ampled by many little hoofs. Thorne walked to the upper end of the
meadow. Here he found old ashes. Satisfied with his discoveries, he
glanced at the westering sun, and plunged directly down the side of the
mountain.

Near the edge of the village he came upon California John. The old man
had turned Star into the corral, and was at this moment seated on a
boulder, smoking his pipe, and polishing carefully the silver inlay of
his Spanish spade-bit. Thorne stopped and examined him closely, coming
finally to the worn brass ranger's badge pinned to the old man's
suspenders. California John did not cease his occupation.

"You're a ranger, I take it," said Thorne curtly.

California John looked up deliberately.

"You're an inspector, I take it," said he, after a moment.

Thorne grinned appreciation under his close-clipped moustache. This was
the first time he had relaxed his look of official concentration, and
the effect was most boyish and pleasing. The illumination was but
momentary, however.

"There have been sheep camped at a little meadow on that ridge," he
stated.

"I know it," replied California John tranquilly.

"You seem to know several things," retorted Thorne crisply, "but your
information seems to stop short of the fact that you're supposed to keep
sheep out of the Reserve."

"Not when they have permission," said California John.

"Permission!" echoed Thorne. "Sheep are absolutely prohibited by
regulation. What do you mean?"

"What I say. They had a permit."

"Who gave it?"

"Supervisor Plant, of course."

"What for?"

California John polished his bit carefully for some moments in silence.
Then he laid it one side and deliberately faced about.

"For ten dollars," said he coolly, looking Thorne in the eye.

Thorne looked back at him steadily.

"You'll swear to that?" he asked.

"I sure will," said California John.

"How long has this sort of thing gone on?"

"Always," replied the ranger.

"How long have you known about it?"

"Always," said California John.

"Why have you never said anything before?"

"What for?" countered the old man. "I'd just get fired. There ain't no
good in saying anything. He's my superior officer. They used to teach me
in the army that I ain't got no call to criticize what my officer does.
It's my job to obey orders the best I can."

"Why do you tell me, then?"

"You're my superior officer, too--and his."

"So were all the other inspectors who have been he