What do you think of that?"
"Merker," said Bob kindly, "I think your man is either a damn liar or a
damn fool. Why does he say he does all this?"
"He likes the mountains. He--well, he just believes in it."
"I see. Are there any more of these altruists? or is he the only bird of
the species?"
Merker caught the irony of Bob's tone.
"They don't amount to much, in general," he admitted. "But there's a
few--they keep the torch lit."
"I supposed their job was more in the line of putting it out," observed
Bob; then, catching Merker's look of slow bewilderment, he added: "So
there are several."
"Yes. There's good men among 'em. There's Ross, and Charley Morton, and
Tom Carroll, and, of course, old California John."
Bob's amused smile died slowly. Before his mental vision rose the
picture of the old mountaineer, with his faded, ragged clothes, his
beautiful outfit, his lean, kindly face, his steady blue eyes, guarding
an empty trail for the sake of an empty duty. That man was no fool; and
Bob knew it. The young fellow slid from the counter to the floor.
"I'm glad you believe in your friend, Merker," said he "and I don't
doubt he's a fine fellow; but we can't have rangers, good, bad, or
indifferent, hanging around here.
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