“Here—what’s the matter?”
“In there. Look!” Thady Shea motioned to the doorway.
The other man, the forest ranger who had come from the lookout station on Indian Peaks, quickly strode forward. His figure filled the doorway for a long moment. He stood there silently, gazing in upon that tragic shack, reading every detail with skilled eyes. At last he turned and rejoined Thady Shea, who was staring down at the baby.
“You built a fire early this morning on the old trail up from the Tularosa Road?” The ranger gave his name and office. “H’m-m. Know anything about the fire laws?”
“Fire laws? No,” Shea was disturbed and wondering. “Why? Shouldn’t I have built any fire?”
“Not that kind—not a big hell-roarer. No harm done, I reckon; I stamped out your fire. But see to it that you don’t do it again. Here’s a copy of the laws.”
He extended a card. Shea pocketed it with a helpless gesture, and looked again at the doorway of the shack. The ranger caught his look, and nodded.
“I guess you’d just found ’em, eh? It’s a hell of a note. This fellow Garcia, with his wife and kid, came up from Mexico; refugees. He’s been herding some sheep; some that the Y Ranch got a permit to run in a big box cañon last winter—and he’s not a bad sort when he’s sober. But now—well, there’s no doubt about him now. He’ll be a good greaser in two-three weeks, when the drop’s sprung. Suppose I got to take him in; hell of a note! You ain’t been inside?”
Thady Shea shuddered. “No,” he answered. He looked down at the baby. The baby looked up at him, removed the strip of white bacon from her mouth, and smiled.
“It’s a girl!” said Thady Shea in surprise and awe.