THE FOREST RANGER I One April day some years ago, when the rustling of cattle (a picturesque name for stealing) was still going on in one of our central mountain states, Abe Kitsong, a rancher on the Shellfish, meeting Hanscom, the forest ranger of that district, called out: "Say, mister, do you know that some feller has taken a claim in our valley right bang up against your boundary line?" "Yes," replied Hanscom. "I've an eye on him. He's started a cabin already." "I didn't know that land was open or I'd 'a' took it myself. Who is the old chap, anyway?" "I don't know where he comes from, but his name is Kauffman--Pennsylvania Dutch, I reckon." "Watson will be hot when he runs agin' the fence that feller's puttin' up." "Well, the man's in there and on the way to a clear title, so what are you going to do about it?" "I don't plan for to do anything, but Watson will sure be sore," repeated Kitsong. The ranger smiled and rode on. He was a native of the West, a plain-featured, deliberate young fellow of thirty who sat his horse with the easy grace which marks the trailer, while Abe Kitsong, tall, gaunt, long-bearded, and sour-faced, was a Southerner, a cattleman of bad reputation with the alfalfa farmers farther down the valley. He was a notable survivor of the "good old days of the range," and openly resented the "punkin rollers" who were rapidly fencing all the lower meadows. Watson was his brother-in-law, and together they had controlled the upper waters of the Shellfish, making a last stand in the secluded valley. The claim in question lay in a lonely spot at the very head of a narrow canyon, and included a lovely little meadow close clasped by a corner of the dark robe of forest which was Hanscom's especial care, and which he guarded with single-hearted devotion. The new cabin stood back from the trail, and so for several weeks its owner went about his work in undisturbed tranquillity. Occasionally he drove to town for supplies, but it soon appeared that he was not seeking acquaintance with his neighbors, and in one way or another he contrived to defend himself from visitors. He was a short man, gray-mustached and somber, but his supposed wife (who dressed in the rudest fashion and covered her head, face, and shoulders with an old-fashioned gingham sunbonnet) was reported by Watson, her nearest neighbor, to be much younger than her husband and comely. "I came on her the other day without that dinged bunnit," said he, "and she's not so bad-looking, but she's shy. Couldn't lay a hand on her."