XII
CAVANAGH'S LAST VIGIL BEGINS
On his solitary ride upward and homeward the ranger searched his heart andfound it bitter and disloyal. Love had interfered with duty, and pride hadchecked and defeated love. His path, no longer clear and definite, loopedaway aimlessly, lost in vague, obscure meanderings. His world had suddenlygrown gray.
The magnificent plan of the Chief Forester (to which he had pledged suchbuoyant allegiance) was now a thing apart, a campaign in which he was tobe merely an onlooker. It had once offered something congenial, helpful,inspiring; now it seemed fantastic and futile without the man who shapedit. "I am nearing forty," he said; "Eleanor is right. I am wasting my timehere in these hills; but what else can I do?"
He had no trade, no business, no special skill, save in the ways of themountaineer, and to return to his ancestral home at the moment seemed awoful confession of failure.
But the cause of his deepest dismay and doubt was the revelation tohimself of the essential lawlessness of his love, a force within him whichnow made his duties as a law-enforcer sadly ironic. After all, was not theman who presumed upon a maiden's passion and weakness a greater malefactorthan he who steals a pearl or strangles a man for his gold? To betray asoul, to poison a young life, is this not the unforgivable crime?
"Here am I, a son of the law, complaining of the lawlessness of theWest--fighting it, conquering it--and yet at the same time I permit myselfto descend to the level of Neill Ballard, to think as the barbaric manthinks."
He burned hot with contempt of himself, and his teeth set hard in theresolution to put himself beyond the reach of temptation. "Furthermore, Iam concealing a criminal, cloaking a convict, when I should be arrestinghim," he pursued, referring back to Wetherford. "And why? Because of agirl's romantic notion of her father, a notion which can be preserved onlyby keeping his secret, by aiding him to escape." And even this motive, hewas obliged to confess, had not all been on the highest plane. It was alla part of his almost involuntary campaign to win Virginia's love. Theimpulse had been lawless, lawless as the old-time West, and the admissioncut deep into his self-respect.
It was again dusk as he rode up to his own hitching-pole and slipped fromthe saddle.
Wetherford came out, indicating by his manner that he had recovered hisconfidence once more. "How did you find things in the valley?" heinquired, as they walked away toward the corral.
"Bad," responded the ranger.
"In what way?"
"The chief has been dismissed and all the rascals are chuckling with glee.I've resigned from the service."
Wetherford was aghast. "What for?"
"I will not serve under any other chief. The best thing for you to do isto go out when I do. I think by keeping on that uniform you can get to thetrain with me."
"Did you see Lize and my girl?"
"No, I only remained in town a minute. It was too hot for me. I'm donewith it. Wetherford, I'm going back to civilization. No more wild West forme." The bitterness of his voice touched the older man's heart, but heconsidered it merely a mood.
"Don't lose your nerve; mebbe this ends the reign of terror."
"Nothing will end the moral shiftlessness of this country but the death ofthe freebooter. You can't put new wine into old bottles. These cattle-men,deep in their hearts, sympathize with the wiping-out of thosesheep-herders. The cry for justice comes from the man whose ear is notbeing chewed--the man far off--and from the town-builder who knows theState is being hurt by such atrocities; but the ranchers over on DeerCreek will conceal the assassins--you know that. You've had experiencewith these free-grass warriors; you know what they are capable of. Thatjob was done by men who hated the dagoes--hated 'em because they wererival claimants for the range. It's nonsense to attempt to fasten it onmen like Neill Ballard. The men who did that piece of work are well-knownstock-owners."
"I reckon that's so."
"Well, now, who's going to convict them? I can't do it. I'm going to pullout as soon as I can put my books in shape, and you'd better go too."
They were standing at the gate of the corral, and the roar of the mountainstream enveloped them in a cloud of sound.
Wetherford spoke slowly: "I hate to lose my girl, now that I've seen her,but I guess you're right; and Lize, poor old critter! It's hell's shamethe way I've queered her life, and I'd give my right arm to be where I wastwelve years ago; but with a price on my head and old age comin' on, Idon't see myself ever again getting up to par. It's a losing game for menow."
There was resignation as well as despair in his voice and Cavanagh feltit, but he said, "There's one other question that may come up fordecision--if that Basque died of smallpox, you may possibly take it."
"I've figured on that, but it will take a day or two to show on me. Idon't feel any ache in my bones yet. If I do come down, you keep away fromme. You've got to live and take care of Virginia."
"She should never have returned to this accursed country," Cavanaghharshly replied, starting back toward the cabin.
The constable, smoking his pipe beside the fireplace, did not present ananxious face; on the contrary, he seemed plumply content as he replied tothe ranger's greeting. He represented very well the type of officer whichthese disorderly communities produce. Brave and tireless when workingalong the line of his prejudices, he could be most laxly inefficient whenhis duties cut across his own or his neighbor's interests. Being acattle-man by training, he was glad of the red herring which the Texasofficer had trailed across the line of his pursuit.
This attitude still further inflamed Cavanagh's indignant hate of thecountry. The theory which the deputy developed was transparent folly. "Itwas just a case of plain robbery," he argued. "One of them dagoes hadmoney, and Neill Ballard and that man Edwards just naturally follered himand killed the whole bunch and scooted--that's my guess."
Cavanagh's outburst was prevented by the scratching and whining of a dogat his door. For a moment he wondered at this; his perturbed mind haddropped the memory of the loyal collie.
As he opened the door, the brute, more than half human in his gaze, lookedbeseechingly at his new master, as if to say, "I couldn't help it--I wasso lonely. And I love you."
"You poor beastie," the ranger called, pityingly, and the dog leaped up ina frenzy of joyous relief, putting his paws on his breast, then dropped tothe ground, and, crouching low on his front paws, quivered and yawned withecstasy of worship. It seemed that he could not express his passionateadoration, his relief, except by these grotesque contortions.
"Come in, Laddie!" Ross urged, but this the dog refused to do. "I am acreature of the open air," he seemed to say. "My duties are of the outerworld. I have no wish for a fireside--all I need is a master's praise anda bit of bread."
Cavanagh brought some food, and, putting it down outside the door, spoketo him, gently: "Good boy! Eat that and go back to your flock. I'll cometo see you in the morning."
When Cavanagh, a few minutes later, went to the door the dog was gone,and, listening, the ranger could hear the faint, diminishing bleating ofthe sheep on the hillside above the corral. The four-footed warden waswith his flock.
An hour later the sound of a horse's hoofs on the bridge gave warning of avisitor, and as Cavanagh went to the door Gregg rode up, seekingparticulars as to the death of the herder and the whereabouts of thesheep.
The ranger was not in a mood to invite the sheepman in, and, besides, heperceived the danger to which Wetherford was exposed. Therefore hisanswers were short. Gregg, on his part, did not appear anxious to enter.
"What happened to that old hobo I sent up?" he asked.
Cavanagh briefly retold his story, and at the end of it Gregg grunted."You say you burned the tent and all the bedding?"
"Every thread of it. It wasn't safe to leave it."
"What ailed the man?"
"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 seehim 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, theimplication of all this sinking deep. "Were you wearing the same clothesyou'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 bearrested."
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. Iburned every utensil, including the saddle, everything but the man's horseand his dog!"
"The dog!" exclaimed the deputy, seized with another idea. "Not that dogyou fed just now?"
"The very same," replied Cavanagh.
"Don't you know a dog's sure to carry the poison in his hair? Why, _hejumped 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'msure--"
The officer caught up his hat and coat and started for the door. "It's mefor 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 thewolves, the wildcats, and other beasts of prey."
Gregg, as he retreated, called back: "That's all right, Mr. Ranger, butyou'd better keep to the hills for a few weeks. The settlers down belowwon't enjoy having a man with smallpox chassayin' around town. They mightrope and tie you."
Wetherford came out of his hiding-place with a grave face. "I wonder Ididn't think of that collie. They say a cat's fur will carry disease germslike a sponge. Must be the same with a dog."
"Well, it's too late now," replied Cavanagh. "But they're right about ourstaying clear of town. They'll quarantine us sure. All the same, I don'tbelieve the dog carried any germs of the disease."
Wetherford, now that the danger of arrest was over, was disposed to begrimly humorous. "There's no great loss without some small gain. I don'tthink we'll be troubled by any more visitors--not even by sheriffs ordoctors. I reckon you and I are in for a couple of months of the quietlife--the kind we read about."
* * * * *
Cavanagh, now that he was definitely out of the Forest Service, perceivedthe weight of every objection which his friends and relatives had madeagainst his going into it. It was a lonely life, and must ever be so. Itwas all very well for a young unmarried man, who loved the woods and hillsbeyond all things else, and who could wait for advancement, but it was asad place for one who desired a wife. The ranger's place was on the trailand in the hills, and to bring a woman into these high silences, intothese lone reaches of forest and fell, would be cruel. To bring childreninto 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 perfectorder which he loved. Whenever he looked round upon his belongings, eachand 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 andtheir accoutrements--all meant much to him. "Some of them must go withme," he said. "And when I am settled down in the old home I'll have oneroom to myself which shall be so completely of the mountain America thatwhen I am within it I can fancy myself back in the camp."
He thought of South Africa as a possibility, and put it aside, knowingwell that no other place could have the same indefinable charm that theRocky Mountains possessed, for the reason that he had come to them at hismost impressionable age. Then, too, the United States, for all theirfaults, seemed merely an extension of the English form of government.
Wetherford was also moving in deep thought, and at last put his perplexityinto a question. "What am I to do? I'm beginning to feel queer. I reckonthe chances for my having smallpox are purty fair. Maybe I'd better dropdown to Sulphur and report to the authorities. I've got a day or twobefore the blossoms will begin to show on me."
Cavanagh studied him closely. "Now don't get to thinking you've got it. Idon't see how you could attach a germ. The high altitude and the winds upthere ought to prevent infection. I'm not afraid for myself, but if you'reable, perhaps we'd better pull out to-morrow."
Later in the day Wetherford expressed deeper dejection. "I don't seeanything 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 livingin the city. Mebbe the best thing I could do would be to take the pox andgo under. I'm afraid of big towns," he continued. "I always was--even whenI had money. Now that I am old and broke I daren't go. No city for me."
Cavanagh's patience gave way. "But, man, you can't stay here! I'm packingup to leave. Your only chance of getting out of the country is to go whenI go, and in my company." His voice was harsh and keen, and the old manfelt its edge; but he made no reply, and this sad silence moved Cavanaghto repentance. His irritability warned him of something deeply changing inhis own nature.
Approaching the brooding felon, he spoke gently and sadly. "I'm sorry foryou, Wetherford, I sure am, but it's up to you to get clear away so thatLee will never by any possible chance find out that you are alive. She hasa romantic notion of you as a representative of the old-time West, and itwould be a dreadful shock to her if she knew you as you are. It's hard toleave her, I know, now that you've seen her, but that's the manly thing todo--the only thing to do."
"Oh, you're right--of course you're right. But I wish I could be of someuse to her. I wish I could chore round for the rest of my life, where Icould kind o' keep watch over her. I'd be glad enough to play the scullionin 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'ttake 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 withmenacing 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. Youconsider Lize and me undersirable parents--not just the kind you'd cut outof the herd of your own free will. Well, that's all right, I don't blameyou so far as I'm concerned. But you can forget me, consider me a deadone. 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 upmy mind. I'm going back to my own people."
Wetherford was thoroughly roused now. Some part of his old-time fireseemed to return to him. He rose from his chair and approached the rangerfirmly. "I've seen you act like a man, Ross Cavanagh. You've been a goodpartner these last few days--a son couldn't have treated me better--and Ihate like hell to think ill of you; but my girl loves you--I could seethat. I could see her lean to you, and I've got to know something elseright now. You're going to leave here--you're going to throw her off. WhatI 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 inwhich 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 tounderstand, when I tell you that I care a great deal for your daughter,but a man like me--an E
nglishman--cannot marry--or he ought not tomarry--to himself alone. There are so many others to consider--hisfriends, his sisters--"
Wetherford dropped his hand. "I see!" His tone was despairing. "When I wasyoung we married the girls we loved in defiance of man, God, or thecupboard; but you are not that kind. You may be right. I'm nothing but adebilitated old cow-puncher branded by the State--a man who threw away hischance--but I can tell you straight, I've learned that nothing but thelove 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 notunderstand, the old man fell silent.