unted hastily and rode away, each feeling that his relationship to
the other had completely changed. Wetherford marvelled over the evident
culture and refinement of the ranger. "He's none too good for her, no
matter who he is," he said.

Upon leaving timber-line they entered upon a wide and sterile slope high
on the rocky breast of the great peak, whose splintered crest lorded the
range. Snow-fields lay all about, and a few hundred feet higher up the
canons were filled with ice. It was a savage and tempest-swept spot in
which to pitch a tent, but there among the rocks shivered the minute
canvas home of the shepherd, and close beside it, guarded by a lone dog,
and lying like a thick-spread flock of rimy bowlders (almost unnoticeable
in their silent immobility) huddled the sheep.

"There's your house," shouted Ross to Wetherford.

The older man, with white face of dismay, looked about him, unable to make
reply.

The walls of the frail teepee, flapping in the breeze, appeared hardly
larger than a kerchief caught upon a bush, and the disheartened collie
seemed nervously apprehensive of its being utterly swept away. The great
peaks were now hid by the rain, and little could be seen but wet rocks,
twisted junipers, and the trickling gray streams of icy water. The eastern
landscape was naked, alpine, splendid yet appalling, and the voices of the
sheep added to the dreary message of the scene.

"Hello there!" shouted Ross, wondering at the absence of human life about
the camp. "Hello the house!"

Receiving no answer to his hail, he turned to Wetherford. "Looks like Joe
has pulled out and left the collie to 'tend the flock. He's been kind o'
seedy for some days."

Dismounting, he approached the tent. The collie, who knew him, seemed to
understand his errand, for he leaped upon him as if to kiss his cheek.
Ross put him down gently. "You're almost too glad to see me, old fellow. I
wonder how long you've been left here alone?"

Thereupon he opened the tied flap, but started back with instant
perception of something wrong, for there, on his pile of ragged quilts,
lay the Basque herder, with flushed face and rolling eyes, crazed with
fever and entirely helpless. "You'd better not come in here, Wetherford,"
Ross warned. "Joe is here, horribly sick, and I'm afraid it's something
contagious. It may be smallpox."

Wetherford recoiled a step. "Smallpox! What makes you think that?"

"Well, these Basques have been having it over