Part 62

There was much truth in what he said, but Cavanagh refused to go further in the matter until he had consulted with Redfield.

"Very well," replied Hartley, "that's settled. By-the-way, who is your patient?"

Eloquently, concisely, Ross told the story. "Just a poor old mounted hobo, a survival of the cowboy West," he said; "but he had the heart of a hero in him, and I'm doing my best to save him."

"Keep him in the dark, that's the latest theory--or under a red light. White light brings out the ulcers."

"He hates darkness; that's one reason why I've opened the doors and windows."

"All wrong! According to Finsen, he wouldn't pit in the dark. However, it doesn't matter on a cowboy. You've a great story yourself. There's a fine situation here which I'll play up if you don't object."

Cavanagh smiled. "Would my objection have any weight?"

The reporter laughed. "Not much; I've got to carry back some sort of game. Well, so long! I must hit the trail over the hill."

Cavanagh made civil answer, and returned to his patient more than half convinced that Hartley was right. The "power of the press" might prove to be a very real force in this pursuit.

As the journalist was about to mount his horse he discovered Lee Virginia on the other side of the creek. "Hello!" said he, "I wonder what this pretty maiden means?" And, dropping his bridle-rein again, he walked down to the bridge.

Swenson interposed his tall figure. "What do you want?" he asked, bluntly. "You don't want to get too close. You've been talking to the ranger."

Hartley studied him coolly. "Are you a ranger, too?"

"No, only a guard."

"Why are you leaving Cavanagh to play it alone in there?"

Lee explained. "He won't let any of us come near him."

"Quite right," retorted Hartley, promptly. "They say smallpox has lost its terrors, but when you're eight hours' hard trail from a doctor, or a hospital, it's still what I'd call a formidable enemy. However, Cavanagh's immune, so he says."

"We don't know that," Lee said, and her hands came together in a spasm of fear. "Are you a doctor?"

"No, I'm only a newspaper man; but I've had a lot of experience with plagues of all sorts--had the yellow fever in Porto Rico, and the typhoid in South Africa; that's why I'm out here richochetting over the hills. But who are you, may I ask? You look like the rose of Sharon."

"My name is Lee Wetherford," she answered, with childish directness, for there was something compelling in the man's voice and eyes. "And this is my mother." She indicated Lize, who was approaching.

"You are not out here for your health," he stated, rather thoughtfully. "How happens it you're here?"

"I was born here--in the Fork."

His face remained expressionless. "I don't believe it. Can such maidens come out of Roaring Fork--nit! But I don't mean that. What are you doing up here in this wilderness?"

Lize took a part in the conversation. "Another inspector?" she asked, as she lumbered up.

"That's me," he replied; "Sherlock Holmes, Vidocque, all rolled into one."

"My mother," again volunteered Lee.

Hartley's eyes expressed incredulity; but he did not put his feelings into words, for he perceived in Lize a type with which he was entirely familiar--one to be handled with care. "What are you two women doing here? Are you related to one of these rangers?"

Lize resented this. "You're asking a good many questions, Mr. Man."

"That's my trade," was the unabashed reply, "and I'm not so old but that I can rise to a romantic situation." Thereupon he dropped all direct interrogation, and with an air of candor told the story of his mission. Lize, entirely sympathetic, invited him to lunch, and he was soon in possession of their story, even to the tender relationship between Lee Virginia and the plague-besieged forest ranger.