lot. We've got to keep that crew at arm's length
for our own protection."

"Ross Fletcher is not that kind," protested Merker. "I've known him for
years."

"Well, he's got a nerve to come in here. I've seen him and his kind
holding down too good a job next old Austin's bar."

"Not Ross," protested Merker again. "He's a worker. He's just back now
from the high mountains. Mr. Orde, if you've got a minute, sit down. I
want to tell you about Ross."

Willing to do what he could to soften Merker's natural feeling, Bob
swung himself to the counter, and lit his pipe.

"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."

Bob's amused smile died slowly. Before his mental vision rose the
picture of the old mountaineer, with his faded, ragged clothes, his
beautiful outfit, his lean, kindly face, his steady blue eyes, guarding
an empty trail for the sake of an empty duty. That man was no fool; and
Bob knew it. The young fellow slid from the counter to the floor.

"I'm glad you believe in your friend, Merker," said he "and I don't
doubt he's a fine fellow;