“This department is only doing its sworn duty,” replied the old man.  His blue eyes met Welton’s steadily; not a line of his weatherbeaten face changed.  For twenty seconds the lumberman tried to read his opponent’s mind.

“Well,” he said at last.  “You can tell your chief that if he thinks he can annoy and harass me into bribing him to be decent, he’s left.”

By this time the dust and creek of the first heavily laden vehicle had laboured up to within a few hundred yards.

“I have over a hundred men there,” said Welton, “that I’ve hired to work for me at the top of that mountain.  It’s damn foolishness that anybody should stop their going there; and I’ll bet they won’t lose their jobs.  My advice to you is to stand one side.  You can’t stop a hundred men alone.”

“Yes, I can,” replied the old man calmly.  “I’m not alone.”

“No?” said Welton, looking about him.

“No; there’s eighty million people behind that,” said California John, touching lightly the shield of his Ranger badge.  The simplicity of the act robbed it of all mock-heroics.

Welton paused, a frown of perplexity between his brows.  California John was watching him calmly.

“Of course, the public has a right to camp in all Forest Reserves—­subject to reg’lation,” he proffered.

Welton caught at this.

“You mean—­”

“No, you got to turn back, and your Company’s rigs have got to turn back,” said California John.  “But I sure ain’t no orders to stop no campers.”

Welton nodded briefly; and, after some difficulty, succeeding in turning around, he drove back down the grade.  After he had bunched the wagons he addressed the assembled men.

“Boys,” said he, “there’s been some sort of a row with the Government, and they’ve closed this road to us temporarily.  I guess you’ll have to hoof it the rest of the way.”

This was no great and unaccustomed hardship, and no one objected.

“How about our beds?” inquired some one.

This presented a difficulty.  No Western camp of any description—­lumber, mining, railroad, cow—­supplies the bedding for its men.  Camp blankets as dealt out in our old-time Northern logging camp are unknown.  Each man brings his own blankets, which he further augments with a pair of quilts, a pillow and a heavy canvas.  All his clothing and personal belongings he tucks inside; the canvas he firmly lashes outside.  Thus instead of his “turkey”—­or duffle-bag—­he speaks of his “bed roll,” and by that term means not only his sleeping equipment but often all his worldly goods.

“Can’t you unhitch your horses and pack them?” asked Bob.

“Sure,” cried several mountaineers at once.

Welton chuckled.

“That sounds like it,” he approved; “and remember, boys, you’re all innocent campers out to enjoy the wonders and beauties of nature.”