Merker amused and interested Welton, and in addition proved to be a valuable man for just his position.  It tickled the burly lumberman, too, to stop for a moment in his rounds for the purpose of discussing with mock gravity any one of Marker’s thousand ideas on economic waste, Welton discovered a huge entertainment in this.  One day, however, he found Merker in earnest discussion with a mountain man, whom the store-keeper introduced as Ross Fletcher.  Welton did not pay very much attention to this man and was about to pass on when his eye caught the gleam of a Forest Ranger’s badge.  Then he stopped short.

“Merker!” he called sharply.

The store-keeper looked up.

“See here a minute.  Now,” said Welton, as he drew the other aside, “I want one thing distinctly understood.  This Government gang don’t go here.  This is my property, and I won’t have them loafing around.  That’s all there is to it.  Now understand me; I mean business.  If those fellows come in here, they must buy what they want and get out.  They’re a lazy, loafing, grafting crew, and I won’t have them.”

Welton spoke earnestly and in a low tone, and his face was red.  Bob, passing, drew rein in astonishment.  Never, in his long experience with Welton, had he seen the older man plainly out of temper.  Welton’s usual habit in aggravating and contrary circumstances was to show a surface, at least, of the most leisurely good nature.  So unprecedented was the present condition that Bob, after hesitating a moment, dismounted and approached.

Merker was staring at his chief with wide and astonished eyes, and plucking nervously at his brown beard.

“Why, that is Ross Fletcher,” he gasped.  “We were just talking about the economic waste in the forests.  He is a good man.  He isn’t lazy.  He—­”

“Economic waste hell!” exploded Welton.  “I won’t have that crew around here, and I won’t have my employees confabbing with them.  I don’t care what you tell them, or how you fix it, but you keep them out of here.  Understand?  I hate the sight of one of those fellows worse than a poison-snake!”

Merker glanced from Welton to the ranger and back again perplexed.

“But—­but—­” he stammered.  “I’ve known Ross Fletcher a long time.  What can I say—­”

Welton cut in on him with contempt.

“Well, you’d better say something, unless you want me to throw him off the place.  This is no corner saloon for loafers.”

“I’ll fix it,” offered Bob, and without waiting for a reply, he walked over to where the mountaineer was leaning against the counter.

“You’re a Forest Ranger, I see,” said Bob.

“Yes,” replied the man, straightening from his lounging position.

“Well, from our bitter experiences as to the activities of a Forest Ranger we conclude that you must be very busy people—­too busy to waste time on us.”

The man’s face changed, but he evidently had not quite arrived at the drift of this.