“How do you know?”
“I heard one of the boys braggin’ about it.”
“Much obliged,” responded Ross. “I’ll look into it.”
Edwards went on: “Furthermore, they’re fixing for another sheep-kill over there, too; all the sheepmen are armed. That’s why I left the country. I don’t want to run any more chances of being shot up. I’ve had enough of trouble; I can’t afford to be hobnobbing with judges and juries.”
“When does your parole end?” asked Ross.
Edwards forced a grin. “I was handing you one when I said that,” he declared, weakly. “I was workin’ up sympathy. I’m not out on parole; I’m just a broken-down old cow-puncher herdin’ sheep in order to keep clear of the liquor belt.”
This seemed reasonable, and the ranger remarked, by way of dropping the subject: “I’ve nothing to say further than this—obey the rules of the forest, and you won’t get into any further trouble with me. And as for being shot up by the cow-men, you’ll not be disturbed on any national forest. There never has been a single herder shot nor a sheep destroyed on this forest.”
“I’m mighty glad to hear that,” replied Edwards, with sincere relief. “I’ve had my share of shooting up and shooting down. All I ask now is quiet and the society of sheep. I take a kind of pleasure in protecting the fool brutes. It’s about all I’m good for.”
He did, indeed, look like a man in the final year of life as he spoke. “Better turn in,” he said, in kindlier tone; “I’m an early riser.”
The old fellow rose stiffly, and, laying aside his boots and trousers, rolled into his bunk and was asleep in three minutes.