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Once more he was back where his blood called him; but under conditions which his training and the spirit of the new times could approve. His heart exulted at the challenge to his young manhood. As he rode by the store he caught sight within its depths of Merker methodically waiting on a stolid squaw.
"I guess he won't bother us again," said Bob, returning to Welton. The latter laughed, a trifle ashamed of his anger. "Those fellows give me the creeps," he said, "like cats do some people. Mossbacks don't know no better, but a Government grafter is a little more useless than a nigger on a sawlog." He went out. Bob turned to Merker.
Among the different opinions which have existed in regard to his origin, the most noticeable are those advanced by Stanhope and Merker, and by Daumer, Eschricht, and Feuerbach. The Earl of Stanhope's connection with Caspar Hauser was a rather peculiar one.
He believes that the very superficial search made by the order of Stanhope was intended to lull suspicion and prevent a more strict search being made. To return to the opinion advanced by Merker, and subsequently adopted by Stanhope, the thing is simply impossible. In the first place, it would have been impossible for an impostor to elude discovery.
Often he would vary his usual between-customer reverie by walking out on his shaded verandah, where he would lean against an upright, nursing the bowl of his pipe, gazing across the sawdust to the diminutive and rackety box-plant in the distance. Welton, passing one day, laughed at him. "How about your economic waste, Merker?" he called.
"Crediting the account with the value of the chickens as food would bring us out with a loss of approximately ten dollars." "Fried chicken is hardly applicable as lumber camp provender," pointed out Welton. "So it's scarcely a legitimate asset." "I had considered that point," replied Merker, "and in my calculations I had valued the chickens at the price of beef." Welton gave it up.
"Not Ross," protested Merker again. "He's a worker. He's just back now from the high mountains. Mr. Orde, if you've got a minute, sit down. I want to tell you about Ross." Willing to do what he could to soften Merker's natural feeling, Bob swung himself to the counter, and lit his pipe. "Ross Fletcher is a ranger because he loves it and believes in it," said Merker earnestly.
"After due investigation and deliberation," he stated, "I have come to the independent conclusion that we are overlooking a means of revenue." "As what?" asked Welton, amused by the man's deadly seriousness. "Hogs," stated Merker.
"Economic waste," put in Merker, who was leaning across the counter. "Lack of experience," said Bob. "A little of both," admitted Welton; "but it's more because the business is made up of ten thousand little businesses.
And they sent him in after sheep in the high mountains early, when the feed was froze, and wouldn't allow him pay for three sacks of barley for his animals. And Ross gets sixty dollars a month, and he spends about half of that for trail tools and fire tools that they won't give him. What do you think of that?" "Merker," said Bob kindly, "I think your man is either a damn liar or a damn fool.
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