He was just dishing out his rude supper when the feet of a horse on the log bridge announced a visitor.
With a feeling of pleasure as well as relief, he rose to greet the stranger. “Any visitor is welcome this night,” he said.
The horseman proved to be his former prisoner, the old man Edwards, who slipped from his saddle with the never-failing grace of the cow-man, and came slowly toward the cabin. He smiled wearily as he said: “I’m on your trail, Mr. Ranger, but I bear no malice. You were doing your duty. Can you tell me how far it is to Ambro’s camp?”
There was something forlorn in the man’s attitude, and Cavanagh’s heart softened. “Turn your horse into the corral and come to supper,” he commanded, with Western bluntness; “we’ll talk about all that later.”
Edwards accepted his hospitality without hesitation, and when he had disposed of his mount and made himself ready for the meal, he came in and took a seat at the table in silence, while the ranger served him and waited for his explanation.
“I’m going up to take Ambro’s place,” he began, after a few minutes of silent eating. “Know where his camp is?”
“I do,” replied Ross, to whom the stranger now appeared in pathetic guise. “Any man of his age consenting to herd sheep is surely hard hit by the rough hand of the world,” he reasoned, and the closer he studied his visitor the plainlier he felt his ungoverned past. His chest was hollow, his eyes unnaturally large, and his hands thin, but he still displayed faint lines of the beauty and power he had once gloried in. His clothing was worn and poor, and Ross said: “You’ll need plenty of bedding up there.”
“Is it high?”
“About eleven thousand feet.”
“Jehosaphat! How will I stand that kind of air? Still, it may be it’s what I need. I’ve been living down in the low country for ten years, and I’m a little bit hide-bound.”