The sheriff banged his hand upon the table. “That’s the whole mystery. I see it all now. He’s up there concealing this man. He’s given out this smallpox scare just to keep the officers away from him. Now you’ve got it!”
The thunder in his voice drew toward him all those who remained in the dining-room, and Lee found herself ringed about by a dozen excited men. But she did not flinch; she was too deeply concerned over Cavanagh’s fate to be afraid, and, besides, Redfield and the Forester were beside her.
The Supervisor was staggered by Gregg’s accusation, and by certain confirmatory facts in his own possession, but he defended Cavanagh bravely. “You’re crazy,” he replied. “Why should Ross do such a foolish thing? What is his motive? What interest would he have in this man Edwards, whom you call a tramp? He can’t be a relative and certainly not a friend of Cavanagh’s, for you say he is a convict. Come, now, your hatred of Cavanagh has gone too far.”
Gregg was somewhat cooled by this dash of reason, but replied: “I don’t know what relation he is, but these are facts. He’s concealing an escaped convict, and he knows it.”
Dalton put in a quiet word. “What is the use of shouting a judgment against a man like Cavanagh before you know the facts? He’s one of the best and ablest rangers on this forest. I don’t know why he has resigned, but I’m sure—”
“Has he resigned?” asked Gregg, eagerly.
“He has.”
“A damn good job for him. I was about to circulate a petition to have him removed.”
“If all the stockmen in the valley had signed a petition against him, it wouldn’t have done any good,” replied Dalton. “We know a good man when we see him. I’m here to offer him promotion, not to punish him.”
Lee, looking about at the faces of these men, and seeing disappointment in their faces, lost the keen sting of her own humiliation. “In the midst of such a fight as this, how can he give time or thought to me?” Painful as the admission was, she was forced to admit that she was a very humble factor in a very large campaign. “But suppose he falls ill!” Her face grew white and set, and her lips bitter. “That would be the final, tragic touch,” she thought, “to have him come down of a plague from nursing one of Sam Gregg’s sheep-herders.” Aloud she said: “His resignation comes just in time, doesn’t it? He can now be sick without loss to the service.”
Dalton answered her. “The Supervisor has not accepted his resignation. On the contrary, I shall offer him a higher position. His career as a forester is only beginning. He would be foolish to give up the work now, when the avenues of promotion are just opening. I can offer him very soon the supervision of a forest.”
As they talked Lee felt herself sinking the while her lover rose. It was all true. The Forester was right. Ross was capable of any work they might demand of him. He was too skilled, too intelligent, too manly, to remain in the forest, heroic as its duties seemed.
Upon this discussion, Lize, hobbling painfully, appeared. With a cry of surprise, Lee rose to meet her.
“Mother, you must not do this!”
She waved her away. “I’m all right,” she said, “barring the big marbles in my slippers.” Then she turned to Dalton. “Now what’s it all about? Is it true that Ross is down?”
“No. So far as we know, he is well.”
“Well, I’m going to find out. I don’t intend to set here and have him up there without a cook or a nurse.”
At this moment a tall, fair young fellow, dressed in a ranger’s uniform, entered the room, and made his way directly to the spot where Lee, her mother, and Redfield were standing. “Mr. Supervisor, Cavanagh has sent me to tell you that he needs a doctor. He’s got a sick man up at The Station, and he’s afraid it’s a case of smallpox.” He turned to Lee. “He told me to tell you that he would have written, only he was afraid to even send a letter out.”
“What does he need?” asked Redfield.
“He needs medicine and food, a doctor, and he ought to have a nurse.”
“That’s my job,” said Lize.
“Nonsense!” said Redfield. “You’re not fit to ride a mile. I won’t hear of your going.”
“You wait and see. I’m goin’, and you can’t stop me.”
“Who is the man with him?” asked the Forester.
“I don’t know. An old herder, he said. He said he could take care of him all right for the present, but that if he were taken down himself—”
Lee’s mounting emotion broke from her in a little cry. “Oh, Mr. Redfield, please let me go too! I want to help—I must help!”
Redfield said: “I’ll telephone to Sulphur City and ask Brooks to get a nurse, and come down as soon as possible. Meanwhile I’ll go out to see what the conditions are.”
“I’m going too, I tell you,” announced Lize. “I’ve had the cussed disease, and I’m not afraid of it. We had three sieges of it in my family. You get me up there, and I’ll do the rest.”
“But you are ill?”
“I was, but I’m not now.” Her voice was firmer than it had been for days. “All I needed was something to do. Ross Cavanagh has been like a son to me for two years; he’s the one man in this country I’d turn my hand over for—barrin’ yourself, Reddy—and it’s my job to see him through this pinch.”
In spite of all opposition, she had her way. Returning to her room to get such clothing as she needed for her stay in the hills, she waited for Redfield to send a carriage to her. “I can’t ride a horse no more,” she sorrowfully admitted.
Lee’s secret was no secret to any one there. Her wide eyes and heaving breast testified to the profound stir in her heart. She was in an anguish of fear lest Ross should already be in the grip of his loathsome enemy. That it had come to him by way of a brave and noble act only made the situation the more tragic.
* * *
XIV
THE PEST-HOUSE
Cavanagh had kept a keen watch over Wetherford, and when one night the old man began to complain of the ache in his bones his decision was instant.
“You’ve got it,” he said. “It’s up to us to move down the valley to-morrow.”
Wetherford protested that he would as soon die in the hills as in the valley. “I don’t want Lee Virginia to know, but if I seem liable to fade out, I’d like Lize to be told that I didn’t forget her, and that I came back to find out how she was. I hate to be a nuisance to you, and so I’ll go down the valley if you say so.”
As he was about to turn in that night Ross heard a horse cross the bridge, and with intent to warn the rider of his danger, went to the door and called out: “Halt! Who’s there?”
“A friend,” replied the stranger, in a weak voice.
Ross permitted his visitor to ride up to the pole. “I can’t ask you in,” he explained. “I’ve a sick man inside. Who are you, and what can I do for you?”
Notwithstanding this warning the rider dropped from his saddle, and came into the light which streamed from the door.
“My name is Dunn,” he began. “I’m from Deer Creek.”
“I know you,” responded the ranger. “You’re that rancher I saw working in the ditch the day I went to telephone, and you’ve come to tell me something about that murder.”
The other man broke into a whimper. “I’m a law-abiding man, Mr. Cavanagh,” he began, tremulously. “I’ve always kept the law, and never intended to have anything to do with that business. I was dragged into it against my will. I’ve come to you because you’re an officer of the Federal law. You don’t belong here. I trust you. You represent the President, and I want to tell you what I know—only I want you to promise not to bring me into it. I’m a man of a family, and I can’t bear to have them know the truth.”
There was deep agitation and complete sincerity in the rancher’s choked and hesitant utterance, and Cavanagh turned cold with a premonition of what he was about to disclose. “I am not an officer of the law, Mr. Dunn, not in the sense you mean, but I will respect your wishes.”
“I
know that you are not an officer of the county law, but you’re not a cattle-man. It is your business to keep the peace in the wild country, and you do it, everybody knows that; but I can’t trust the officers of this country, they’re all afraid of the cowboys. You’re not afraid, and you represent the United States, and I’ll tell you. I can’t bear it any longer!” he wailed. “I must tell somebody. I can’t sleep and I can’t eat. I’ve been like a man in a nightmare ever since. I had no hand in the killing—I didn’t even see it done; but I knew it was going to happen. I saw the committee appointed. The meeting that decided it was held in my barn, but I didn’t know what they intended to do. You believe me, don’t you?” He peered up at Cavanagh with white face and wild eyes.
“Go on,” replied the ranger; “I’ll protect you—if I can. Go on. It’s your duty—tell all you know.”
The troubled man, after a little silence, resumed. “Sometimes I feel that I’d be happier in jail than I am walking about in the sunshine. I never dreamed civilized men could do such deeds. I thought they were only going to scare the herders and drive them out, as they’ve done so many times before. I can see now that they used my barn for a meeting-place because everybody believed me to be a man of peace. And I am. I’m over seventy years of age, Mr. Cavanagh, and I’ve been a law-abiding citizen all my life.”
His mind, shattered by the weight of his ghastly secret, was in confusion, and, perceiving this, Cavanagh began to question him gently. One by one he procured the names of those who voted to “deal with” the herders. One by one he obtained also the list of those named on “the Committee of Reprisal,” and as the broken man delivered himself of these accusing facts he grew calmer. “I didn’t know—I couldn’t believe—that the men on that committee could chop and burn—” His utterance failed him again, and he fell silent abruptly.
“They must have been drunk—mad drunk,” retorted Cavanagh. “And yet who would believe that even drink could inflame white men to such devil’s work? When did you first know what had been done?”
“That night after it was done one of the men, my neighbor, who was drawn on the committee, came to my house and asked me to give him a bed. He was afraid to go home. ‘I can’t face my wife and children,’ he said. He told me what he’d seen, and then when I remembered that it had all been decided in my stable, and the committee appointed there, I began to tremble. You believe I’m telling the truth, don’t you?” he again asked, with piteous accent.
“Yes, I believe you. You must tell this story to the judge. It will end the reign of the cattle-men.”
“Oh no, I can’t do that.”
“You must do that. It is your duty as a Christian man and citizen.”
“No, no; I’ll stay and help you—I’ll do anything but that. I’m afraid to tell what I know. They would burn me alive. I’m not a Western man. I’ve never been in a criminal court. I don’t belong to this wild country. I came out here because my daughter is not strong, and now—” He broke down altogether, and leaning against his horse’s side, sobbed pitifully.
Cavanagh, convinced that the old man’s mind was too deeply affected to enable him to find his way back over the rough trail that night, spoke to him gently. “I’ll get you something to eat,” he said. “Sit down here, and rest and compose yourself.”
Wetherford turned a wild eye on the ranger as he reentered. “Who’s out there?” he asked. “Is it the marshal?”
“No, it’s only one of the ranchers from below; he’s tired and hungry, and I’m going to feed him,” Ross replied, filled with a vivid sense of the diverse characters of the two men he was serving.
Dunn received the food with an eager hand, and after he had finished his refreshment, Cavanagh remarked: “The whole country should be obliged to you for your visit to me. I shall send your information to Supervisor Redfield.”
“Don’t use my name,” he begged. “They will kill me if they find out that I have told. We were all sworn to secrecy, and if I had not seen that fire—that pile of bodies—”
“I know, I know! It horrified me. It made me doubt humanity,” responded Cavanagh. “We of the North cry out against the South for lynching black rapers; but here, under our eyes, goes on an equally horrible display of rage over the mere question of temporary advantage, over the appropriation of free grass, which is a Federal resource—something which belongs neither to one claimant nor to the other, but to the people, and should be of value to the people. There is some excuse for shooting and burning a man who violates a woman, but what shall we say of those who kill and dismember men over the possession of a plot of grass? You must bring these men to punishment.”
Dunn could only shiver in his horror and repeat his fear. “They’ll kill me if I do.”
Cavanagh at last said: “You must not attempt to ride back to-night. I can’t give you lodging in the cabin, because my patient is sick of smallpox, but you can camp in the barn till morning, then ride straight back to my friend Redfield, and tell him what you’ve told me. He will see that you are protected. Make your deposition and leave the country, if you are afraid to remain.”
In the end the rancher promised to do this, but his tone was that of a broken and distraught dotard. All the landmarks of his life seemed suddenly shifted. All the standards of his life hitherto orderly and fixed were now confused and whirling, and Cavanagh, understanding something of his plight, pitied him profoundly. It was of a piece with this ironic story that the innocent man should suffer madness and the guilty go calmly about their business of grazing their cattle on the stolen grass.
Meanwhile the sufferings of his other patient were increasing, and he was forced to give up all hope of getting him down the trail next morning; and when Swenson, the Forest Guard from the south Fork, knocked at the door to say that he had been to the valley, and that the doctor was coming up with Redfield and the District Forester, Ross thanked him, but ordered him to go into camp across the river, and to warn everybody to keep clear of the cabin. “Put your packages down outside the door,” he added, “and take charge of the situation on the outside. I’ll take care of the business inside.”
Wetherford was in great pain, but the poison of the disease had misted his brain, and he no longer worried over the possible disclosure of his identity. At times he lost the sense of his surroundings and talked of his prison life, or of the long ride northward. Once he rose in his bed to beat off the wolves which he said were attacking his pony.
He was a piteous figure as he struggled thus, and it needed neither his relationship to Lee nor his bravery in caring for the Basque herder to fill the ranger’s heart with a desire to relieve his suffering. “Perhaps I should have sent for Lize at once,” he mused, as the light brought out the red signatures of the plague.
Once the old man looked up with wide, dark, unseeing eyes and murmured, “I don’t seem to know you.”
“I’m a friend—my name is Cavanagh.”
“I can’t place you,” he sadly admitted. “I feel pretty bad. If I ever get out of this place I’m going back to the Fork; I’ll get a gold-mine, then I’ll go back and make up for what Lize has gone through. I’m afraid to go back now.”
“All right,” Ross soothingly agreed; “but you’ll have to keep quiet till you get over this fever you’re suffering from.”
“If Lize weren’t so far away, she’d come and nurse me—I’m pretty sick. This stone-cutting—this inside work is hell on an old cow-puncher like me.”
Swenson came back to say that probably Redfield and the doctor would reach The Station by noon, and thereafter, for the reason that Cavanagh expected their coming, the hours dragged wofully. It was after one o’clock before Swenson announced that two teams were coming with three men and two women in them. “They’ll be here in half an hour.”
The ranger’s heart leaped. Two women! Could one of them be Lee Virginia? What folly—what sweet, desperate folly! And the other—she could not be Lize—for Lize was too feeble to ride so far. “Stop them on the other side of
the bridge,” he commanded. “Don’t let them cross the creek on any pretext.”
As he stood in the door the flutter of a handkerchief, the waving of a hand, made his pulses glow and his eyes grow dim. It was Virginia!
Lize did not flutter a kerchief or wave a hand, but when Swenson stopped the carriage at the bridge she said: “No, you don’t! I’m going across. I’m going to see Ross, and if he needs help, I’m going to roll up my sleeves and take hold.”
Cavanagh saw her advancing, and, as she came near enough for his voice to reach her, he called out: “Don’t come any closer! Stop, I tell you!” His voice was stern. “You must not come a step nearer. Go back across the dead-line and stay there. No one but the doctor shall enter this door. Now that’s final.”
“I want to help!” she protested.
“I know you do; but I won’t have it. This quarantine is real, and it goes!”
“But suppose you yourself get sick?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. I’m all right so far, and I’ll call for help when I need it.”
His tone was imperative, and she obeyed, grumbling about his youth and the value of his life to the service.
“That’s all very nice,” he replied; “but I’m in it, and I don’t intend to expose you or any one else to the contagion.”
“I’ve had it once,” she asserted.
He looked at her, and smiled in recognition of her subterfuge.
“No matter; you’re ailing, and might take it again, so toddle back. It’s mighty good of you, and of Lee, to come—but there isn’t a thing you can do, and here’s the doctor,” he added, as he recognized the young student who passed for a physician in the Fork. He was a beardless youth of small experience and no great courage, and as he approached with hesitant feet he asked:
“Are you sure it’s smallpox?”
Cavanagh smiled. “The indications are all that way. That last importation of Basques brought it probably from the steerage of the ship. I’m told they’ve had several cases over in the Basin.”
Cavanaugh-Forest Ranger Page 20