“Lung trouble?”
“Oh no; old age, I reckon.”
“You’re not old—not more than fifty-five.”
“I’m no colt,” he admitted; “and, besides, I’ve lived pretty swift.”
In this was the hint of a confession, but Cavanagh did not care to have him proceed further in that line. “I suppose Gregg paid your fine?”
“Yes.”
“In any other town in the State you’d have gone down the line.”
He roused himself. “See here, Mr. Ranger, you’ve no warrant to believe me, but I told you the God’s truth. Young Gregg got me to ride into the range and show him the trail. I didn’t intend to get mixed up with a game warden. I’ve had all the confinement I need.”
“Well, it’s a closed incident now,” interposed Ross; “we won’t reopen it. Make yourself at home.”
The stranger, hungry as he was, ate with unexpected gentility, and, as the hot coffee sent its cheerful glow through his body, he asked, with livening interest, a good many questions about the ranger and the Forest Service. “You fellers have to be all-round men. The cowboys think you have a snap, but I guess you earn your money.”