Here Thorne had reached a lower spur of that range on which were located both the sawmill and Plant’s summer quarters.  He drew a deep breath and looked about him over the topography spread below.  Then he examined with an expert’s eye the wooded growths.  His glance fell naturally to the ground.

“Well, I’ll be——­” began Thorne, and stopped.

Through the pine needles at his feet ran a shallow, narrow and meandering trough.  A rod or so away was a similar trough.  Thorne set about following their direction.

They led him down a gentle slope, through a young growth of pines and cedars to a small meadow.  The grass had been eaten short to the soil and trampled 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?”