To the casual observer in a town of this character there was nothing specially noticeable in three horsemen driving a pack-horse, but to those whose eyes were keen the true relationship of the ranger to his captives was instantly apparent, and when they alighted at Judge Higley’s office a bunch of eager observers quickly collected.
“Hello Joe, what luck?” called Ballard.
“Our luck was a little too good—we caught a game warden,” replied the young scapegrace.
The ranger was chagrined to find the office of the justice closed for the day, and, turning to his captives, said: “I’m hungry, and I’ve no doubt you are. I’m going to take you into Mike Halsey’s saloon for supper, but remember you are my prisoners.” And to the little old remittance man, Sifton, who caught his eye, he explained his need of a justice and the town marshal.
“I’ll try to find the judge,” replied Sifton, with ready good-will, and at a sign from the ranger, Gregg and his herder entered the saloon.
In fifteen minutes the town was rumbling with the news. Under Ballard’s devilry, all the latent hatred of the ranger and all the concealed opposition to the Forest Service came to the surface like the scum on a pot of broth. The saloons and eating-houses boiled with indignant protest. “What business is it of Ross Cavanagh’s?” they demanded. “What call has he to interfere? He’s not a game warden.”
“Yes he is. All these rangers are game wardens,” corrected another.
“No, they’re not. They have to be commissioned by the Governor.”
“Well, he’s been commissioned; he’s warden all right.”
“I don’t believe it. Anyhow, he’s too fresh. He needs to have a halt. Let’s do him. Let’s bluff him out.”