The dusk was deepening, and Kit Carson and I went ahead settling camp for the night. We built a fire, and spread the blankets, and were making tea in a tin can when we heard hoof thuds on the cow-path. A man rode in on us. He was a young man, with a short red mustache and a peaked hat, and a greenish-shade Norfolk jacket with a badge on the left breast. A Forest Ranger! Under his leg was a rifle in scabbard.
"Howdy?" he said, stopping and eying us.
Kit Carson and I saluted him, military way, because he represented the Government, and answered: "Howdy, sir?"
He was cross, as he gazed about.
"What are you lads trying to do? Set the timber afire?" he scolded. He saw the burned place, you know.
"We didn't do that," I answered. "It was afire when we came in and we put it out."
He grunted.
"How did it start?"
"A camp-fire, we think."
He fairly snorted. He was pretty well disgusted and angered, we could see.