On the cold and silent side of the great divide the faint light of the shepherd's teepee shone, and with a returning sense of his duty to his fellows on the roof of the continent, Cavanagh pushed onward. Wetherford met him at the door, no longer the poor old tramp, but a priest, one who has devoted himself to Christ's service. "How is he?" asked the ranger. "Delirious," replied the herder. "I've had to hold him to his bed. I'm glad you've come. It's lonesome up here. Don't come too near. Set your tent down there by the trees. I can't have you infected. Keep clear of me and this camp." "I've got some food and some extra clothing for you." "Put 'em down here, and in the morning drive these sheep away. That noise disturbs the dago, and I don't like it myself; they sound lonesome and helpless. That dog took 'em away for a while, but brought 'em back again; poor devil, he don't know what to think of it all." Ross did as Wetherford commanded him to do, and withdrew a little way down the slope; and without putting up his tent, rolled himself in his blankets and went to sleep. The sun rose gloriously. With mountain fickleness the wind blew gently from the east, the air was precisely like late March, and the short and tender grass, the small flowers in the sheltered corners of the rocks, and the multitudinous bleatings of the lambs were all in keeping. It was spring in the world and it was spring in the heart of the ranger, in spite of all his perplexities. The Basque would recover, the heroic ex-convict would not be stricken, and all would be well. Of such resiliency is the heart of youth. His first duty was to feed the faithful collie, and to send him forth with the flock. His next was to build a fire and cook some breakfast for Wetherford, and as he put it down beside the tent door he heard the wild pleading of the Basque, who was struggling with his nurse--doubtless in the belief that he was being kept a prisoner. Only a few words like "go home" and "sheep" were intelligible to either the nurse or the ranger. "Keep quiet now--quiet, boy! It's all right. I'm here to take care of you," Wetherford repeated, endlessly. Cavanagh waited till a silence came; then called, softly: "Here's your breakfast, Wetherford." "Move away," retorted the man within. "Keep your distance." Ross walked away a little space and Wetherford came to the door. "The dago is sure sick, there's no two ways about that. How far is it to the nearest doctor?" "I could reach one by 'phone from the Kettle Ranch, about twenty miles below here." "If he don't get better to-day I reckon we'll have to have a doctor." He looked so white and old that Cavanagh said: "You need rest. Now I _think_ I've had the smallpox--I know I've been vaccinated, and if you go to bed--"