The ranger was deeply moved by the pitiless contrast of the scene and the drama. The sun was still shining warmly aslant the heavens; the wind, crisp and sweet, wandered by on laggard wings, the conies cried from the ledges; the lambs were calling--and in the midst of it one tattered fragment of humanity was heaping the iron earth upon another, stricken, perhaps, by the same dread disease. Wetherford himself paused to moralize. "I suppose that chap has a mother somewhere who is wondering where her boy is. This isn't exactly Christian burial, but it's all he'll get, I reckon; for whether it was smallpox or plain fever, nobody's going to uselessly resurrect him. Even the coyotes will fight shy of his meat." Nevertheless, the ranger took a hand at the end and rolled some huge bowlders upon the grave, to insure the wolves' defeat. "Now burn the bedding," he commanded--"the whole camp has got to go--and your clothing, too, after we get down the hill." "What will we do with the sheep?" "Drive them over the divide and leave them." All these things Wetherford did, and leaving the camp in ashes behind him, Cavanagh drove the sheep before him on his homeward way. As night fell, the dog, at his command, rounded them up and put them to bed, and the men went on down the valley, leaving the brave brute on guard, pathetic figure of faithful guardianship. "It hurts me to desert you, old fellow," called the ranger, looking back, "but there's no help for it. I'll come up in the morning and bring you some biscuit." The collie seemed to understand. He waggled his tail and whined, as though struggling to express his wonder and pain, and Ross, moved to pity, called: "Come on, boy, never mind the sheep! Come along with us!" But the dog, leaping from side to side, uttered a short howl and a sharp bark, as if to say: "I can't! I can't!" "He's onto _his_ job," remarked Wetherford. "It beats all how human they do seem sometimes. I've no manner of doubt that dago's booted him all over the place many a time, and yet he seemed horrible sorry about his master's trouble. Every few minutes, all night long, he'd come pattering and whining round the door of the tent--didn't come in, seemed just trying to ask how things were coming. He was like a child, lonesome and grieving." It was long after dark when they entered the canon just above the cabin, and Wetherford was shivering from cold and weakness. "Now you pull up just outside the gate, and wait there till I bring out some blankets; then you've got to strip to the skin and start the world all over again," said Cavanagh. "I'll build a fire here, and we'll cremate your past. How about it?" "I'm willing," responded Wetherford. "You can burn everything that belongs to me but my wife and my girl."