Ross defended Wetherford for Virginia’s sake. “He wasn’t altogether to blame, as I see it. He was the Western type in full flower, that’s all. He had to go like the Indian and the buffalo. And these hobos like Ballard and Gregg will go next.”
Edwards sank back into his chair. “I reckon that’s right,” he agreed, and made offer to help clear away the supper dishes.
“No, you’re tired,” replied Ross; “rest and smoke. I’ll soon be done.”
The poacher each moment seemed less of the hardened criminal, and more and more of the man prematurely aged by sickness and dissipation, and gradually the ranger lost all feeling of resentment.
As he sat down beside the fire, Edwards said: “Them Wetherford women think a whole lot of you. ’Pears like they’d both fight for you. Are you sweet on the girl?”
“Now, see here, old man,” Ross retorted, sharply, “you want to do a lot of thinking before you comment on Miss Wetherford. I won’t stand for any nasty clack.”
Edwards meekly answered: “I wasn’t going to say anything out of the way. I was fixin’ for to praise her.”
“All the same, I don’t intend to discuss her with you,” was Cavanagh’s curt answer.
The herder fell back into silence while the ranger prepared his bunk for the night. The fact that he transferred some of the blankets from his own bed to that of his visitor did not escape Edwards’s keen eyes, and with grateful intent he said:
“I can give you a tip, Mr. Ranger,” said he, breaking out of a silence. “The triangle outfit is holding more cattle on the forest than their permits call for.”