Instinctively, neither of the men spoke.  A word would have been heard the other side of the cedars.  With a gesture commanding the artist to follow, the Ranger quietly, withdrew along the wagon road toward the creek.

When they were at a distance where their voices would not reach the girl in the glade, the Ranger said with angry abruptness, “Now, sir, perhaps you will tell me who you are and what you mean by spying upon a couple of women, like that.”

The other could not conceal his embarrassment.  “I don’t blame you for calling me to account,” he said.  “If it were me—­if our positions were reversed I mean—­I should kick you down into the creek there.”

The cold, blue eyes—­that had been measuring the painter so shrewdly—­twinkled with a hint of humor.  “You do look like a gentleman, you know,” the officer said,—­as if excusing himself for not following the artist’s suggestion.  “But, all the same, you must explain.  Who are you?”

“That part is easy, at least,” returned the other.  “Though the circumstance of our meeting is a temptation to lie.”

“Which would do you no good, and might lead to unpleasant complications,” retorted the Ranger, sharply.

The man under question, still embarrassed, laughed shortly, as he returned, “I really was not thinking of it seriously.  My name is Aaron King.  I am an artist.  You are Mr. Oakley, I suppose.”

The officer nodded—­beginning to smile.  “Yes, I am Brian Oakley.”

The artist continued, “A month ago, Conrad Lagrange and I came into the mountains for an outing.  We stopped at the Station, but there was no one at home.  Most of the time, we have been just roaming around.  Now, we are camped down there, back of that old apple orchard.”

The Ranger broke into a laugh.  “Mrs. Oakley was visiting friends up the canyon, the day you came in; but Morton told me.  I’ve crossed your trail a dozen times, and sighted you nearly as many; but I was always too busy to go to you.  I knew Lagrange didn’t need any attention, you see; so I just figured on meeting up with you somewhere by accident like—­about meal time, mebbe.”  He laughed again.  “The accident part worked out all right.”  He paused, still laughing—­enjoying the artist’s discomfiture; then ended with a curious—­“What in thunder were you sneaking around in the brush like that for, anyway?  Those women won’t bite.”

Aaron King explained how he had heard the music while fishing; and how, following the sound, he had acted upon an impulse to catch a glimpse of the unknown musician before revealing himself; and then, in his interest, had forgotten that he was playing the part of a spy—­until so rudely aroused by the hand of the Ranger.

Brian Oakley chuckled; “If I’d acted upon impulse when I first saw you peeking through those cedars, you would have been more surprised than you were.  But while I was sneaking up on you I noticed your get-up—­with your creel and rod—­and figured how you might have come there.  So I thought I would go a little slow.”