“Have you been vaccinated?”
“Yes; when I was in the army.”
“Then you’re all right.”
“I hope so.”
There was a certain comic relief in this long-distance diagnosing of a “case” by a boy, and yet the tragic fact beneath it all was that Wetherford was dying, a broken and dishonored husband and father, and that his identity must be concealed from his wife and daughter, who were much more deeply concerned over the ranger than over the desperate condition of his patient. “And this must continue to be so,” Cavanagh decided. And as he stood there looking toward the girl’s fair figure on the bridge, he came to the final, fixed determination never to speak one word or make a sign that might lead to the dying man’s identification. “Of what use is it?” he asked himself. “Why should even Lize be made to suffer? Wetherford’s poor misspent life is already over for her, and for Lee he is only a dim memory.”
Redfield came near enough to see that the ranger’s face, though tired, showed no sign of illness, and was relieved. “Who is this old herder?” he asked. “Hasn’t he any relatives in the country?”
“He came from Texas, so he said. You’re not coming in?” he broke off to say to the young physician, whom Lize had shamed into returning to the cabin.
“I suppose I’ll have to,” he protested, weakly.
“I don’t see the need of it. The whole place reeks of the poison, and you might carry it away with you. Unless you insist on coming in, and are sure you can prevent further contagion, I shall oppose your entrance. You are in the company of others—I must consider their welfare.”
The young fellow was relieved. “Well, so long as we know what it is I can prescribe just as well right here,” he said, and gave directions for the treatment, which the ranger agreed to carry out.