Part 52

Cavanagh's patience gave way. "But, man, you can't stay here! I'm packing up to leave. Your only chance of getting out of the country is to go when I go, and in my company." His voice was harsh and keen, and the old man felt its edge; but he made no reply, and this sad silence moved Cavanagh to repentance. His irritability warned him of something deeply changing in his own nature.

Approaching the brooding felon, he spoke gently and sadly. "I'm sorry for you, Wetherford, I sure am, but it's up to you to get clear away so that Lee will never by any possible chance find out that you are alive. She has a romantic notion of you as a representative of the old-time West, and it would be a dreadful shock to her if she knew you as you are. It's hard to leave her, I know, now that you've seen her, but that's the manly thing to do--the only thing to do."

"Oh, you're right--of course you're right. But I wish I could be of some use to her. I wish I could chore round for the rest of my life, where I could kind o' keep watch over her. I'd be glad enough to play the scullion in her kitchen. But if you're going to take her--"

"But I'm not," protested Ross. "I'm going to leave her right here. I can't take her."

Wetherford looked at him with steady eyes, into which a keen light leaped. "Don't you intend to marry her?"

Ross turned away. "No, I don't--I mean it is impossible!"

"Why not? Don't tell me you're already married?" He said this with menacing tone.

"No, I'm not married, but--" He stopped without making his meaning plain. "I'm going to leave the country and--"

Wetherford caught him up. "I reckon I understand what you mean. You consider Lize and me undersirable parents--not just the kind you'd cut out of the herd of your own free will. Well, that's all right, I don't blame you so far as I'm concerned. But you can forget me, consider me a dead one. I'll never bother her nor you."

Cavanagh threw out an impatient hand. "It is impossible," he protested. "It's better for her and better for me that I should do so. I've made up my mind. I'm going back to my own people."

Wetherford was thoroughly roused now. Some part of his old-time fire seemed to return to him. He rose from his chair and approached the ranger firmly. "I've seen you act like a man, Ross Cavanagh. You've been a good partner these last few days--a son couldn't have treated me better--and I hate like hell to think ill of you; but my girl loves you--I could see that. I could see her lean to you, and I've got to know something else right now. You're going to leave here--you're going to throw her off. What I want to know is this: Do you leave her as good as you found her? Come, now, I want an answer, as one man to another."

Cavanagh's eyes met his with firm but sorrowful gaze. "In the sense in which you mean, I leave her as I found her."

The old man's open hand shot out toward his rescuer. "Forgive me, my lad," he said, humbly; "for a minute I--doubted you."

Ross took his hand, but slowly replied: "It will be hard for you to understand, when I tell you that I care a great deal for your daughter, but a man like me--an Englishman--cannot marry--or he ought not to marry--to himself alone. There are so many others to consider--his friends, his sisters--"

Wetherford dropped his hand. "I see!" His tone was despairing. "When I was young we married the girls we loved in defiance of man, God, or the cupboard; but you are not that kind. You may be right. I'm nothing but a debilitated old cow-puncher branded by the State--a man who threw away his chance--but I can tell you straight, I've learned that nothing but the love of a woman counts. Furthermore," and here his fire flashed again, "I'd have killed you had you taken advantage of my girl!"

"Which would have been your duty," declared Cavanagh, wearily.

And in the face of this baffling mood, which he felt but could not understand, the old man fell silent.

XIII

CAVANAGH ASKS FOR HELP

Lee Virginia waited with increasing impatience for Ross Cavanagh's return, expecting each noon to see him appear at the door; but when three days passed without word or sign from him, her uneasiness deepened into alarm. The whole town was profoundly excited over the murder, that she knew, and she began to fear that some of the ranger's enemies had worked their evil will upon him.

With this vague fear in her heart, she went forth into the street to inquire. One of the first men she met was Sifton, who was sitting, as usual, outside the livery-barn door, smiling, inefficient, content. Of him she asked: "Have you seen Mr. Cavanagh?"

"Yes," he answered, "I saw him yesterday, just after dinner, down at the post-office. He was writing a letter at the desk. Almost immediately afterward he mounted and rode away. He was much cut up over his chief's dismissal."

"Why has he not written to me," she asked herself, "and why should he have gone away without a word of greeting, explanation, or good-bye? It would have taken but a moment's time to call at the door."

The more she dwelt upon this neglect the more significant it became. After the tender look in his eyes, after the ardent clasp of his hand, the thought that he could be so indifferent was at once a source of pain and self-reproach.

With childish frankness she went to Lize and told her what she had learned, her eyes dim with hot tears. "Ross came to town, and went away back to his cabin without coming to see me."

"Are you sure he's been here?"

"Yes. Mr. Sifton saw him go. He came in, got some letters at the post-office, and then rode away--" Her voice broke as her disappointment and grief overcame her.

Lize struggled to a sitting position. "There's some mistake about this. Ross Cavanagh never was the whifflin' kind of man. You've got to remember he's on duty. Probably the letter was some order that carried him right back to his work."