“It’s no use,” he told Lejeune, later, as they walked down the street together.  “He’s undoubtedly the right to refuse permits for cause; and technically he has cause if your sheep got over the line.”

“But what shall I do!” cried Lejeune.  “My ship mus’ have feed!”

“You pasture them or feed them somewhere for a week or so, and I’ll let you know,” said Bob.  “We’ll get you on the land or see you through somewhere else.”

He mounted his horse stiffly and rode back up the street.  Plant still sat in his armchair like a bloated spider.  On catching sight of Bob, however, he heaved himself to his feet and waddled to the gate.

“Here!” he called.  Bob drew rein.  “It has been reported to me that your firm has constructed a flume across 36, and a wagon road across 14, 22, 28, and 32.  Those are government sections.  I suppose, of course, your firm has permits from Washington to build said improvements?”

“Naturally,” said Bob, who, however, knew nothing whatever of those details.

“Well, I’ll send a man up to examine them to-morrow,” said Plant, and turned his back.

V

Bob took supper at Auntie Belle’s, and rode up the mountain after dark.  He did not attempt short cuts, but allowed his horse to follow the plain grade of the road.  After a time the moon crept over the zenith, and at once the forest took on a fairylike strangeness, as though at the touch of night new worlds had taken the place of the vanished old.  Somewhere near midnight, his body shivering with the mountain cold, his legs stiff and chafed from the long, unaccustomed riding, but his mind filled with the wonder and beauty of the mountain night, Bob drew rein beside the corrals.  After turning in his horse, he walked through the bright moonlight to Welton’s door, on which he hammered.

“Hey!” called the lumberman from within.

“It’s I, Bob.”

Welton scratched a match.

“Why in blazes didn’t you come up in the morning?” he inquired.

“I’ve found out another and perhaps important hole we’re in.”

“Can we do anything to help ourselves out before morning?” demanded Welton.  “No?  Well, sleep tight!  I’ll see you at six.”

Next morning Welton rolled out, as good-humoured and deliberate as ever.

“My boy,” said he.  “When you get to be as old as I am, you’ll never stir up trouble at night unless you can fix it then.  What is it?”

Bob detailed his conversation with Plant.

“Do you mean to tell me that that old, fat skunk had the nerve to tell you he was going to send a ranger to look at our permit?” he demanded.

“Yes.  That’s what he said.”

“The miserable hound!  Why I went to see him a year ago about crossing this strip with our road—­we had to haul a lot of stuff in.  He told me to go ahead and haul, and that he’d fix it up when the time came.  Since then I’ve tackled him two or three times about it, but he’s always told me to go ahead; that it was all right.  So we went ahead.  It’s always been a matter of form, this crossing permit business.  It’s meant to be a matter of form!”