government.

Wetherford was also moving in deep thought, and at last put his perplexity
into a question. "What am I to do? I'm beginning to feel queer. I reckon
the chances for my having smallpox are purty fair. Maybe I'd better drop
down to Sulphur and report to the authorities. I've got a day or two
before the blossoms will begin to show on me."

Cavanagh studied him closely. "Now don't get to thinking you've got it. I
don't see how you could attach a germ. The high altitude and the winds up
there ought to prevent infection. I'm not afraid for myself, but if you're
able, perhaps we'd better pull out to-morrow."

Later in the day Wetherford expressed deeper dejection. "I don't see
anything ahead of me anyhow," he confessed. "If I go back to the 'pen'
I'll die of lung trouble, and I don't know how I'm going to earn a living
in the city. Mebbe the best thing I could do would be to take the pox and
go under. I'm afraid of big towns," he continued. "I always was--even when
I had money. Now that I am old and broke I daren't go. No city for me."

Cavanagh's patience gave way. "But, man, you can't stay here! I'm packing
up to leave. Your only chance of getting out of the country is to go when
I go, and in my company." His voice was harsh and keen, and the old man
felt its edge; but he made no reply, and this sad silence moved Cavanagh
to repentance. His irritability warned him of something deeply changing in
his own nature.

Approaching the brooding felon, he spoke gently and sadly. "I'm sorry for
you, Wetherford, I sure am, but it's up to you to get clear away so that
Lee will never by any possible chance find out that you are alive. She has
a romantic notion of you as a representative of the old-time West, and it
would be a dreadful shock to her if she knew you as you are. It's hard to
leave her, I know, now that you've seen her, but that's the manly thing to
do--the only thing to do."

"Oh, you're right--of course you're right. But I wish I could be of some
use to her. I wish I could chore round for the rest of my life, where I
could kind o' keep watch over her. I'd be glad enough to play the scullion
in her kitchen. But if you're going to take her--"

"But I'm not," protested Ross. "I'm going to leave her right here. I can't
take her."

Wetherford looked at him with steady eyes, into which a keen light leaped.
"Don't you intend to marry her?"

Ross turned away. "No, I don't--I mean it is impossible!"

"Why not