Wetherford spoke slowly: "I hate to lose my girl, now that I've seen her, but I guess you're right; and Lize, poor old critter! It's hell's shame the way I've queered her life, and I'd give my right arm to be where I was twelve years ago; but with a price on my head and old age comin' on, I don't see myself ever again getting up to par. It's a losing game for me now." There was resignation as well as despair in his voice and Cavanagh felt it, but he said, "There's one other question that may come up for decision--if that Basque died of smallpox, you may possibly take it." "I've figured on that, but it will take a day or two to show on me. I don't feel any ache in my bones yet. If I do come down, you keep away from me. You've got to live and take care of Virginia." "She should never have returned to this accursed country," Cavanagh harshly replied, starting back toward the cabin. The constable, smoking his pipe beside the fireplace, did not present an anxious face; on the contrary, he seemed plumply content as he replied to the ranger's greeting. He represented very well the type of officer which these disorderly communities produce. Brave and tireless when working along the line of his prejudices, he could be most laxly inefficient when his duties cut across his own or his neighbor's interests. Being a cattle-man by training, he was glad of the red herring which the Texas officer had trailed across the line of his pursuit. This attitude still further inflamed Cavanagh's indignant hate of the country. The theory which the deputy developed was transparent folly. "It was just a case of plain robbery," he argued. "One of them dagoes had money, and Neill Ballard and that man Edwards just naturally follered him and killed the whole bunch and scooted--that's my guess." Cavanagh's outburst was prevented by the scratching and whining of a dog at his door. For a moment he wondered at this; his perturbed mind had dropped the memory of the loyal collie. As he opened the door, the brute, more than half human in his gaze, looked beseechingly at his new master, as if to say, "I couldn't help it--I was so lonely. And I love you." "You poor beastie," the ranger called, pityingly, and the dog leaped up in a frenzy of joyous relief, putting his paws on his breast, then dropped to the ground, and, crouching low on his front paws, quivered and yawned with ecstasy of worship. It seemed that he could not express his passionate adoration, his relief, except by these grotesque contortions. "Come in, Laddie!" Ross urged, but this the dog refused to do. "I am a creature of the open air," he seemed to say. "My duties are of the outer world. I have no wish for a fireside--all I need is a master's praise and a bit of bread." Cavanagh brought some food, and, putting it down outside the door, spoke to him, gently: "Good boy! Eat that and go back to your flock. I'll come to see you in the morning."