ath came down to the main trail of the Pass,
jutted a huge rock left high and dry on its slide to the bottom of the
gorge.

"Keep behind the other side of that, sir! They can't possibly see you."

"How do you know that trail comes from the Ridge gully? Looks to me
like a goat track."

"Because I built it! You can see the N. F. trail sign--one notch and
one blaze on that scrub juniper. Up on the Mesas, we were _off_ the
Forests. Here, we are back on them. You may not know it, sir; but
this canyon is part of the region Moyese wants withdrawn for
homesteads. You could homestead a reservoir for Smelter City here--pay
a German or a Swede three-hundred to sit on this site--then sell for a
couple of million to the Smelter City gang. They would get the suckers
in the East to buy the bonds to pay for it. A fellow in the Sierras
located a hundred water power sites that way."

The old Britisher was not following the Ranger's reasoning in the least.

"Then, if we are really on the National Forests, that is your
territory, and we have the legal right to make an arrest?"

Wayland laughed outright. If you don't see why, then you do not know
the stickling of a Briton's sense of law and a Scotchman's conscience.
Matthews took up his station behind the rock that abutted on the trail.

He saw the Ranger hasten back along the face of the precipice, stop
where the rock offered foothold and begin slowly climbing almost
vertically. At first, it was going up the tiers of a broken stone
stair. Then, the weathered ledge gave place to slant shale. He saw
Wayland dig his heels for grip, grasp a sharp edge overhead, and hoist
himself to the overhanging branch of a recumbent pine; then, scramble
along the fallen trunk to a ledge barely wide enough for footing.
Along this, he cautiously worked, face in, hand over hand from rock
block to rock block, sticking fingers among the mossed crevices,
fumbling the pebbles from the slate edges, and so round out of sight
behind a flying buttress of masonry and back in view again a tier
higher.

Just once, the watcher felt a tremor for the rash climber. Wayland's
head was on a level with the crest of another ledge, his face to the
rock, his left hand gripping a shoot of mountain laurel, his right
groping the upper rocks. The old man saw the shrub jerk loose, moss,
roots and all--he held his breath for the coming crash--it was all
over. Wayland's left arm flung out to ward off the spatte