"Yes, he came by some days ago, on his way, so he said, to relieve that sick Basque, Ambro. I went up a couple of days ago, and found the Basque dead and the old man gone. I buried the herder the best I could, and I'm on my way down to report the case." The deputy mused: "He may be hanging 'round some of the lumber-camps. I reckon we had better go up and look the ground over, anyhow. We might just chance to overhaul him." "He may have pulled out over the range," suggested the ranger. "Anyhow, it's a long way up there, and you'll probably have to camp at my place to-night. You'll find the key hanging up over the door. Go in and make yourself comfortable." The deputy thanked him, and was about to ride on when Cavanagh added: "I burned that Basque's tent and bedding for fear of contagion. His outfit was worthless, anyhow. You'll find the sheep just above my cabin, and the horse in my corral." "The old man didn't take the horse, eh? Well, that settles it; he's sure at one of the camps. Much obliged. Good-day." As the two officers rode away Wetherford leaned heavily on his pommel and stared at the ranger with wide eyes. His face was drawn and his lips dry. "They'll get me! My God, they'll get me!" he said. "Oh no, they won't," rejoined Cavanagh. "You're all right yet. They suspected nothing. How could they, with you in uniform and in my company?" "All the same, I'm scared. That man Haines had his eyes on me every minute. He saw right through me. They'll get me, and they'll charge me up with that killing." "No, they won't, I tell you," insisted the ranger. "Haines suspected nothing. I had his eye. He never saw you before, and has nothing but a description to go by. So cheer up. Your uniform and your position with me will make you safe--perfectly safe. They'll find the Basque's camp burned and the sheep in charge of the dog, and they'll fancy that you have skipped across the range. But see here, old man," and he turned on him sharply, "you didn't tell me the whole truth. You said you were out on parole." "I couldn't tell you the whole truth," replied the fugitive. "But I will now. I was in for a life sentence. I was desperate for the open air and homesick for the mountains, and I struck down one of the guards. I was willing to do anything to get out. I thought if I could get back to this country and my wife and child I'd be safe. I said I'd be willing to go back to the pen if necessary, but I'm not. I can't do it. I'd die there in that hell. You must save me for my girl's sake."