foreman to send the road gang to skin and burn and
bury what lay at the foot of the battlements. As the Rim Rocks lay a
few feet outside the bounds of the National Forests, it will be seen
that Wayland _had stopped marking time behind the law and gone out
beyond the firing line_. If it isn't clear to you how the Ranger was
exceeding the authority of the law, then read the Senator's speeches
about "the Forest and Land Service men going outside their jurisdiction
employing Government men to do work which was not Government Service at
all."

The Ranger saddled his own broncho for himself and a horse belonging to
one of his assistants for the old frontiersman, who must be some where
on the upper Mesas. To each saddle he fastened a Service hatchet and a
cased rifle. Then, he caught one of the mules of the road gang for the
pack saddle. Going inside the cabin, he furbished together such
provisions as his biscuit box shelves afforded, a sack containing half
a ham, a quarter bag of flour, one tin of canned beans, a tobacco pouch
filled with tea, another pouch with sugar on one side of the dividing
leather and salt in the other. Then, he cinched a couple of cow-boy
slickers over the pack saddle, and, in place of the green Service coat
which he had left at the Mission, donned a leather jacket, took a last
look to see if a water-proof match case were in the inside pocket, ran
back to the cabin for a half-flask of brandy, and an extra hat, and
with the other horse and the pack mule in front, he mounted his pony
and set out for the Rim Rocks. It will be seen this was not the
equipment of a man who intended to remain marking time.

Just for a second, he pondered which path to follow. It would take an
hour to go down the Ridge trail, cross the Valley and ascend the
terra-cotta road of the Rim Rocks. Couldn't he jump his horses over
the gully that cut between the Holy Cross and the Upper Mesa? He
headed his horse into the tangle of hemlock and larch, the mule
trotting ahead snatching bites of dogwood and willow from the edge of
the dripping trail, the Ranger riding as Westerners ride, glued to the
leather, guiding by the loose neck rein instead of the bit, with a wave
of his hand to keep the little mule in line.

A turn to the left through a thicket of devil's club brought him where
the Ridge overlooked the River. Wayland reined up sharply. A pile of
logs scaled and marked with the U. S. stamp lay where the slightest