complication in the life of the girl he was beginning to love, stared at his companion in dismay. Was it not enough that Virginia's mother should be a slattern and a termagant? At last he spoke: "Where have you been all these years?"

"In the Texas 'pen.' I served nine years there."

"What for?"

"Shooting a man. It was a case of self-defence, but his family had more money and influence than I did, so I went down the road. As soon as I was out I started north--just the way a dog will point toward home. I didn't intend to come here, but some way I couldn't keep away. I shied round the outskirts of the Fork, picking up jobs of sheep-herding just to have time to turn things over. I know what you're thinking about--you're saying to yourself, 'Well, here's a nice father-in-law?' Well, now, I don't know anything about your people, but the Wetherfords are as good as anybody. If I hadn't come out into this cursed country, where even the women go shootin' wild, I would have been in Congress; but being hot-headed, I must mix in. I'm not excusing myself, you understand; I'm not a desirable addition to any man's collection of friends, but I can promise you this--no one but yourself shall ever know who I am. At the same time, you can't deceive my girl without my being named in the funeral that will follow."

It was a singular place for such an exchange of confidences. Wetherford stood with his back against his pony, his face flushed, his eyes bright as though part of his youth had returned to him, while the ranger, slender, erect, and powerful, faced him with sombre glance. Overhead the detached clouds swept swift as eagles, casting shadows cold as winter, and in the dwarfed century-old trees the wind breathed a sad monody. Occasionally the sun shone warm and golden upon the group, and then it seemed spring, and the far-off plain a misty sea.

At last Cavanagh said: "You are only a distant and romantic figure to Lee--a part of the dead past. She remembers you as a bold rider and a wondrously brave and chivalrous father."

"Does she?" he asked, eagerly.

"Yes, and she loves to talk of you. She knows the town's folk despise your memory, but that she lays to prejudice."

"She must never know. You must promise never to tell her."

"I promise that," Cavanagh said, and Edwards went on:

"If I could bring something to her--prove to her I'm still a man--it might do to tell her, but I'm a branded man now, and an old man, and there's no hope for me. I worked in one of the machine-shops down there, and it took the life out of me. Then, too, I left a bad name here in the Fork--I know that. Those big cattle-men fooled me into taking their side of the war. I staked everything I had on them, and then they railroaded me out of the county. So, you see, I'm double-crossed, no matter where I turn."

Every word he uttered made more apparent to Cavanagh that Lee Virginia would derive nothing but pain and disheartenment from a knowledge that her father lived. "She must be spared this added burden of shameful inheritance," he decided.

The other man seemed to understand something of the ranger's indignant pity, for he repeated: "I want you to swear not to let Lee know I'm alive, no matter what comes; she must not be saddled with my record. Let her go on thinking well of me. Give me your word!" He held out an insistent palm.

Ross yielded his hand, and in spite of himself his tenderness for the broken man deepened. The sky was darkening to the west, and with a glance upward he said: "I reckon we'd better make your camp soon or you'll be chilled to the bone."

They mounted hastily and rode away, each feeling that his relationship to the other had completely changed. Wetherford marvelled over the evident culture and refinement of the ranger. "He's none too good for her, no matter who he is," he said.

Upon leaving timber-line they entered upon a wide and sterile slope high on the rocky breast of the great peak, whose splintered crest lorded the range. Snow-fields lay all about, and a few hundred feet higher up the canons were filled with ice. It was a savage and tempest-swept spot in which to pitch a tent, but there among the rocks shivered the minute canvas home of the shepherd, and close beside it, guarded by a lone dog, and lying like a thick-spread flock of rimy bowlders (almost unnoticeable in their silent immobility) huddled the sheep.

"There's your house," shouted Ross to Wetherford.

The older man, with white face of dismay, looked about him, unable to make reply.

The walls of the frail teepee, flapping in the breeze, appeared hardly larger than a kerchief caught upon a bush, and the disheartened collie seemed nervously apprehensive of its being utterly swept away. The great peaks were now hid by the rain, and little could be seen but wet rocks, twisted junipers, and the trickling gray streams of icy water. The eastern landscape was naked, alpine, splendid yet appalling, and the voices of the sheep added to the dreary message of the scene.

"Hello there!" shouted Ross, wondering at the absence of human life about the camp. "Hello the house!"

Receiving no answer to his hail, he turned to Wetherford. "Looks like Joe has pulled out and left the collie to 'tend the flock. He's been kind o' seedy for some days."

Dismounting, he approached the tent. The collie, who knew him, seemed to understand his errand, for he leaped upon him as if to kiss his cheek. Ross put him down gently. "You're almost too glad to see me, old fellow. I wonder how long you've been left here alone?"

Thereupon he opened the tied flap, but started back with instant perception of something wrong, for there, on his pile of ragged quilts, lay the Basque herder, with flushed face and rolling eyes, crazed with fever and entirely helpless. "You'd better not come in here, Wetherford," Ross warned. "Joe is here, horribly sick, and I'm afraid it's something contagious. It may be smallpox."

Wetherford recoiled a step. "Smallpox! What makes you think that?"

"Well, these Basques have been having it over in their settlement, and, besides, it smells like it." He listened a moment. "I'm afraid Joe's in for it. He's crazy with it. But he's a human being, and we can't let him die here alone. You rustle some wood for the stove, and I'll see what I can do for him."

Wetherford was old and wasted and thin-blooded, but he had never been a coward, and in his heart there still burned a small flame of his youthful, reckless, generous daring. Pushing Cavanagh one side, he said, with firm decision: "You keep out o' there. I'm the one to play nurse. This is my job."