Part 46

Wetherford himself paused to moralize. "I suppose that chap has a mother somewhere who is wondering where her boy is. This isn't exactly Christian burial, but it's all he'll get, I reckon; for whether it was smallpox or plain fever, nobody's going to uselessly resurrect him. Even the coyotes will fight shy of his meat."

Nevertheless, the ranger took a hand at the end and rolled some huge bowlders upon the grave, to insure the wolves' defeat.

"Now burn the bedding," he commanded--"the whole camp has got to go--and your clothing, too, after we get down the hill."

"What will we do with the sheep?"

"Drive them over the divide and leave them."

All these things Wetherford did, and leaving the camp in ashes behind him, Cavanagh drove the sheep before him on his homeward way. As night fell, the dog, at his command, rounded them up and put them to bed, and the men went on down the valley, leaving the brave brute on guard, pathetic figure of faithful guardianship.

"It hurts me to desert you, old fellow," called the ranger, looking back, "but there's no help for it. I'll come up in the morning and bring you some biscuit."

The collie seemed to understand. He waggled his tail and whined, as though struggling to express his wonder and pain, and Ross, moved to pity, called: "Come on, boy, never mind the sheep! Come along with us!"

But the dog, leaping from side to side, uttered a short howl and a sharp bark, as if to say: "I can't! I can't!"

"He's onto his job," remarked Wetherford. "It beats all how human they do seem sometimes. I've no manner of doubt that dago's booted him all over the place many a time, and yet he seemed horrible sorry about his master's trouble. Every few minutes, all night long, he'd come pattering and whining round the door of the tent--didn't come in, seemed just trying to ask how things were coming. He was like a child, lonesome and grieving."

It was long after dark when they entered the canon just above the cabin, and Wetherford was shivering from cold and weakness.

"Now you pull up just outside the gate, and wait there till I bring out some blankets; then you've got to strip to the skin and start the world all over again," said Cavanagh. "I'll build a fire here, and we'll cremate your past. How about it?"

"I'm willing," responded Wetherford. "You can burn everything that belongs to me but my wife and my girl."

All through the ceremony which followed ran this self-banter. "I'll be all ranger, barring a commission," he said, with a grin, as he put on the olive-yellow shirt and a pair of dusty-green trousers. "And here goes my past!" he added, as he tossed his contaminated rags upon the fire.

"What a corking opportunity to make a fresh start," commented Cavanagh. "I hope you see it."

"I see it; but it's hard to live up to your mark."

When every precaution had been taken, the ranger led the freshly scrubbed, scoured, and transformed fugitive to his cabin.

"Why, man, you're fit for the State Legislature," he exclaimed, as they came into the full light. "My clothes don't precisely meet every demand you make upon them, but they give you an air of command. I wish your wife could see you now."

Wetherford was quite serious as he answered: "This uniform means more to me than you think. I wish I was entitled to wear it. The wild-wood is just about populous enough for me."

"Good for you!" responded Cavanagh. "To convert a man of your record to a belief in conservation is to demonstrate once again the regenerative power of an idea." Then, seeing that Wetherford was really in earnest, he added: "You can stay with me as long as you wish. Perhaps in time you might be able to work into the service as a guard, although the chief is getting more and more insistent on real foresters."

There were tears in Wetherford's eyes as he said: "You cannot realize what this clean, warm uniform means to me. For nine years I wore the prison stripes; then I was turned loose with a shoddy suit and a hat a size too big for me--an outfit that gave me away everywhere I went. Till my hair and beard sprouted I had a hard rustle of it, but my clothes grew old faster than my beard. At last I put every cent I had earned into a poor old horse, and a faded saddle, and once mounted I kept a-moving north." He smoothed the sleeve of his coat. "It is ten years since I was dressed like a man."

"You need not worry about food or shelter for the present," replied Cavanagh, gently. "Grub is not costly here, and house-rent is less than nominal, so make yourself at home and get strong."

Wetherford lifted his head. "But I want to do something. I want to redeem myself in some way. I don't want my girl to know who I am, but I'd like to win her respect. I can't be what you say she thinks I was, but if I had a chance I might show myself a man again. I wouldn't mind Lize knowing that I am alive--it might be a comfort to her; but I don't want even her to be told till I can go to her in my own duds."

"She's pretty sick," said Cavanagh. "I telephoned Lee Virginia last night, and if you wish you may ride down with me to-morrow and see her."

The old man fell a-tremble. "I daren't do that. I can't bear to tell her where I've been!"

"She needn't know. I will tell her you've been out of your mind. I'll say anything you wish! You can go to her in the clothes you have on if you like--she will not recognize you as the prisoner I held the other night. You can have your beard trimmed, and not even the justice will know you."

All reserve had vanished out of the convict's heart, and with choking voice he thanked his young host. "I'll never be a burden to you," he declared, in firmer voice. "And if my lung holds out, I'll show you I'm not the total locoe that I 'pear to be."

No further reference was made to Lee Virginia, but Ross felt himself to be more deeply involved than ever by these promises; his fortunes seemed to be inextricably bound up with this singular and unhappy family. Lying in his bunk (after the lights were out), he fancied himself back in his ancestral home, replying to the questions of his aunts and uncles, who were still expecting him to bring home a rich and beautiful American heiress. Some of the Cavanaghs were drunkards and some were vixens, but they were on the whole rather decent, rather decorous and very dull, and to them this broken ex-convict and this slattern old barmaid would seem very far from the ideal they had formed of the family into which Ross was certain to marry.