He wore no coat.
At his hip, a heavy Colt revolver hung in its worn holster from a full,
loosely buckled, cartridge belt. Upon his unbuttoned vest was the shield
of the United States Forest Service. From under the brim of his slouch
hat, he gazed at Aaron King questioningly--in angry disapproval.
Instinctively, neither of the men spoke. A word would have been heard the
other side of the cedars. With a gesture commanding the artist to follow,
the Ranger quietly, withdrew along the wagon road toward the creek.
When they were at a distance where their voices would not reach the girl
in the glade, the Ranger said with angry abruptness, "Now, sir, perhaps
you will tell me who you are and what you mean by spying upon a couple of
women, like that."
The other could not conceal his embarrassment. "I don't blame you for
calling me to account," he said. "If it were me--if our positions were
reversed I mean--I should kick you down into the creek there."
The cold, blue eyes--that had been measuring the painter so
shrewdly--twinkled with a hint of humor. "You _do_ look like a gentleman,
you know," the officer said,--as if excusing himself for not following the
artist's suggestion.
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