“Doesn’t matter what you say out here.  Everybody knows your rag sheet will contradict to-morrow what you say to-day in headings red and long as a lead pencil.  You’ll contradict in a little hidden paragraph tucked away among the ads., and I guess we know which are the ads. out here; but, if you want any more dope on inside stuff, don’t you send that East!  You have applied for a job on our paper twice.  If you want one, don’t you send that East!  What do they pay you, anyway?”

The youth paused to estimate; and youth’s hopes are ever high.

“That’s worth a hundred to me!”

“No, you don’t!  They pay you six and ten and sometimes two, but it’s worth a hundred if you keep it out, nice crisp little bills, my boy.  Call for you to-night at five; but don’t you play that story up.”

It was then and there Bat showed himself a past master.  He sauntered out of the office humming.

“Say, Brydges,” called the youth, “what’s wrong with this account, anyway?”

“All wrong,” reiterated Brydges stepping back.  “Wasn’t a man lost his life.  Wasn’t a man on the Range at the time, only a kid got in the way of a stampede!  Here, I’ll give it to you straight!  I’ve just come down from the Valley!  You tell what happened down in Mesa and Garfield counties ten years ago, and up in Wyoming last spring!  Give it to the other States.  Don’t give your own State a black eye!  Come on out and have something with me, and I’ll fix you up as we feed.”

So when the Independent’s fiery columns came out with red scare heads and gory recital full of reference to “something rotten in the State of Denmark” and “damnable rascality,” there was only one emasculated innocuous column given to the local event, but seven columns were steeped with the bloody details of sheep massacres and stock raids and Range Wars in other states in “the good old gun-toting days.”

Bat’s last act that day was to send a telegram care of the East-bound Limited to Senator Moyese.  It read, “All local papers out highly gratulatory references your efforts to punish guilty parties.”

CHAPTER XI

SETTING OUT ON THE LONG TRAIL

In the half light of mist and dawn, the Ranger ascended the Ridge trail.

Life was at flood-tide.  Thought focussed to one point of consciousness set on fire of its own rays.  He walked as one unseeing, unhearing, hardened to singleness of purpose, heedless of the steepness of the climb, of his blood leaping like a mountain cataract, of his muscles moving with the ease of piston rods; heedless of all but the warmth of the glow enveloping his outer body from the flame burning within.