It was nearly noon of a glorious day as Cavanagh, very tired and very hungry, rode up to the sheep-herder’s tent. Wetherford was sitting in the sun calmly smoking his pipe, the sheep were feeding not far away, attended by the dog, and an air of peace covered his sunlit rocky world.
“How is the Basque?” asked the ranger.
Wetherford pointed upward. “All over.”
“Then it wasn’t smallpox?”
“I reckon that’s what it was; it sure was fierce. I judge it’s a case of Injun burial—no ceremony—right here in the rocks. I’ll let you dig the hole (I’m just about all in), but mind you keep to the windward all the time. I don’t want you spotted.”
Cavanagh understood the necessity for these precautions, but first of all came his own need of food and rest. Turning his tired horse to grass, he stretched himself along a grassy, sunny cranny between the rocks, and there ate and afterward slept, while all about him the lambs called and the conies whined.
He was awakened by a pebble tossed upon him, and when he arose, stiff and sore, but feeling stronger and in better temper, the sun was wearing low. Setting to work at his task, he threw the loose rock out of a hollow in the ledge near by, and to this rude sepulchre Wetherford dragged the dead man, refusing all aid, and there piled a cairn of rocks above his grave.
The ranger was deeply moved by the pitiless contrast of the scene and the drama. The sun was still shining warmly aslant the heavens; the wind, crisp and sweet, wandered by on laggard wings, the conies cried from the ledges; the lambs were calling—and in the midst of it one tattered fragment of humanity was heaping the iron earth upon another, stricken, perhaps, by the same dread disease.
Wetherford himself paused to moralize. “I suppose that chap has a mother somewhere who is wondering where her boy is. This isn’t exactly Christian burial, but it’s all he’ll get, I reckon; for whether it was smallpox or plain fever, nobody’s going to uselessly resurrect him. Even the coyotes will fight shy of his meat.”
Nevertheless, the ranger took a hand at the end and rolled some huge bowlders upon the grave, to insure the wolves’ defeat.