“The very same,” replied Cavanagh.
“Don’t you know a dog’s sure to carry the poison in his hair? Why, he jumped on you! Why didn’t you shoot him?” he demanded, fiercely.
“Because he’s a faithful guardian, and, besides, he was with the sheep, and never so much as entered the tent.”
“Do you know that?”
“Not absolutely, but he seemed to be on shy terms with the herder, and I’m sure—”
The officer caught up his hat and coat and started for the door. “It’s me for the open air,” said he.
As the men withdrew Ross followed them, and, standing in his door, delivered his final volley. “If this State does not punish those fiends, every decent man should emigrate out of it, turning the land over to the wolves, the wildcats, and other beasts of prey.”
Gregg, as he retreated, called back: “That’s all right, Mr. Ranger, but you’d better keep to the hills for a few weeks. The settlers down below won’t enjoy having a man with smallpox chassayin’ around town. They might rope and tie you.”
Wetherford came out of his hiding-place with a grave face. “I wonder I didn’t think of that collie. They say a cat’s fur will carry disease germs like a sponge. Must be the same with a dog.”
“Well, it’s too late now,” replied Cavanagh. “But they’re right about our staying clear of town. They’ll quarantine us sure. All the same, I don’t believe the dog carried any germs of the disease.”