The artist--watching through the screen of cedar boughs beside the old wagon road and scarcely daring to breathe lest the beautiful vision should vanish--forgot his position--forgot what he was doing. Fascinated by the scene to which he had been led, so unexpectedly by the music he had so often heard while at work in his studio, he was unmindful of the rude part he was playing. He was brought suddenly to himself by a heavy hand upon his shoulder. As he straightened, the hand whirled him half around and he found himself looking into a face that was tanned and seamed by many years in the open. The man who had so unceremoniously commanded the artist's attention stood a little above six feet in height, and was of that deep-chested, lean, but full-muscled build that so often marks the mountain bred. He wore no coat. At his hip, a heavy Colt revolver hung in its worn holster from a full, loosely buckled, cartridge belt. Upon his unbuttoned vest was the shield of the United States Forest Service. From under the brim of his slouch hat, he gazed at Aaron King questioningly--in angry disapproval. Instinctively, neither of the men spoke. A word would have been heard the other side of the cedars. With a gesture commanding the artist to follow, the Ranger quietly, withdrew along the wagon road toward the creek. When they were at a distance where their voices would not reach the girl in the glade, the Ranger said with angry abruptness, "Now, sir, perhaps you will tell me who you are and what you mean by spying upon a couple of women, like that." The other could not conceal his embarrassment. "I don't blame you for calling me to account," he said. "If it were me--if our positions were reversed I mean--I should kick you down into the creek there." The cold, blue eyes--that had been measuring the painter so shrewdly--twinkled with a hint of humor. "You _do_ look like a gentleman, you know," the officer said,--as if excusing himself for not following the artist's suggestion. "But, all the same, you must explain. Who are you?" "That part is easy, at least," returned the other. "Though the circumstance of our meeting _is_ a temptation to lie." "Which would do you no good, and might lead to unpleasant complications," retorted the Ranger, sharply. The man under question, still embarrassed, laughed shortly, as he returned, "I really was not thinking of it seriously. My name is Aaron King. I am an artist. You are Mr. Oakley, I suppose." The officer nodded--beginning to smile. "Yes, I am Brian Oakley." The artist continued, "A month ago, Conrad Lagrange and I came into the mountains for an outing. We stopped at the Station, but there was no one at home. Most of the time, we have been just roaming around. Now, we are camped down there, back of that old apple orchard."