Where Stillwater Runs Deep
He was an Irishman and a West Pointer and liked to fight. But he wasalso Patrick R. O’Neill, ranger of the Yellowstone National Forest,and his mission in Bad Cañon was one of peace. And peace it was, buttwo-fisted!
CHAPTER I. READY FOR BUSINESS.
At the moment, Ed Murray, supervisor of the Absarokee Division of theYellowstone National Forest, was peeved. “Read that!” he snorted,shoving a letter from his particular higher-ups in Washington into thehands of his stolid secretary who, by the way, comprised the entireoffice force of the Absarokee Division.
The secretary obediently began reading in a slightly singsong tone:
“Under separate cover we are mailing you blank township maps. As ameasure of economy you are instructed to have some member of youroffice force sketch in the necessary data, using the inclosed legendswhich have been made official for all forest-service maps. We——”
“That’s all—never mind the official trimmings,” Murray curtlyinterrupted. “Point is this: You’re the office force. What’re yougoing to do about it? Think you can fill in the maps?”
While the secretary calmly ruminated upon the subject of map making,Murray watched her with a twinkle of amusement, though that did not inthe least degree soften his resentment against Washington.
“I could do anything on the typewriter if it would fit in themachine,” Christine at length decided. “If they are big maps, I couldfold them lengthwise without carbon, but they might slip on theroller, which is too slick. If it is figures, I do not mind so much,but if it is those funny signs for surveying I must copy them with apen, and that is no joke if I am in a hurry. I think if it is muchwork, Mr. Murray, I should get more wages.”
“Huh! Well, as you say, making maps on a typewriter is no joke, and Iguess you’d earn your money all right!” Her employer noted theclearing of Christine’s placid blue eyes, gave another inarticulatesnort and returned to his own problem, knowing that Christine wasunlikely to repeat his words.
“Seems like I’ve got troubles enough in this district, fighting everycowman, sheepman, timberman and nester in the State. I’m alwaysshort-handed, always got a row on my hands with some one who thinks Iought to turn the reserve over to him just because we used to punchcows together! When I don’t, they think I’m trying to ride them onaccount of some little argument over brands that might have come upwhen I was stock inspector.
“Some member of the office force!” he growled, remembering the letter.“Huh! They must think I’m runnin’ two wagons and a regular round-upcrew in this office! Far as that goes, I could take my rangers andwork the reserve quicker than these darned cow outfits—picked ’em offthe range myself, most of them. But when it comes to makingmaps—— They’re like you, Christine. You could do it on the typewriter,you think; they might tackle it with a branding iron! Some member ofmy office force! My gosh! Take this letter, Christine. I’ll tell thempoker-faced politicians in Washington what——”
“Do you want that in the letter?” Christine lifted her plump whitehand to pluck the pencil from her silky blond hair.
“Lord, no! Dog-gone that June 11th Act and its maps and pamphlets andsystem