Part 51

"I don't know, but it looked and smelled like smallpox."

The deputy rose with a spring. "Smallpox! You didn't handle the cuss?"

Cavanagh did not spare him. "Somebody had to lend a hand. I couldn't see him die there alone, and he had to be buried, so I did the job."

Gregg recoiled a step or two, but the deputy stood staring, the implication of all this sinking deep. "Were you wearing the same clothes you've got on?"

"Yes, but I used a slicker while working around the body."

"Good King!" The sweat broke out on the man's face. "You ought to be arrested."

Ross took a step toward him. "I'm at your service."

"Keep off!" shouted the sheriff.

Ross smiled, then became very serious. "I took every precaution, Mr. Deputy; I destroyed everything that could possibly carry the disease. I burned every utensil, including the saddle, everything but the man's horse and his dog!"

"The dog!" exclaimed the deputy, seized with another idea. "Not that dog you fed just now?"

"The very same," replied Cavanagh.

"Don't you know a dog's sure to carry the poison in his hair? Why, he jumped on you! Why didn't you shoot him?" he demanded, fiercely.

"Because he's a faithful guardian, and, besides, he was with the sheep, and never so much as entered the tent."

"Do you know that?"

"Not absolutely, but he seemed to be on shy terms with the herder, and I'm sure--"

The officer caught up his hat and coat and started for the door. "It's me for the open air," said he.

As the men withdrew Ross followed them, and, standing in his door, delivered his final volley. "If this State does not punish those fiends, every decent man should emigrate out of it, turning the land over to the wolves, the wildcats, and other beasts of prey."

Gregg, as he retreated, called back: "That's all right, Mr. Ranger, but you'd better keep to the hills for a few weeks. The settlers down below won't enjoy having a man with smallpox chassayin' around town. They might rope and tie you."

Wetherford came out of his hiding-place with a grave face. "I wonder I didn't think of that collie. They say a cat's fur will carry disease germs like a sponge. Must be the same with a dog."

"Well, it's too late now," replied Cavanagh. "But they're right about our staying clear of town. They'll quarantine us sure. All the same, I don't believe the dog carried any germs of the disease."

Wetherford, now that the danger of arrest was over, was disposed to be grimly humorous. "There's no great loss without some small gain. I don't think we'll be troubled by any more visitors--not even by sheriffs or doctors. I reckon you and I are in for a couple of months of the quiet life--the kind we read about."

* * * * *

Cavanagh, now that he was definitely out of the Forest Service, perceived the weight of every objection which his friends and relatives had made against his going into it. It was a lonely life, and must ever be so. It was all very well for a young unmarried man, who loved the woods and hills beyond all things else, and who could wait for advancement, but it was a sad place for one who desired a wife. The ranger's place was on the trail and in the hills, and to bring a woman into these high silences, into these lone reaches of forest and fell, would be cruel. To bring children into them would be criminal.

All the next day, while Wetherford pottered about the cabin or the yard, Cavanagh toiled at his papers, resolved to leave everything in the perfect order which he loved. Whenever he looked round upon his belongings, each and all so redolent of the wilderness--he found them very dear. His chairs (which he had rived out of slabs), his guns, his robes, his saddles and their accoutrements--all meant much to him. "Some of them must go with me," he said. "And when I am settled down in the old home I'll have one room to myself which shall be so completely of the mountain America that when I am within it I can fancy myself back in the camp."

He thought of South Africa as a possibility, and put it aside, knowing well that no other place could have the same indefinable charm that the Rocky Mountains possessed, for the reason that he had come to them at his most impressionable age. Then, too, the United States, for all their faults, seemed merely an extension of the English form of government.

Wetherford was also moving in deep thought, and at last put his perplexity into a question. "What am I to do? I'm beginning to feel queer. I reckon the chances for my having smallpox are purty fair. Maybe I'd better drop down to Sulphur and report to the authorities. I've got a day or two before the blossoms will begin to show on me."

Cavanagh studied him closely. "Now don't get to thinking you've got it. I don't see how you could attach a germ. The high altitude and the winds up there ought to prevent infection. I'm not afraid for myself, but if you're able, perhaps we'd better pull out to-morrow."

Later in the day Wetherford expressed deeper dejection. "I don't see anything ahead of me anyhow," he confessed. "If I go back to the 'pen' I'll die of lung trouble, and I don't know how I'm going to earn a living in the city. Mebbe the best thing I could do would be to take the pox and go under. I'm afraid of big towns," he continued. "I always was--even when I had money. Now that I am old and broke I daren't go. No city for me."