Cavanagh, Forest Ranger: A Romance of the Mountain West

The stranger’s tone was now that of a man quite certain of himself. He had become less furtive under the influence of the food and fire.

Ross defended Wetherford for Virginia’s sake. “He wasn’t altogether to blame, as I see it. He was the Western type in full flower, that’s all. He had to go like the Indian and the buffalo. And these hobos like Ballard and Gregg will go next.”

Edwards sank back into his chair. “I reckon that’s right,” he agreed, and made offer to help clear away the supper dishes.

“No, you’re tired,” replied Ross; “rest and smoke. I’ll soon be done.”

The poacher each moment seemed less of the hardened criminal, and more and more of the man prematurely aged by sickness and dissipation, and gradually the ranger lost all feeling of resentment.

As he sat down beside the fire, Edwards said: “Them Wetherford women think a whole lot of you. ’Pears like they’d both fight for you. Are you sweet on the girl?”

“Now, see here, old man,” Ross retorted, sharply, “you want to do a lot of thinking before you comment on Miss Wetherford. I won’t stand for any nasty clack.”

Edwards meekly answered: “I wasn’t going to say anything out of the way. I was fixin’ for to praise her.”

“All the same, I don’t intend to discuss her with you,” was Cavanagh’s curt answer.

The herder fell back into silence while the ranger prepared his bunk for the night. The fact that he transferred some of the blankets from his own bed to that of his visitor did not escape Edwards’s keen eyes, and with grateful intent he said:

“I can give you a tip, Mr. Ranger,” said he, breaking out of a silence. “The triangle outfit is holding more cattle on the forest than their permits call for.”

“How do you know?”

“I heard one of the boys braggin’ about it.”

“Much obliged,” responded Ross. “I’ll look into it.”

Edwards went on: “Furthermore, they’re fixing for another sheep-kill over there, too; all the sheepmen are armed. That’s why I left the country. I don’t want to run any more chances of being shot up. I’ve had enough of trouble; I can’t afford to be hobnobbing with judges and juries.”

“When does your parole end?” asked Ross.

Edwards forced a grin. “I was handing you one when I said that,” he declared, weakly. “I was workin’ up sympathy. I’m not out on parole; I’m just a broken-down old cow-puncher herdin’ sheep in order to keep clear of the liquor belt.”

This seemed reasonable, and the ranger remarked, by way of dropping the subject: “I’ve nothing to say further than this – obey the rules of the forest, and you won’t get into any further trouble with me. And as for being shot up by the cow-men, you’ll not be disturbed on any national forest. There never has been a single herder shot nor a sheep destroyed on this forest.”

“I’m mighty glad to hear that,” replied Edwards, with sincere relief. “I’ve had my share of shooting up and shooting down. All I ask now is quiet and the society of sheep. I take a kind of pleasure in protecting the fool brutes. It’s about all I’m good for.”

He did, indeed, look like a man in the final year of life as he spoke. “Better turn in,” he said, in kindlier tone; “I’m an early riser.”

The old fellow rose stiffly, and, laying aside his boots and trousers, rolled into his bunk and was asleep in three minutes.

Cavanagh himself was very tired, and went to bed soon after, to sleep dreamlessly till daylight. He sprang from his bed, and after a plunge in the stream set about breakfast; while Edwards rose from his bunk, groaning and sighing, and went forth to wrangle the horses, rubbing his hands and shivering as he met the keen edge of the mountain wind. When he returned, breakfast was ready, and again he expressed his gratitude.

“Haven’t you any slicker?” asked Cavanagh. “It looks like rain.”

“No, I’m run down pretty low,” he replied. “The truth is, Mr. Ranger, I blew in all my wages at roulette last week.”

Ross brought out a canvas coat, well worn but serviceable. “Take this along with you. It’s likely to storm before we reach the sheep-camp. And you don’t look very strong. You must take care of yourself.”

Edwards was visibly moved by this kindness. “Sure you can spare it?”

“Certain sure; I’ve another,” returned the ranger, curtly.

It was hardly more than sunrise as they mounted their ponies and started on their trail, which led sharply upward after they left the canon. The wind was strong and stinging cold. Over the high peaks the gray-black vapor was rushing, and farther away a huge dome of cloud was advancing like an army in action. It was all in the day’s work of the ranger, but the plainsman behind him turned timorous eyes toward the sky. “It looks owly,” he repeated. “I didn’t know I was going so high – Gregg didn’t say the camp was so near timber-line.”

“You’ve cut out a lonesome job for yourself,” Ross assured him, “and if you can find anything else to do you’d better give this up and go back.”

“I’m used to being lonesome,” the stranger said, “but I can’t stand the cold and the wet as I used to. I never was a mountaineer.”

Taking pity on the shivering man, Cavanagh turned off the trail into a sheltered nook behind some twisted pine-trees. “How do you expect to take care of your sheep a thousand feet higher than this?” he demanded as they entered the still place, where the sun shone warm.

“That’s what I’m asking myself,” replied Edwards. He slipped from his horse and crouched close to the rock. “My blood is mostly ditch-water, seems like. The wind blows right through me.”

“How do you happen to be reduced to herding sheep? You look like a man who has seen better days.”

Edwards, chafing his thin fingers to warm them, made reluctant answer: “It’s a long story, Mr. Ranger, and it concerns a whole lot of other people – some of them decent folks – so I’d rather not go into it.”

“John Barleycorn was involved, I reckon.”

“Sure thing – he’s generally always in it.”

“You’d better take my gloves – it’s likely to snow in half an hour. Go ahead – I’m a younger man than you are.”

The other made a decent show of resistance, but finally accepted the offer, saying: “You certainly are white to me. I want to apologize for making that attempt to sneak away that night – I had a powerful good reason for not staying any longer.”

Ross smiled a little. “You showed bad judgment – as it turned out.”

“I sure did. That girl can shoot. Her gun was steady as a door-knob. She filled the door. Where did she learn to hold a gun like that?”

“Her father taught her, so she said.”

“She wouldn’t remember me – an old cuss like me – but I’ve seen her with Wetherford when she was a kidlet. I never thought she’d grow up into such a ‘queen.’ She’s a wonder.”

Strange to say, Ross no longer objected to the old man’s words of admiration; on the contrary, he encouraged him to talk on.

“Her courage is greater than you know. When she came to that hotel it was a place of dirt and vermin. She has transformed it. She’s now engaged on the reformation of her mother.”

“Lize was straight when I knew her,” remarked the other, in the tone of one who wishes to defend a memory. “Straight as a die.”

“In certain ways she’s straight now, but she’s been hard pushed at times, and has traded in liquor to help out – then she’s naturally a slattern.”

“She didn’t used to be,” asserted Edwards; “she was a mighty handsome woman when I used to see her riding around with Ed.”

“She’s down at the heel now, quite like the town.”

“She looked sick to me. You shouldn’t be too hard on a sick woman, but she ought to send her girl away or get out. As you say, the Fork is no kind of a place for such a girl. If I had a son, a fine young feller like that girl is, do you suppose I’d let him load himself up with an old soak like me? No, sir; Lize has no right to spoil that girl’s life. I’m nothing but a ham-strung old cow-puncher, but I’ve too much pride to saddle my pack on the shoulders of my son the way Lize seems to be doin’ with that girl.”

He spoke with a good deal of feeling, and the ranger studied him with deepening interest. He had taken on dignity in the heat of his protest, and in his eyes blazed something that was both manly and admirable.

Cavanagh took his turn at defending Lize. “As a matter of fact, she tried to send her daughter away, but Lee refuses to go, insisting that it is her duty to remain. In spite of her bad blood the girl is surprisingly true and sweet. She makes me wonder whether there is as much in heredity as we think.”

“Her blood ain’t so bad. Wetherford was a fool and a daredevil, but he came of good Virginia stock – so I’ve heard.”

“Well, whatever was good in both sire and dame this girl seems to have mysteriously gathered to herself.”

The old man looked at him with a bright sidelong glance. “You are a little sweet on the girl, eh?”

Ross began to regret his confidence. “She’s making a good fight, and I feel like helping her.”

“And she rather likes being helped by you. I could see that when she brought the coffee to you. She likes to stand close – ”

Ross cut him short. “We’ll not discuss her any further.”

“I don’t mean any harm, Mr. Ranger; we hobos have a whole lot of time to gossip, and I’m old enough to like a nice girl in a fatherly way. I reckon the whole valley rides in to see her, just the way you do.”

Cavanagh winced. “You can’t very well hide a handsome woman in a cattle country.”

Edwards smiled again, sadly. “Not in my day you couldn’t. Why, a girl like that would ‘a’ been worth a thousand head o’ steers. I’ve seen a man come in with a span of mules and three ordinary female daughters, and without cinching a saddle to a pony accumulate five thousand cattle.” Then he grew grave again. “Don’t happen to have a picture of the girl, do you?”

“If I did, would I show it to you?”

“You might. You might even give it to me.”

Cavanagh looked at the man as if he were dreaming. “You must be crazy.”

“Oh no, I’m not. Sheep-herders do go twisted, but I’m not in the business long enough for that. I’m just a bit nutty about that girl.”

He paused a moment. “So if you have a picture, I wish you’d show it to me.”

“I haven’t any.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s right. I’ve only seen her two or three times, and she isn’t the kind that distributes her favors.”

“So it seems. And yet you’re just the kind of figure to catch a girl’s eye. She likes you – I could see that, but you’ve got a good opinion of yourself. You’re an educated man – do you intend to marry her?”

“See here, Mr. Sheep-herder, you better ride on up to your camp,” and Ross turned to mount his horse.

“Wait a minute,” called the other man, and his voice surprised the ranger with a note of authority. “I was terribly taken with that girl, and I owe you a whole lot; but I’ve got to know one thing. I can see you’re full of her, and jealous as a bear of any other suitor. Now I want to know whether you intend to marry her or whether you’re just playing with her?”

Ross was angry now. “What I intend to do is none of your business.”

The other man was suddenly ablaze with passion. His form had lost its stoop. His voice was firm. “I merely want to say that if you play the goat with that girl, I’ll kill you!”

Ross stared at him quite convinced that he had gone entirely mad. “That’s mighty chivalrous of you, Mr. Sheep-herder,” he replied, cuttingly; “but I’m at a loss to understand this sudden indignation on your part.”

“You needn’t be – I’m her father!”

Cavanagh fairly reeled before this retort. His head rang as if he had been struck with a club. He perceived the truth of the man’s words instantly. He gasped: “Good God, man! are you Ed Wetherford?”

The answer was quick. “That’s who I am!” Then his voice changed. “But I don’t want the women to know I’m alive – I didn’t intend to let anybody know it. My fool temper has played hell with me again” – then his voice grew firmer – “all the same, I mean it. If you or any man tries to abuse her, I’ll kill him! I’ve loaded her up with trouble, as you say, but I’m going to do what I can to protect her – now that I’m in the county again.”

Ross, confused by this new complication in the life of the girl he was beginning to love, stared at his companion in dismay. Was it not enough that Virginia’s mother should be a slattern and a termagant? At last he spoke: “Where have you been all these years?”

“In the Texas ‘pen.’ I served nine years there.”

“What for?”

“Shooting a man. It was a case of self-defence, but his family had more money and influence than I did, so I went down the road. As soon as I was out I started north – just the way a dog will point toward home. I didn’t intend to come here, but some way I couldn’t keep away. I shied round the outskirts of the Fork, picking up jobs of sheep-herding just to have time to turn things over. I know what you’re thinking about – you’re saying to yourself, ‘Well, here’s a nice father-in-law?’ Well, now, I don’t know anything about your people, but the Wetherfords are as good as anybody. If I hadn’t come out into this cursed country, where even the women go shootin’ wild, I would have been in Congress; but being hot-headed, I must mix in. I’m not excusing myself, you understand; I’m not a desirable addition to any man’s collection of friends, but I can promise you this – no one but yourself shall ever know who I am. At the same time, you can’t deceive my girl without my being named in the funeral that will follow.”

It was a singular place for such an exchange of confidences. Wetherford stood with his back against his pony, his face flushed, his eyes bright as though part of his youth had returned to him, while the ranger, slender, erect, and powerful, faced him with sombre glance. Overhead the detached clouds swept swift as eagles, casting shadows cold as winter, and in the dwarfed century-old trees the wind breathed a sad monody. Occasionally the sun shone warm and golden upon the group, and then it seemed spring, and the far-off plain a misty sea.

At last Cavanagh said: “You are only a distant and romantic figure to Lee – a part of the dead past. She remembers you as a bold rider and a wondrously brave and chivalrous father.”

“Does she?” he asked, eagerly.

“Yes, and she loves to talk of you. She knows the town’s folk despise your memory, but that she lays to prejudice.”

“She must never know. You must promise never to tell her.”

“I promise that,” Cavanagh said, and Edwards went on:

“If I could bring something to her – prove to her I’m still a man – it might do to tell her, but I’m a branded man now, and an old man, and there’s no hope for me. I worked in one of the machine-shops down there, and it took the life out of me. Then, too, I left a bad name here in the Fork – I know that. Those big cattle-men fooled me into taking their side of the war. I staked everything I had on them, and then they railroaded me out of the county. So, you see, I’m double-crossed, no matter where I turn.”

Every word he uttered made more apparent to Cavanagh that Lee Virginia would derive nothing but pain and disheartenment from a knowledge that her father lived. “She must be spared this added burden of shameful inheritance,” he decided.

The other man seemed to understand something of the ranger’s indignant pity, for he repeated: “I want you to swear not to let Lee know I’m alive, no matter what comes; she must not be saddled with my record. Let her go on thinking well of me. Give me your word!” He held out an insistent palm.

Ross yielded his hand, and in spite of himself his tenderness for the broken man deepened. The sky was darkening to the west, and with a glance upward he said: “I reckon we’d better make your camp soon or you’ll be chilled to the bone.”

They mounted hastily and rode away, each feeling that his relationship to the other had completely changed. Wetherford marvelled over the evident culture and refinement of the ranger. “He’s none too good for her, no matter who he is,” he said.

Upon leaving timber-line they entered upon a wide and sterile slope high on the rocky breast of the great peak, whose splintered crest lorded the range. Snow-fields lay all about, and a few hundred feet higher up the canons were filled with ice. It was a savage and tempest-swept spot in which to pitch a tent, but there among the rocks shivered the minute canvas home of the shepherd, and close beside it, guarded by a lone dog, and lying like a thick-spread flock of rimy bowlders (almost unnoticeable in their silent immobility) huddled the sheep.

“There’s your house,” shouted Ross to Wetherford.

The older man, with white face of dismay, looked about him, unable to make reply.

The walls of the frail teepee, flapping in the breeze, appeared hardly larger than a kerchief caught upon a bush, and the disheartened collie seemed nervously apprehensive of its being utterly swept away. The great peaks were now hid by the rain, and little could be seen but wet rocks, twisted junipers, and the trickling gray streams of icy water. The eastern landscape was naked, alpine, splendid yet appalling, and the voices of the sheep added to the dreary message of the scene.

“Hello there!” shouted Ross, wondering at the absence of human life about the camp. “Hello the house!”

Receiving no answer to his hail, he turned to Wetherford. “Looks like Joe has pulled out and left the collie to ’tend the flock. He’s been kind o’ seedy for some days.”

Dismounting, he approached the tent. The collie, who knew him, seemed to understand his errand, for he leaped upon him as if to kiss his cheek. Ross put him down gently. “You’re almost too glad to see me, old fellow. I wonder how long you’ve been left here alone?”

Thereupon he opened the tied flap, but started back with instant perception of something wrong, for there, on his pile of ragged quilts, lay the Basque herder, with flushed face and rolling eyes, crazed with fever and entirely helpless. “You’d better not come in here, Wetherford,” Ross warned. “Joe is here, horribly sick, and I’m afraid it’s something contagious. It may be smallpox.”

Wetherford recoiled a step. “Smallpox! What makes you think that?”

“Well, these Basques have been having it over in their settlement, and, besides, it smells like it.” He listened a moment. “I’m afraid Joe’s in for it. He’s crazy with it. But he’s a human being, and we can’t let him die here alone. You rustle some wood for the stove, and I’ll see what I can do for him.”

Wetherford was old and wasted and thin-blooded, but he had never been a coward, and in his heart there still burned a small flame of his youthful, reckless, generous daring. Pushing Cavanagh one side, he said, with firm decision: “You keep out o’ there. I’m the one to play nurse. This is my job.”

“Nonsense; I am younger and stronger than you.”

“Get away!” shouted the older man. “Gregg hired me to do this work, and it don’t matter whether I live or die; but you’ve got something to do in the world. My girl needs you, and she don’t need me, so get out o’ here and stay out. Go bring me that wood, and I’ll go in and see what’s the matter.”

Cavanagh looked him in the face an instant. “Very well,” said he, “I’ll do as you say. There’s no use of our both taking chances.”

It was beginning to rain, and the tent was dark and desolate, but as the fire in the little stove commenced to snarl, and the smoke to pour out of the pipe, the small domicile took on cheer. Wetherford knew how to care for the sick, and in the shelter of the canvas wall developed unforeseen vigor and decision. It was amazing to Cavanagh to witness his change of manner.

Soon a pan of water was steaming, and some hot stones were at the sufferer’s feet, and when Wetherford appeared at the door of the tent his face was almost happy. “Kill a sheep. There isn’t a thing but a heel of bacon and a little flour in the place.”

As the ranger went about his outside duties he had time to take into full account the tragic significance of the situation. He was not afraid of death, but the menace of sickness under such surroundings made his blood run cold. It is such moments as these that the wilderness appalls. Twenty miles of most difficult trail lay between his own cabin and this spot. To carry the sick man on his horse would not only be painful to the sufferer but dangerous to the rescuer, for if the Basque were really ill of smallpox contagion would surely follow. On the other hand, to leave him to die here unaided seemed inhuman, impossible.

“There is only one thing to do,” he called to Wetherford, “and that is for me to ride back to the station and bring up some extra bedding and my own tent, and so camp down beside you.”

“All right; but remember I’ve established a quarantine. I’ll crack your head if you break over the line an inch.”

There was no longer any feeling of reaching up or reaching down between the two men – they were equals. Wetherford, altogether admirable, seemed to have regained his manhood as he stood in the door of the tent confronting the ranger. “This Basque ain’t much of a find, but, as you say, he’s human, and we can’t let him lie here and die, I’ll stay with him till you can find a doctor or till he dies.”

“I take off my hat to you,” responded Cavanagh. “You are a man.”

X

THE SMOKE OF THE BURNING

The reader will observe that the forest ranger’s job is that of a man and a patriot, and such a ranger was Cavanagh, notwithstanding his foreign birth. He could ride all day in the saddle and fight fire all night. While not a trained forester, he was naturally a reader, and thoroughly understood the theories of the department. As a practical ranger he stood half-way between the cowboy (who was at first the only available material) and the trained expert who is being educated to follow him.

He was loyal with the loyalty of a soldier, and his hero was the colonel of the Rough-riders, under whom he had campaigned. The second of his admirations was the Chief Forester of the department.

The most of us are getting so thin-skinned, so dependent upon steam-heat and goloshes, that the actions of a man like this riding forth upon his trail at all hours of the day and night self-sufficing and serene, seem like the doings of an epic, and so indeed they are.

On the physical side the plainsman, the cowboy, the poacher, are all admirable, but Cavanagh went far beyond their physical hardihood. He dreamed, as he rode, of his responsibilities. The care of the poor Basque shepherd he had accepted as a matter of routine without Wetherford’s revelation of himself, which complicated an exceedingly pitiful case. He could not forget that it was Lee Virginia’s father who stood in danger of contracting the deadly disease, and as he imagined him dying far up there on that bleak slope, his heart pinched with the tragedy of the old man’s life. In such wise the days of the ranger were smouldering to this end.

On the backward trail he turned aside to stamp out a smoking log beside a deserted camp-fire, and again he made a detour into a lovely little park to visit a fisherman and to warn him of the danger of fire. He was the forest guardian, alert to every sign, and yet all the time he was being drawn on toward his temptation. Why not resign and go East, taking the girl with him? “After all, the life up here is a lonely and hard one, in no sense a vocation for an ambitious man. Suppose I am promoted to Forest Supervisor? That only means a little more salary and life in a small city rather than here. District Supervisor would be better, but can I hope to secure such a position?”

Up to this month he had taken the matter of his promotion easily; it was something to come along in the natural course of things. “There is no haste; I can wait.” Now haste seemed imperative. “I am no longer so young as I was,” he admitted.

Once back at his cabin he laid aside his less tangible problems, and set himself to cooking some food to take back with him to the peak. He brought in his pack-horse, and burdened him with camp outfit and utensils, and extra clothing. He filled his pockets with such medicines as he possessed, and so at last, just as night was falling, he started back over his difficult trail.

The sky was black as the roof of a cavern, for the stars were hid by a roof of cloud which hung just above his head, and the ranger was obliged to feel his way through the first quarter of his journey. The world grew lighter after he left the canon and entered the dead timber of the glacial valley, but even in the open the going was wearisome and the horses proceeded with sullen caution.