"Not necessary to go so far. Run them across _this_ State line--then catch them off guard in some of these canyons or arroyos. Turn them over to a sheriff who doesn't owe his bread and butter to Moyese. He'll have to hold them till Williams and MacDonald come down to testify. By that time, I fancy we'll hear from people who have been losing stock all the way up from Arizona. Moyese will be keeping mighty quiet." "Meanwhile, Mr. White-vest, who planned all this deviltry--he goes free! These are only the poor rowdy tools for--" "For the Man Higher Up," finished Wayland. "Wayland, who is this white-vested anarchist, this vested-righter who subverts your laws?" "His name is Legion, sir! That's what's the matter! These hide-bound vested righters are only vested righters when the rights don't happen to belong to some other man." The Ranger related the incidents of the visit to the Ridge. The old man rode along in silence. "And from what you say," finished Wayland, "he evidently didn't mean any harm to come to the boy; but that is always the way with this cursed system. You're law breaking law-makers, your divine-right-king-crooks out here--don't _plan_ crime. They only plan to have their own way. It's like a man breaking down a dam to get a little water. When the floods burst through the break, he thinks it isn't his fault." "That's what some of our Scotch kings thought; we took their heads off just the same." "Well, if we can get our people wakened up, we'll take a few heads off, too, at election time." He touched his pony to a brisk trot across the meadow, following the mule as it dodged in and out among the larches, up over a saddle back and down again thwarting a long bare hollow. Wayland saw the light come sifting in gold dust. Somehow, the warmth of it swept round him in a consciousness of that night on the Ridge. It was like the snow flakes she talked about, sculpturing the rocks, shaping destiny. Would the day ever come when they two could ride forth adventuring happiness together? The hammer of a woodpecker, the resinous tang of the gold-dust air, the shaking of the evergreen needles like gypsy tambourines--filled him with an absurd sense of the joy of life; and he could never drink the joy of these things without thinking of her; for the consciousness of her presence, of the warm glow of her love, enveloped all now, permeated his being, a life inside his life, blended of his own. "A don't like the way that mule o' yours keeps lookin' ahead with both ears, Wayland! It's all-fired quiet here, for noon-hour when the streams should be shouting. There is something mighty queer and still in this air. Yon saucy woodpecker has quit drillin'! Hold back a bit! A'm goin' ahead! A've known these mountains longer than you have," and curving through the brushwood, the old frontiersman came out ahead of the pack leader.