sharply, "you want to do a lot of
thinking before you comment on Miss Wetherford. I won't stand for any
nasty clack."

Edwards meekly answered: "I wasn't going to say anything out of the way. I
was fixin' for to praise her."

"All the same, I don't intend to discuss her with you," was Cavanagh's
curt answer.

The herder fell back into silence while the ranger prepared his bunk for
the night. The fact that he transferred some of the blankets from his own
bed to that of his visitor did not escape Edwards's keen eyes, and with
grateful intent he said:

"I can give you a tip, Mr. Ranger," said he, breaking out of a silence.
"The triangle outfit is holding more cattle on the forest than their
permits call for."

"How do you know?"

"I heard one of the boys braggin' about it."

"Much obliged," responded Ross. "I'll look into it."

Edwards went on: "Furthermore, they're fixing for another sheep-kill over
there, too; all the sheepmen are armed. That's why I left the country. I
don't want to run any more chances of being shot up. I've had enough of
trouble; I can't afford to be hobnobbing with judges and juries."

"When does your parole end?" asked Ross.

Edwards forced a grin. "I was handing you one when I said that," he
declared, weakly. "I was workin' up sympathy. I'm not out on parole; I'm
just a broken-down old cow-puncher herdin' sheep in order to keep clear of
the liquor belt."

This seemed reasonable, and the ranger remarked, by way of dropping the
subject: "I've nothing to say further than this--obey the rules of the
forest, and you won't get into any further trouble with me. And as for
being shot up by the cow-men, you'll not be disturbed on any national
forest. There never has been a single herder shot nor a sheep destroyed on
this forest."

"I'm mighty glad to hear that," replied Edwards, with sincere relief.
"I've had my share of shooting up and shooting down. All I ask now is
quiet and the society of sheep. I take a kind of pleasure in protecting
the fool brutes. It's about all I'm good for."

He did, indeed, look like a man in the final year of life as he spoke.
"Better turn in," he said, in kindlier tone; "I'm an early riser."

The old fellow rose stiffly, and, laying aside his boots and trousers,
rolled into his bunk and was asleep in three minutes.

Cavanagh himself was very tired, and went to bed soon after, to sleep
dreamlessly till daylight. He sprang from his bed, and after a plunge in