This the culprit admitted. “But I was working for Sam Gregg, and when Joe asked me to go show him the trail, I didn’t expect to get cinched for killing game. I didn’t fire a shot—now that’s the God’s truth.”
“Nevertheless,” retorted Ross, “you were packing the head, and I must count you in the game.”
Edwards fell silent then, but something in his look deepened the ranger’s pity. His eyes were large and dark, and his face so emaciated that he seemed fit only for a sanitarium.
The trip to the Fork (timed to the gait of a lazy pack-horse) was a tedious eight hours’ march, and it was nearly seven o’clock when they arrived at the outskirts of the village. There had been very few words spoken by Cavanagh, and those which the prisoners uttered were not calculated to cheer the way. Joe blamed his guide for their mishap. “You should have known how far the sound of our guns would carry,” he said.
As they were nearing the village he called out: “See here, Cavanagh, there’s no use taking me through town under arrest. I’ll cough up all we got right now. How much is the damage?”
“I can’t receive your fine,” replied Ross, “and, besides, you took your chances when you shot that sheep. You lost out, and I’m not going to let you off. This poaching must stop. You go right along with your guide.”
Again Edwards drew near, and pled in a low voice: “See here, Mr. Ranger, I have special reasons why I don’t want to go into this town under arrest. I wish you’d let me explain.”
There was deep emotion in his voice, but Ross was firm. “I’m sorry for you,” he said, “but my duty requires me to take you before a magistrate—”
“But you don’t know my case,” he replied, with bitter intensity. “I’m out ‘on parole.’ I can’t afford to be arrested in this way. Don’t you see?”
Ross looked at him closely. “Are you telling me the truth?”