Part 61

This leprous plague, this offspring of crowded and dirty tenements and of foul ship-steerages, seemed doubly unholy here in the clean sanity of the hills. It was a profanation, a hideous curse. "If it should seize upon Ross--" Words failed to express her horror, her hate of it. "Oh God, save him!" she prayed a hundred times each day.

Twice in the night she rose from her bed to listen, to make sure that Cavanagh was not calling for help. The last time she looked out, a white veil of frost lay on the grass, and the faint light of morning was in the east, and in the exquisite clarity of the air, in the serene hush of the dawn, the pestilence appeared but as the ugly emanation of disordered sleep. The door of the ranger's cabin stood open, but all was silent. "He is snatching a half-hour's sleep," she decided.

If the guard had carried in his mind the faintest intention of permitting Lize to go to Cavanagh's aid, that intention came to no issue, for with the coming of the third night Wetherford was unconscious and unrecognizable to any one who had known him in the days of "the free range." Lithe daredevil in those days, expert with rope and gun, he was as far from this scarred and swollen body as the soaring eagle is from the carrion which he sees and scorns.

He was going as the Wild West was going, discredited, ulcerated, poisoned, incapable of rebirth, yet carrying something fine to his grave. He had acted the part of a brave man, that shall be said of him. He had gone to the rescue of the poor Basque, instinctively, with the same reckless disregard of consequences to himself which marked his character when as a cow-boss on the range he had set aside the most difficult tasks for his own rope or gun. His regard for the ranger into whose care he was now about to commit his wife and daughter, persisted in spite of his suffering. In him was his hope, his stay. Once again, in a lucid moment, he reverted to the promise which he had drawn from Cavanagh.

"If I go, you must take care--of my girl--take care of Lize, too. Promise me that. Do you promise?" he insisted.

"I promise--on honor," Ross repeated, and, with a faint pressure of his hand (so slender and weak), Wetherford sank away into the drowse which deepened hour by hour, broken now and then by convulsions, which wrung the stern heart of the ranger till his hands trembled for pity.

All day, while the clouds sailed by, white as snow and dazzlingly pure, while the stream roared with joy of exploration, and the sunshine fell in dazzling floods upon the world, the ranger bent above his ward or walked the floor of his cabin marvelling that the air and light of this high place should be so powerless to check the march of that relentless plague. It seemed that to open the doors, to fill the room with radiance, must surely kill the mutinous motes which warred upon the tortured body. But in the midst of nature's sovereign charm the reek of the conflict went up; and he wondered whether even the vigor which his outdoor life had built up could withstand the strain another day.

Once Lee Virginia approached close enough to hear his voice as he warned her to go back. "You can do nothing," he called to her. "Please go away." His face was haggard with weariness, and her heart filled with bitter resentment to think that this repulsive warfare, this painful duty, should be thrust upon one so fine.

He himself felt as though his youth were vanishing, and that in these few days he had entered upon the sober, care-filled years of middle life. The one sustaining thought, his one allurement, lay in the near presence of the girl to whom he could call, but could not utter one tender word. She was there where he could see her watching, waiting at the bridge. "The sound of the water helps me bear the suspense," she said to Swenson, and the occasional sight of her lover, the knowledge that he was still unbroken, kept her from despair.

The day was well advanced when the sound of rattling pebbles on the hill back of his cabin drew his attention, and a few moments later a man on a weary horse rode up to his door and dropped heavily from the saddle. He was a small, dark individual, with spectacles, plainly of the city.

"Beware! Smallpox!" called Ross, as his visitor drew near the door.

The new-comer waved his hand contemptuously. "I've had it. Are you Ross Cavanagh?"

"I am!"

"My name is Hartley. I represent the Denver Round-up. I'm interested in this sheep-herder killing--merely as a reporter," he added, with a fleeting smile. "Did you know old man Dunn, of Deer Creek, had committed suicide?"

Cavanagh started, and his face set. "No!"

"They found him shot through the neck, and dying--this morning. As he was gasping his last breath, he said, 'The ranger knows,' and when they asked, 'What ranger,' he said, 'Cavanagh.' When I heard that I jumped a horse and beat 'em all over here. Is this true? Did he tell you who the murderers are?"

Cavanagh did not answer at once. He was like a man caught on a swaying bridge, and his first instinct was to catch the swing, to get his balance. "Wait a minute! What is it all to you?"

Again that peculiar grin lighted the small man's dark, unwholesome face. "It's a fine detective stunt, and besides it means twenty dollars per column and mebbe a 'boost.' I can't wait, you can't wait! It's up to us to strike now! If these men knew you have their names they'd hike for Texas or the high seas. Come now! Everybody tells me you're one of these idealistic highbrow rangers who care more for the future of the West than most natural-born Westerners. What's your plan? If you'll yoke up with me we'll run these devils into the earth and win great fame, and you'll be doing the whole country a service."

The ranger studied the small figure before him with penetrating gaze. There was deliberative fearlessness in the stranger's face and eyes, and notwithstanding his calm, almost languid movement, restless energy could be detected in his voice.

"What is your plan?" the ranger asked.

"Get ourselves deputized by the court, and jump these men before they realize that there's anything doing. They count the whole country on their side, but they're mistaken. They've outdone themselves this time, and a tremendous reaction has set in. Everybody knows you've held an even hand over these warring Picts and Scots, and the court will be glad to deputize you to bring them to justice. The old sheriff is paralyzed. Everybody knows that the assassins are prominent cattle-ranchers, and yet no one dares move. It's up to you fellows, who represent law and order, to act quick."

Cavanagh followed him with complete comprehension, and a desire to carry out the plan seized upon him.

"I'd do it if I could," he said, "but it happens I am nursing a sick man. I am, perhaps, already exposed to the same disease. I can't leave here for a week or more. It would not be right for me to expose others--"

"Don't worry about that. Take a hot bath, fumigate your clothing, shave your head. I'll fix you up, and I'll get some one to take your place." Catching sight of Swenson and Lize on the bridge, he asked: "Who are those people? Can't they take your nursing job?"

"No!" answered Cavanagh, bluntly. "It's no use, I can't join you in this--at least, not now."

"But you'll give me the names which Dunn gave you?"

"No, I can't do that. I shall tell the Supervisor, and he can act as he sees fit--for the present I'm locked up here."

The other man looked the disappointment he felt. "I'm sorry you don't feel like opening up. You know perfectly well that nothing will ever be done about this thing unless the press insists upon it. It's up to you and me (me representing 'the conscience of the East'"--here he winked an eye--"and you Federal authority) to do what we can to bring these men to their punishment. Better reconsider. I'm speaking now as a citizen as well as a reporter."