Cavanaugh-Forest Ranger

by Garland, Hamlin

  A man’s voice came back over the wire so clear, so distinct, so intimate, it seemed as if he were speaking into her ear. “It is I, Ross Cavanagh. I want to ask how your mother is?”

  “She is terribly disheartened by what the doctor has said, but she is in no immediate danger.”

  He perceived her agitation, and was instantly sympathetic. “Can I be of use—do you need me? If you do, I’ll come down.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I am at the sawmill—the nearest telephone station.”

  “How far away are you?”

  “About thirty miles.”

  “Oh!” She expressed in this little sound her disappointment, and as it trembled over the wire he spoke quickly: “Please tell me! Do you want me to come down? Never mind the distance—I can ride it in a few hours.”

  She was tempted, but bravely said: “No; I’d like to see you, of course, but the doctor said mother was in no danger. You must not come on our account.”

  He felt the wonder of the moment’s intercourse over the wilderness steeps, and said so. “You can’t imagine how strangely sweet and civilized your voice sounds to me here in this savage place. It makes me hope that some day you and Mrs. Redfield will come up and visit me in person.”

  “I should like to come.”

  “Perhaps it would do your mother good to camp for a while. Can’t you persuade her to do so?”

  “I’m trying to do that—I mean, to stop work; but she says, ‘What can we do to earn a living?’”

  “If nothing happens I hope to spend an hour or two at the Forks next Sunday. I hope to find your mother better.”

  Their words were of this unemotional sort, but in their voices something subtler than the electrical current vibrated. He called to her in wordless fashion and she answered in the same mysterious code, and when she said “Good-bye” and hung up the receiver her world went suddenly gray and commonplace, as if a ray of special sunlight had been withdrawn.

  The attendant asked, with village bluntness: “It was Ross, wasn’t it?”

  Lee Virginia resented this almost as much as if it were the question of an eavesdropper; but she answered: “Yes; he wanted to know how my mother was.”

  She turned as she reached the street and looked up toward the glorious purpling deeps from which the ranger’s voice had come, and the thought that he was the sole guardian of those dark forests and shining streams—that his way led among those towering peaks and lone canons—made of him something altogether admirable.

  That night her loneliness, her sense of weakness, carried her to bed with tears of despair in her eyes. Lize had insisted on going back to her work looking like one stricken with death, yet so rebellious that her daughter could do nothing with her; and in the nature of fate the day’s business had been greater than ever, so that they had all been forced to work like slaves to feed the flood of custom. And Lize herself still kept her vigil in her chair above her gold.

  Closing her mind to the town and all it meant to her, the girl tried to follow, in imagination, the ranger treading his far, high trails. She recalled his voice, so cultivated, so rich of inflection, with dangerous tenderness. It had come down to her from those lofty parapets like that of a friend, laden with something sweeter than sympathy, more alluring than song.

  The thought of some time going up to the high country where he dwelt came to her most insistently, and she permitted herself to dream of long days of companionship with him, of riding through sunlit aisles of forest with him, of cooking for him at the cabin—what time her mother grew strong once more—and these dreams bred in her heart a wistful ache, a hungry need which made her pillow a place of mingled ecstasy and pain.

  * * *

  VII

  THE POACHERS

  One morning, as he topped the rise between the sawmill and his own station, Cavanagh heard two rifle-shots in quick succession snapping across the high peak on his left. Bringing his horse to a stand, he unslung his field-glasses, and slowly and minutely swept the tawny slopes of Sheep Mountain from which the forbidden sounds seemed to come.

  “A herder shooting coyotes,” was his first thought; then remembering that there were no camps in that direction, and that a flock of mountain-sheep (which he had been guarding carefully) habitually fed round that grassy peak, his mind changed. “I wonder if those fellows are after those sheep?” he mused, as he angled down the slope. “I reckon it’s up to me to see.”

  He was tired and hungry, a huge moraine lay between, and the trail was long and rough. “To catch them in the act is impossible. However,” he reflected, “they have but two trails along which to descend. One of these passes my door, and the other, a very difficult trail, leads down the South Fork. I’ll have time to get breakfast and change horses. They’ll probably wait till night before attempting to go out, anyway.”

  In less than three hours he was over on the trail in the canon, quite certain that the hunters were still above him. He rode quietly up the valley, pausing often to listen and to scrutinize the landscape; but no sign of camp-fire and no further rifle-shots came, and at last he went into camp upon the trail, resolved to wait till the poachers appeared, a ward which his experience as a soldier helped him to maintain without nodding.

  In these long hours his thought played about the remembrance of his last visit to the Fork and his hour with Lee. He wondered what she was doing at the moment. How charming she had looked there at Redfields’—so girlish in form, so serious and womanly of face!

  He felt as never before the ineludible loneliness of the ranger’s life. Here he sat in the midst of a mighty forest with many hostile minds all about him, and it must be confessed he began to wonder whether his services to the nation were worth so much hardship, such complete isolation. The stream sang of the eternities, and his own short span of life (half gone already without any permanent accomplishment) seemed pitifully ephemeral. The guardians of these high places must forever be solitary. No ranger could rightfully be husband and father, for to bring women and children into these solitudes would be cruel.

  He put all this aside—for the time—by remembering that he was a soldier under orders, and that marriage was a long way off, and so smoked his pipe and waited for the dawn, persistent as a Sioux, and as silent as a fox.

  At daylight, there being still no sign of his quarry, he saddled his horse, and was about to ride up the trail when he caught the sound of voices and the sharp click of iron hoofs on the rocks above him. With his horse’s bridle on his arm he awaited the approaching horseman, resolute and ready to act.

  As the marauders rounded the elbow in the trail, he was surprised to recognize in the leader young Gregg. The other man was a stranger, an older man, with a grizzled beard, and tall and stooping figure.

  “Hello Joe,” called the ranger, “you’re astir early!”

  The youth’s fat face remained imperturbable, but his eyes betrayed uneasiness. “Yes, it’s a long pull into town.”

  “Been hunting?” queried the ranger, still with cheery, polite interest.

  “Oh no; just visiting one of my sheep-camps.”

  Cavanagh’s voice was a little less suave. “Not on this creek,” he declared. “I moved your herder last week.” He walked forward. “That’s a heavy load for a short trip to a sheep-camp.” He put his hand on the pack. “I guess you’ll have to open this, for I heard two shots yesterday morning up where that flock of mountain-sheep is running, and, furthermore, I can see blood-stains on this saddle-blanket.”

  Neither of the men made answer, but the old man turned an inquiring look at his young leader.

  The ranger flung his next sentence out like the lash of a whip. “Open this sack or I cut the ropes!”

  Gregg threw out a hand in command. “Open it up, Edwards!” he said, sullenly.

  With mechanical readiness the guide alighted from his horse, loosened the cinch on the pack-horse, and disclosed the usual camp-bed.

  “Put off that bedding!” insisted the ran
ger.

  Off came the outfit, and under the tent lay the noble head of a wild ram—a look of reproach still in his splendid yellow eyes.

  Cavanagh’s face hardened. “I thought so. Now heave it back and cinch up. It’s you to the nearest magistrate, which happens to be Higley, of Roaring Fork. I’ll make an example of you fellows.”

  There was nothing for Gregg to say and nothing for Edwards to do but obey, for a resolute ranger with an excellent weapon of the latest and most approved angular pattern stood ready to enforce his command; and when the pack was recinched, Cavanagh waved an imperative hand. “I guess I’ll have to take charge of your guns,” he said, and they yielded without a word of protest. “Now march! Take the left-hand trail. I’ll be close behind.”

  A couple of hours of silent travel brought them to the ranger’s cabin, and there he ordered a dismount.

  As the coffee was boiling he lectured them briefly. “You fellows are not entirely to blame,” he remarked, philosophically. “You’ve been educated to think a game warden a joke and Uncle Sam a long way off. But things have changed a bit. The law of the State has made me game warden, and I’m going to show you how it works. It’s my duty to see that you go down the road—and down you go!”

  Edwards, the guide, was plainly very uneasy, and made several attempts to reach Cavanagh’s private ear, and at last succeeded. “I’ve been fooled into this,” he urged. “I was hard up and a stranger in the country, and this young fellow hired me to guide him across the range. I didn’t shoot a thing. I swear I didn’t. If you’ll let me off, I’ll hit the trail to the West and never look back. For God’s sake, don’t take me down the road! Let me off.”

  “I can’t do that,” replied Cavanagh; but his tone was kindlier, for he perceived that the old fellow was thin, hollow-chested, and poorly clad. “You knew you were breaking the laws, didn’t you?”

  This the culprit admitted. “But I was working for Sam Gregg, and when Joe asked me to go show him the trail, I didn’t expect to get cinched for killing game. I didn’t fire a shot—now that’s the God’s truth.”

  “Nevertheless,” retorted Ross, “you were packing the head, and I must count you in the game.”

  Edwards fell silent then, but something in his look deepened the ranger’s pity. His eyes were large and dark, and his face so emaciated that he seemed fit only for a sanitarium.

  The trip to the Fork (timed to the gait of a lazy pack-horse) was a tedious eight hours’ march, and it was nearly seven o’clock when they arrived at the outskirts of the village. There had been very few words spoken by Cavanagh, and those which the prisoners uttered were not calculated to cheer the way. Joe blamed his guide for their mishap. “You should have known how far the sound of our guns would carry,” he said.

  As they were nearing the village he called out: “See here, Cavanagh, there’s no use taking me through town under arrest. I’ll cough up all we got right now. How much is the damage?”

  “I can’t receive your fine,” replied Ross, “and, besides, you took your chances when you shot that sheep. You lost out, and I’m not going to let you off. This poaching must stop. You go right along with your guide.”

  Again Edwards drew near, and pled in a low voice: “See here, Mr. Ranger, I have special reasons why I don’t want to go into this town under arrest. I wish you’d let me explain.”

  There was deep emotion in his voice, but Ross was firm. “I’m sorry for you,” he said, “but my duty requires me to take you before a magistrate—”

  “But you don’t know my case,” he replied, with bitter intensity. “I’m out ‘on parole.’ I can’t afford to be arrested in this way. Don’t you see?”

  Ross looked at him closely. “Are you telling me the truth?”

  “Would you have mercy on me if I were?”

  “I should be sorry for you, but I couldn’t let you go.”

  “You won’t believe me, but it’s the God Almighty’s truth: I didn’t know Joe intended to kill that sheep. He asked me to show him over the pass. I had no intention of killing anything. I wish to God you would let me go!” His voice was tense with pleading.

  “How about this, Gregg?” called Ross. “Your guide insists he had no hand in killing the ram?”

  “He fired first, and I fired and finished him,” retorted Gregg.

  “’Twas the other way,” declared Edwards. “The beast was crippled and escaping—I killed him with my revolver. I didn’t want to see him go off and die—”

  “I guess that settles it,” said Cavanagh, decisively. “You take your medicine with Joe. If the justice wants to let you off easy, I can’t help it, but to turn you loose now would mean disloyalty to the service. Climb back into your saddle.”

  Edwards turned away with shaking hands and unsteady step. “All right,” he said, “I’ll meet it.” He came back to say: “There’s no need of your saying anything about what I’ve told you.”

  “No, you are a stranger to me. I know nothing of your life except that I found you with Joe, with this pack on your horse.”

  “Much obliged,” said he, with a touch of bitter humor.

  To the casual observer in a town of this character there was nothing specially noticeable in three horsemen driving a pack-horse, but to those whose eyes were keen the true relationship of the ranger to his captives was instantly apparent, and when they alighted at Judge Higley’s office a bunch of eager observers quickly collected.

  “Hello Joe, what luck?” called Ballard.

  “Our luck was a little too good—we caught a game warden,” replied the young scapegrace.

  The ranger was chagrined to find the office of the justice closed for the day, and, turning to his captives, said: “I’m hungry, and I’ve no doubt you are. I’m going to take you into Mike Halsey’s saloon for supper, but remember you are my prisoners.” And to the little old remittance man, Sifton, who caught his eye, he explained his need of a justice and the town marshal.

  “I’ll try to find the judge,” replied Sifton, with ready good-will, and at a sign from the ranger, Gregg and his herder entered the saloon.

  In fifteen minutes the town was rumbling with the news. Under Ballard’s devilry, all the latent hatred of the ranger and all the concealed opposition to the Forest Service came to the surface like the scum on a pot of broth. The saloons and eating-houses boiled with indignant protest. “What business is it of Ross Cavanagh’s?” they demanded. “What call has he to interfere? He’s not a game warden.”

  “Yes he is. All these rangers are game wardens,” corrected another.

  “No, they’re not. They have to be commissioned by the Governor.”

  “Well, he’s been commissioned; he’s warden all right.”

  “I don’t believe it. Anyhow, he’s too fresh. He needs to have a halt. Let’s do him. Let’s bluff him out.”

  Lee Virginia was in the kitchen superintending the service when one of the waiters came in, breathless with excitement. “Ross Cavanagh has shot Joe Gregg for killing sheep!”

  Lee faced her with blanched face. “Who told you so?”

  “They’re all talking about it out there. Gee! but they’re hot. Some of ’em want to lynch him.”

  Lee hurried out into the dining-room, which was crowded with men and voicing deep excitement. Anger was in the air—a stormy rage, perceptible as a hot blast; and as she passed one table after another she heard ugly phrases applied to Cavanagh.

  A half-dozen men were standing before the counter talking with Lize, but Lee pushed in to inquire with white, inquiring face: “What is it all about? What has happened?”

  “Nothing much,” Lize replied, contemptuously, “but you’d think a horse had been stole. Ross has nipped Joe Gregg and one of his herders for killing mountain-sheep.”

  “Do you mean he shot them?”

  “Yes; he took their heads.”

  Lee stood aghast. “What do you mean? Whose heads?”

  Lize laughed. “The sheeps’ heads. Oh, don’t be scared, no
one is hurt yet!”

  The girl flushed with confusion as the men roared over her blunder. “One of the girls told me Mr. Cavanagh had killed a man,” she explained. “Where is he?”

  Lize betrayed annoyance. “They say he’s taking supper at Mike Halsey’s, though why he didn’t come here I don’t see. What’s he going to do?” she asked. “Won’t the marshal take the men off his hands?”

  “Not without warrant from Higley, and Higley is out of town. Ross’ll have to hold ’em till Higley gets back, or else take ’em over to Chauvenet,” Lize snorted. “Old Higley! Yes, he’s been known to disappear before when there was some real work to be done.”

  The girl looked about her with a sharpening realization of the fact that all these men were squarely opposed to the ranger, and rather glad to know that his guardianship of the poachers was to be rendered troublesome. She could hear on all sides bitter curses openly directed against him. How little of real manliness could be detected in these grinning or malignant faces! Ill-formed, half-developed, bestial most of them, while others, though weakly good-humored, were ready to go with whatever current of strong passion blew upon them. Over against such creatures Ross Cavanagh stood off in heroic contrast—a man with work to do, and doing it like a patriot.

  She went back to her own task with a vague sense of alarm. “Certainly they will not dare to interfere with an officer in the discharge of his duties,” she thought. She was eager to see him, and the thought that he might be obliged to ride away to Chauvenet without a word to her gave her a deeper feeling of annoyance and unrest. That he was in any real danger she could not believe.

  It was disheartening to Cavanagh to see how some of the most influential citizens contrived to give encouragement to the riotous element of the town. A wink, a gesture, a careless word to the proper messenger, conveyed to the saloon rounders an assurance of sympathy which inflamed their resentment to the murderous point.