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ONLY NEWSPAPER IN TRANSYLVANIA COUNTY
J. J. MINES, OWNER AND MANAGER
jjQ]y£B r*A.!PBR FOR HOME FEOFLE AXtL HOME FRUJT
VOLUIE^XVI
BREVARB, NORTH CAROLINA. FRIDAY. AFBI3. 14.1911.
NUMBER*I5
Cavanagh,
Forest
Ranger
}
The Great Conservation
f Novel
By HAMLIN GARLAND
Copyright. 191O. by Hamlin Garland
CHAPTER XIX.
THE PESTHOUSE.
CAVANAGH had kept a keen
watch over Wetherford. and
when one night the old man
began to complain of the
ache in his bones his decision was in
stant.
“You’Te got it,” he said. “It’s up
to us to move down the valley tomor
row.”
Wetherford protested that he would
as soon die in the hills as in the val
ley. “I don’t want Lee Virginia to
know, but if 1 seem liable to fade out
I’d like Lize to be told that 1 didn’t
forget her and that I came back to
find out how she was. I hate to be a
nuisance to you, and so I’ll go down
the valley if you say so.”
As he was about to turn in that
uight Ross heard a horse cross the
bridge and. with intent to warn the
rider of his, danger, went to the door
and called out: “Halt! AVtio’s there?”
“A friend,” replied the stranger in a
weak voice.
Ross permitted the visitor to ride up
to the pole. *‘I can’t ask you iC” lie
explained. “I’ve a sick man inside.
Who are you, and what can I do for
you?”
Notwithstanding this warning the
rider dropped from his saddle and
came into the light which streamed
from the door.
“My name is Dunn,” he began. “I’m
from Deer Creek.”
“I know you.” responded the ranger.
“You’re that rancher I saw working
in the ditch the day I went to tele
phone, and you’ve come to tell me
something about that murder.”
The other man broke into a whim
per. “I’m a law abiding man. Mr. Cav-
anagh,” he began tremulously. “I’ve
always kept the law and never intend
ed to have anything to do with ttjnt
business. I was dragged into it
against my will. I’ve come to you be
cause you’re an officer of the federal
law. You don’t belong here. I trust
you. You represent the president, and
I want to tell you what I know, only
I want you to promise not to bring me
into it. I’m a man with a family, and
I can’t bear to have them know the
truth.”
There were deep agitation and com
plete sincerity in the rancher's choked
and hesitant utterance, and Cavanagh
turned cold with a premonition of what
he was about to disclose. “I am not
an officer of the law, Mr. Dunn, not in
the sense you mean, but I will respect
your wishes.”
“I know that you are not an officer
of the county law, but you’re not a
cattleman. It Is your business to keep
the peace in the wild country, and you
do it. Everybody knows that. But 1
can’t trust the officers of this country:
they’re all afraid of the cowboys. You
are not afraid, and you represent the
United States, and I’ll tell you. I can’t
bear It any longer!” he wailed. “I
must tell somebody. I can’t sleep, and
I can’t eat I’ve been like a man in
a nightmare ever since. I had no hand
in the killing—I didn’t even see it done
^bnt I knew it was going to happen.
I saw the committee appointed. The
meeting that decided it was held in
my barn, but I didn’t know what they
intended to do. I'ou believe me, don’t
you ?” He peered up at Cavanagh with
■white face and wild eyes. “I’m over
seventy years of age, Mr. Cavanagh,
and I’ve been a law abiding citizen all
my life.”
His mind, shattered by the weight of
bis ghastly secret, was in confusion,
and, perceiving this, Cavanagh began
to question him gently. One by one
be procured the names of those who
voted to “deal with” the herders. One
t-y one be obtained also the list of
those named on “the committee of re
prisal,” and as The broken‘njan deliv
ered himself of these accusing facts
be grew calmer. “I didn’t know—I
couldn’t believe—that the men on that
committee could chop and burn”— His
utterance failed him again, and he fell
silent abruptly.
“They must have been drunk—mad
drunk,” retorted Cav^^gh. “And yet
^bo would believe that even drink
could inflame white men to such devil’s
Work? When did you first know what
had been done?”
“That night after it was done one of
the men, my neighbor, who was drawn
on the committee, came to my house
and asked me to give him” a bed. He
was afraid to go home. *I can t face
my wife and children,* he said. He
told me what he’d seen, and then
when I remembered that it had all
been decided' in my stable and the
committee appointed there I began to
tremble. You believe I’m telling the
truth, don’t you?” he again asked, with
piteous accent.
“Yes, I believe you. You must tell
this story to the judge. It will end
the reign of the cattlemen.” •
“Oh, no; I can’t do that.”
“You must do that. It is your duty
as a Christian man and citizen.”
“No. no; I’ll stay and help you—I’ll
do anything but that. I’m afraid to
tell what I know. They would burn
me alive. I’m not a western man.
I’ve never been in a criminal court. I
don’t belong to this wild country. I
came out here because my daughter is
not strong, and now”— He broke
down altogether and, leaning against
his horse’s side, sobbed pitifully.
Cavanagh,* convinced that the old
man’s mind was too deeply, affected to
enable him to find his way back over
the rough trail that night, spoke to
him gently. “I’ll get you something to
eat,” he said. “Sit down here and
rest and compose yourself.’'
'A
HE BROKE DOWN AliTOGETHER AND SOBBED
BITTKRIiY.
Vv'etnerTofa turneS. a wild eye on the
ranger as he re-entered. “Who’s out
there?” he asked. “Is it the marshal?”
“No; it’s- only one of the ranchers
from below. He’s tired and hungry,
and I’m going to feed him,” Ross re
plied, filled with a vivid sense of the
diverse characters of the two men he
was serving.
Dunn received the food with an eager
hand, and after he had finished his re-
j freshment Cavanagh remarked 1 “The
I whole country should be obliged to
' you for your visit to me. I shall send
your information to Supervisor Red-
field.”
“Don’t use my name,” he begged.
“They will kill me if they find out
that I have told. We were all sworn
to secrecy, and if I had not seen that
fire, that pile of bodies”—
“I know, I knowh It horrified me.
It made me doubt humanity^” respond
ed Cavanagh. “We of the north cry
l>ut against the south for its lynchings,
! but here under our eyes goes on an
equally horrible display of rage over
the mere question of temporary ad-
I vantage, over the appropriation o‘f
I free grass, which is a federal resource
—something which belongs neither to
one claimant nor to the other, but to
the people, and should be of value to
the people. You must bring these men
to punishment.”
Dunn could only shiver in his horror
and repeat his fear. “They’ll kill me
if I do.”
Cavanagh at last said: “You must
not attempt to ride back tonight. I
can’t give you lodging in the cabin
because my patient is sick of smallr
pox, but you can camp In the barn till
morning, then ride straight back to
my friend Redfield and tell him what
you’ve told me. He will see that you
are protected. Make yopr deposition
and leave the country if you ar« afraid
to remain.”
In the end the rancher promised to
do this, but his tone was that of a bro
ken and distraught dotard. All the
landmarks of his life seemed suddenly
shifted.
Meanwhile the sufferings of Wether
ford were increasing, and Cavanagh
wds forced to give up all hope of get
ting him down the trail ne±t morn
ing, and . when Swenson, the forest
guard from the South Fork, knocked
at the door to say that he had been to
the valley and that the doctor was
coming up with Redfield and the dis
trict forester Ross thanked him, but
ordered him to go into camp across
the river and to warn everybody to
keep clear of the cabin. “Put your
packages down outside the door,” he
added, “and take charge of the situa
tion on the outside. I’ll take care of
the business Inside.” '
Wetherford was in great pain, but
the poison of the disease had misted
his brain, and he no longer worried
over the possible disclosure of his iden
tity. At times he lost the sense of his
surroundings and talked .of his prison
life_ or of the lonsr ride nortljward.
Once he rose” In 'his ' be'a'~to beat" off
the wolves which he said were attack
ing his pony.
He was a piteou^ figure 9s he* strug
gled thus, and it needed ^either his
relationship to Lee noi'^ his 1 bra very in
caring for the Basque herder to fill
the ranger’s heart with.^a desire to re
lieve his suffering. “Pel^haps I should
have sent for Lize at once,” he mused
as the light brought out the. red sig
natures of the plague.
Once (the old man looked up with
wide, dark, unseeing eyes and mur
mured, “I don’t seem to kpow you.”
“I’m a friejnd. My nj^e is Cava
nagh.”
“I can’t place you,” l^*9Adly admit
ted. “I feel pretty bad. If I ever get
out of this place I’m goihg back to the
Fork. • IMI get a gold taine; then I’ll
go back and make-up f»r what Lize
has gone through. I’m afraid to go
back now.”
“All right.” Ross soothingly agreed.
“But you’ll have to keep quiet till you
get over this fever you’re suffering
from.” — ■
“If Lize weren’t so far away she’d
come and nurse me. I’m pretty sick.”
Swenson came back to say that
probably^ Redfield and the doctor
would reach the station by noon, and
thereafter, for the reason that Cava
nagh expected their coming, the hours
dragged woefully. It was after 1
o’clock before Swenson announced
that two teams were coming with
three men "'and two women in them.
“They’ll be here in half an hour.” .
The ranger’s heart leaped. Two
women! Could one of them be Lee
Virginia? What folly—what sweet,
desperate folly! And the other—she
could not be Lize, for Lize was too
feeble to ride so far. “Stop them on
the other side of the bridge,” he com
manded. “Don’t let them cross the
creek on any pretext.”
As he stood in the door the flutter
of a handkerchief, the waving of a
haild. made his pulse glow and his
ej’es grow dim. It was Virginia!
Lize did not flutter a kerchief or
wave a hand, but when Swenson stop-^
ped the carriage at the bridge she said:
“No, ^u don’t! I’m going across. Tm
going to see Ross, and if he needs help
I’m going to roll up my sleeves and
take hold.” i
Cavanagh saw her ^^ancing. and as
she came near enougii for Tils voice to
reach her he called out: “Don’t come
any closer! Stop. I tell you!” His
voice was stern. “You must not come
a step nearer. Go back across the
dead line and stay there. No one but
the doctor shall enter this door. Now,
that’s final.”
“I w'ant to help!” she protested.
“I know you do.^but I won’t have it.
This quarantine is real, and it goes!”
“But suppose you yourself get sick?”
“\Ve’ll cross that bridge when we
get to it. I’m all right so far, and I’ll
call for help when I need it.”
His tone was imperative, and she
obeyed, grumbling about his youth and
the value of his life to the service.
“That’s all very nice,” he replied,
“but I’m in it, and I don’t intend to
expose you or any one else to the con
tagion.”
“I’ve had it once,” she asserted.
He looked at her and smiled in rec
ognition of her subterfuge.
“No matter; you’re ailing and might
take it again, so toddle back. It’s
mighty good of you and of Lee to
come,-, but there isn’t a thing you can
do, and here’s -the doctor,” he added
as he recognized the young student
who passed for _a physician in the
Fork. He was a beardless youth of
small expmence and no great cour
age, and as he approached with hesi
tant feet he asked:
“Are you sure it’s smallpox’”
Cavanagh smiled. “The indications
are all that way. That last importa
tion of Basques brought it probably
from the steerage of the ship. I’m
told they’ve had several cases over in
the basin.”
“Have you been vaccinated?”
“Yes, when I was in the army.”
“Then you’re all right.”
“I hope so.”
There was a certain comic relief in
this long distance diagnosing ofi a
“case” by a boy, and yet the tragic
fact beneath it all was that Wether
ford was dying, a broken and dishon
ored, husband and father, and that his
identity' must be concealed from his
wife and daughter, who were much
more deeply concerned over .the ran
ger thian over the desperate condition
of his patient. “And this must con
tinue to be *so,” Cavanagh decided.
And as he stood there looking toward
the girl’s fair figure on the bridge he
came to the final, fixed determination
never to speak ^one word or make a
' sign that mighi lead to the dying
man’s identification. “Of what use is
it?” he asked himself. “Why should
even Lize be made to suffer? Wether-
ford’s poor misspent life is already
over for her, and fur Lee he is only a
dim memory.”
Redfield came near ehough to see
that the ranger’s face, though tired,
showed no sign of illness and was re
lieved. “Who is this old herder?” he
asked. “Hasn’t he any relatives in
the country?”
“He came from Texas, so he said.
You’re not coming ^.n?” he broke off
to say to the young physician, whom
Lize had shamed into returning to the
cabin.
“I suppose ril have to,** he protest
ed weakly.
“I don’t see the need of it. The
whole place reeks of the poison, and
you might carry it away with you.
Unless you insist on coming in and
are sure you can prevent further con
tagion I shall oppose your entrance.
You are in the company of others. I
must consider their welfare.”
The young fellow was reliev<Hi.
“Well, so long as we know what it is
I can prescribe just as well right
here,” he said and gave directions for
the treatnjient* which the rahger agreed
to* carry out. > \
“I tried to bring a nurse,” explained
Redfield, “but r couldn’t find anybody
but old Lize who would come.”'
•*1 don’t blame theip,” replied RosS.
“It isn’t a nice job, even when you’ve
got ail the conveniences.’*
His eyes as he spoke were on the
figure of Lee, who still stood on the
bridge, awed and worshipful, barred of
approach by Lize. “She shall not
know,” he silently vo^yed. “Why put
her through useirss suffering and
shame? Edward Wetherford’s disor
dered life is near its end. To betray
him to his wife and daughter would
be but the reopening of an old wound.”
He was stirred to the center of his
heart by the coming of Lee Virginia, ^ ^ wait the issue of
so sweet and brave and trustful. His
stern mood melted as he watched her
there waiting, with her face turned
toward .him, longing to help. “She
would have 'come alone if necessary,”
he declared, with a fuller revelation of
the self sacrificing depth of her love,
“and she would come to my side this
moment if I called her.*’
He went back to his repulsive serv
ice sustained and soothed by the little
camp of faithful friends' qn the other
side of the stream.
During one of his clearest moments
Wetherford repeated his Wish to die a
•stranger. “I’m goiiig out like the old
time west, a rag o*f what 1 once was.
Don’t let them know. Put no nanie
over me. Just say, ‘An old cowpunch-
er lies here.’ ” ^
Cavanagh’s attempt to change his
hopeless tone proved unavailing. En
feebled by his hardships and his pris
on life, he had little reserve force upon
which to draw in lighting such an en
emy. He sank Soon 4ifter this little
speech into a conaa which continued
to hold him in itsl unbroken grasp as
night fell.
Meantime, .seeing no chance of aid
ing the ranger, Redfield and the for
ester i^’epared to return, but Lee, re
enforced by her mother, refused to ac
company them. “I shall stay here,”
she said, “till he is safely out of it—
till I know that he is beyond all dan
ger.” X
Redfield'did not urge her to return
as vigorously as Dalton expected him
to do, but when he understood the
girl’s desite to be near her lover he
took off his hat and bowed to her.
“You are entirely in the right,”
said. “Here is where you belong.”
Redfield honored Lize for her sym
pathetic support of her daughter’s res
olution and expressed his belief that
Ross would esca|)e the plague. “I feel
that his splendid vigor, combined with
the mountain air, will carry him
through, even if he sh-ould prove not
to be immune. I shall run up again
day after tomorrow. I shall be very
anxious. What a nuisance that the
telephone line is not extended to this
point. Ross has been Insisting on its
value for months.*!
Lee saw the doctor go with some
dismay. Young as he was, he was at
least a teed to cling to in case the
grisly terror seized upon the ranger.
“Mr. Redfield, can’t you send a real
doctor? It seems so horrible to be
left here without instructions.”
The forester, before going,* again be
sought Cavanagh not to abandon his
work in the forestry service and inti
mated that at the proper time ad-
tancement wpuld be offered him. “The
whole policy is but beginning,” said
he, “and a practical ranger with your
experience and education ^ill prove of
greatest valuip.” ^
To this Ross made reply: “At the
moment I feel that no promise of ad
vancement could keep me in this coun
try of grafters, poachers and assassins.
I’m weary of it and all It stands for.
However, if I could aid in extending
the‘ supervision of the public ranges
and in stopping forever this murder
and burning that go on outside the
forestry domain I might remain in the
west.**
“Would you accept the supervisor-
ghip of the\Washakie forest?” demand
ed Dalton.
Taken by surprise, he stammered. “I
might, but am I the man?’*
“You are. Your experience fits you
for a position w'here the fight is hot.
The Washakie forest is even more a
bone of contention ktan this. We have
laid out the lines of division between
the sheep and the cows, and it will
take a man to enforce our regulations.
You will have the support of the best
citizens. They will all rally, with you
as leader, and so end the^ warfare
there.’*
“It can never end till Uncle Sam
puts rangers over every section of pub
lic lands andJa3rs_ont the. grazing lines
as • we have done in thls~ forest,” re
torted Cavanagh.
“I knW, but to get that requires a
revolution In the w;hole order of
things.” Then his fine young face
.lighted up. “But we’ll get it Public
sentiment is coming our way. The old
order is already so eaten away that
only its shell remains.”
V “It may be. If these assassins are
punished I shall feel hopeful of the
change.**
“I shall recommend you for the su-
pervisorship of the^ Washakie fprest,”
conclude!^ Dalton decisively. “And so
goodby and good luck.**
England, his blood relatives, ev^n
the Redfields, s^med very remote to
the ranger, as he stood in his door ^thht
night and watched the sparkle of
Swenson’s campfire through the trees.
With the realization that there waited
a brave girl of the type that loves sin
gle .heartedly, ready to sacrifice every
thing to the welfare of her idealized
subject, he felt tfnworthy, selfish, vain.
“If I should fall sick she would in
sist on nursing me. For her sake I
must give Swenson the most rigid or
ders not to allow her, no matter what
happens, to approach. I will not have
her touched by this thing.**
Beside the blaze Lee and her mother
sat,for the most part in silence, with
the struggle going on in the cabin, so
near and yet so inaccessible to their
will. It was as if a magic' wall, crys
tal clear, yet impenetrable, shut them
away from the man whose quiet hero
ism was the subject of their constant
-thought
It was marvelous, a^ the dusk fell
and the air nipped keen, to see how
Lize Wetherford renewed her youth.
The excitement seemed to have given
her a fresh hold on life. She was
wearied, but by no means weakened,
by her ride and ate heairtily of the
rude ¥are which Swenson set before
her. “This is what I needed,” she ex
ultantly said—“the open air and these
trout. I feel ten years younger al
ready. Many’s the night I’ve camped
on the range with your father with
nothing but a purp tent to* cover us
both and the wolves howling round
ns. I’d feel pretty fairly gay if it
wasn’t for Ross over there in that
.cabin playing nurse and cook all by his
lonesomeness.** '
Lee expressed a djeep satisfaction
from the fact of their nearness. “If
he is ill we can help him,** she reiter
ated.
There was a touch of frost in the air
as they went to their beds, and,
though she shivered, Lize was undis
mayed. “There’s nothing the matter
with my heart,’* she exulted. “I don’t
believe there was anything really seri
ous the matter with *me, anyway. I
reckon I wjis just naturally grouchy
and worried over you and Ross.”
[to be continued.)
SOUTHEHN RAILWAY COMPANY
Transylvania Divifcion.
In effect J,anuary 2,1911.
N. B —Schedules figures given as information
only, and not guaranteed.
P 05
Eastern Standard Time
STATIONS
C‘a3
P M
3 40
S 45
4 4x
5 00
5 05
5 08
.5 13
5 20
6 26
5 34
5 36
5 42
5 55
6 02
6 04
6 OS
6 12
6 21
6 30
6 40
Lv Asheville Ar
Lv ..Hendersonvilie...Ar
...West Hendersonville...
Yale
Hon>e Shoe
Cannou...
Etowah
Blantyre
Penrose
...... Davidson River
Pisgah Forest..
Ar Brevard Lv
Selica
C’herryfleld
..Calvert..
Rosman
Galloways
Quebec
Reid’s...
Ar...Lalse Toxaway...Lv
A M
II 30
10 25
10 22
10 10
10 05
10 02
9 56
9 49
9 42
9 33
9 30
D 24
9 08
9 01
8 58
8 54
8 50
8 43
8 34
8 25
Nos.. 5 and 6 are through trains between
Asheville and Lake Toxaway.
No. 5 connec'ts at Hendersonville with the
Carolina Special for Spartanburg^ Columbia and
Charleston, and at Spartanbuig with Nos. 11
and 12 for Atlanta and Charlotte.
For tickets and full information apply to
A E. w. CARTER, Ag’t.
J. H. WOOD. Dm Pass. Ag’t, Asheville, N. G
STRINGS
I have put in a full
line' of Violin, Banjo
and Guitar Strings. The
best quality at moder
ate ' prices. Orders
taken for all classes of musical instru-
P, R. AYRES.
—>—>5
Administrator's Notice.
Having qualified as administrator of the
estate of O. -H. Lyon, deceased, late of
Transylvonia county, this is to notify all
persons having claims against said estate
to present them to the undersigned on or
before the 27th day of March, 1912, or this
notice will be plead in bar of their recov
ery. All persons indebted to said estate
^e required to makeihimediate settlement.
This March 27th, 1911.
A, H. GILLESPIE,
m31t6 Administrator.
V/
/
-A