"Ross Fletcher is a ranger because he loves it and believes in it," said Merker earnestly. "He knows things are going rotten now, but he hopes that by and by they'll go better. His district is in good shape. Why, let me tell you: last spring Ross was fighting fire all alone, and he went out for help and they docked him a day for being off the reserve!"
"You don't say," commented Bob.
"You don't believe it. Well, it's so. And they sent him in after sheep in the high mountains early, when the feed was froze, and wouldn't allow him pay for three sacks of barley for his animals. And Ross gets sixty dollars a month, and he spends about half of that for trail tools and fire tools that they won't give him. What do you think of that?"
"Merker," said Bob kindly, "I think your man is either a damn liar or a damn fool. Why does he say he does all this?"
"He likes the mountains. He—well, he just believes in it."
"I see. Are there any more of these altruists? or is he the only bird of the species?"
Merker caught the irony of Bob's tone.
"They don't amount to much, in general," he admitted. "But there's a few—they keep the torch lit."
"I supposed their job was more in the line of putting it out," observed Bob; then, catching Merker's look of slow bewilderment, he added: "So there are several."
"Yes. There's good men among 'em. There's Ross, and Charley Morton, and Tom Carroll, and, of course, old California John."