And thereafter, with considerable bluntness, he told us to "git," and quickly. Our arguments were in vain. The fact that it was dark, that we were played out, that there was no other horse feed near, availed not at all. With him it was no case for logic. Like a good and faithful servant he always came back to the beginning with the statement, "Them's the rules and I gotter enforce 'em."
But in the meantime the coffee boiled and the horses wandered farther from us. The ranger became exasperated.
"You're trespassing," he expostulated. "This is private property and——"
"Whose property?" My partner hit the nail on the head. But the ranger didn't see the rocks ahead.
"Property of the Forest Service, of course," said he.
"And who is the Forest Service?"
"Why, it's—it's—" the ranger stuttered a bit, seeking adequate explanation. "It's the Government, of course."
The ranger swelled with pride—after all, hadn't he demonstrated himself the representative of our omnipotent nation? But pride precedeth falls.
"And who is the Government?" persisted my partner, as he poured his cup full of coffee from the battered pot.
But before an Armageddon of violence was reached I interrupted and dispelled the threatened storm. For as it happened we were privileged characters, of a sort, and our note from the District Supervisor extending the special courtesies of the Service turned the rising wrath of our ranger into the essence of hospitality. We never again heard of the rules from him.