THE FIRST SERMON
"I ain't able to think. That's why I'm pretty generally happy."
--_Old Johnny Brown_.
By dawn the next morning Douglas was half-way up the trail to the Pass.
He did not know at what hour the preacher would arrive, but he did not
propose that the old man should enter Lost Chief without his protection.
When he reached the crest, he unsaddled the Moose and settled himself
against a gigantic jade rock beside the trail and prepared to wait
patiently.
The sun lifted slowly over the unspeakable glory of the ranges and
poured its glory down upon the Pass, then swung westward, leaving a
chill shadow beside the rock where Douglas was camping. It was
mid-afternoon when the stage came through from the half-way house. Old
Johnny Brown was driving.
As he pulled up the horses for a rest, he saw Douglas and smiled
delightedly.
"Waiting for me, Douglas?"
Douglas shook his head. "I came up to meet a friend, Johnny."
The little old man stared at Douglas; then he said fretfully, "I don't
see why Grandma Brown had to go and make me drive the gregus old stage
for a week. I deponed to her that I had to get up there and take care of
you. When that preacher comes, you'll need me, Doug. There's lots of
trouble brewing, boy."
"What kind, Johnny?"
"They always shut up and look rejus when I come round. But I know enough
to sabez that bunch even if I am a half-wit."
"I'm not so sure you are a half-wit, Johnny," said Douglas sincerely.
The old man's face brightened. "That's just the way I feel about it too,
Douglas. You're the only person in the Valley understands me. You could
have my shirt, Doug."
Douglas nodded. "You get through with the stage as soon as you can,
Johnny. Tell Grandma I expect you on Monday."
Johnny clucked firmly at his team. "I'll be there. Nothing can't propone
me," and he was gone in a cloud of dust.
It was an hour later that the preacher rounded the curve to the crest.
Douglas threw the saddle on the Moose and Fowler pulled up his bony blue
roan in surprise. He was thinner and grayer than ever and his blue
jumper was patched with pieces of burlap. But his eyes were bright as he
shook hands with Douglas.
"I'm the Committee on Welcome!" said the young rider.
"How long have you been waiting for me, Douglas?" asked Fowler.
"Since daybreak. I couldn't be sure when you'd come. And I didn't want
you to come into Lost Chief alone."
"Are you expecting trouble immediately?" asked the preacher.
"Well," replied Douglas frankly, "the folks are just about as
enthusiastic as if I were bringing a Mormon into the Valley. And I just
don't aim to give them a chance to start anything till we get a little
bit settled."
The old man's jaw set, under his beard. "Humph! They'll find the Lord
and me both ready for them. I have an idea they are going to be
surprised before they are through with this."
Douglas nodded and they rode down into the Valley. When they trotted
past the post-office, the usual group was gathered on the steps. Doug
and the preacher nodded but did not draw rein. Old Sister came out
sedately and growled at Prince, but Peter did not leave the doorstep.
"What's your hurry, old-timers?" shouted Jimmy Day.
"A long way to go," called Douglas.
"Your hazer needs a shave!" said some one else.
"We'll do it for him Sunday!" cried another voice.
"Oil up your cannon, Doug," laughed Charleton, "and unchain the dogs of
war."
Douglas trotted sedately on.
"I wonder why it is! I wonder why!" said Fowler, very real pain in his
voice.
"They think we're criticizing them," answered Douglas; adding, with his
pleasant grin, "which we are!"
It was dark when they reached Douglas' ranch. Before they had unsaddled,
Fowler insisted on lighting a lantern and inspecting the chapel.
Douglas, not at all adverse, for he was very proud of this work of his
hands, followed the old man in his microscopic inspection of the little
building. It was small and dim, with a smell of new cedar. To Douglas,
already there was something hallowed about the quiet interior as if
somehow the yearning with which he had builded it had given the
insensate wood a curious high purposefulness.
Fowler examined the benches and sat for a moment on several of them. He
flashed the lantern along the carefully chinked walls, the rose tints of
the cedar glowing warmly back at him. He walked slowly up and down the
center aisle and paused before the platform, on which was a table and
chair. For a long time he stood with one hand on the table. Then he
said:
"It's beautiful, Douglas! Beautiful! A chapel for me! Built by a young
man that has faith in me. Wonderful! And built with such free-hearted
care! For me to preach in! Why, a minister of a great metropolis might
well envy me such a gift!"
He paused again, turning the lantern so that the tapestried colors of
the walls again flashed forth.
"Stained glass!" half whispered the old man. "Already it has the air of
a church. Douglas, we'll consecrate it now."
He knelt before the platform and Douglas bowed his head.
"O God, my Father and my Shepherd," said Fowler, "You have led my
wandering steps to this fragrant evidence of a young man's heart. How
beautiful it is, O God, and how holy, You know. Help me to keep it so,
Heavenly Father, and help me to make Lost Chief find it so. And, O God,
put Your great arm about this young man and keep it there until he
realizes that it is Your arm supporting him. I thank You, O Everlasting
Mercy, for leading me to this resting-place for my soul. Amen."
And it seemed to Douglas, bowing his head in the dusk, that the chapel
itself was listening in a brooding peace.
After a moment, the old man rose and led the way out the door, which
Douglas locked, then turned the key over to the preacher.
"It's yours, now," he said with a little, embarrassed, laugh. "I'm only
the guard."
Fowler put the key carefully into his pocket. "If anything should
happen to that chapel, it would break my heart," he said.
"We mustn't let anything happen to it. That's our job," returned Douglas
stoutly.
The next morning, Saturday, Douglas left the preacher while he went down
to his father's place for his day's work. He was as nervous as a mother
with her first baby all day and he galloped the Moose back up the trail
long before sunset. When Mr. Fowler waved at him from the door of the
cabin, he gave a gusty sigh of relief.
While Doug was cooking the bacon for supper he asked the preacher what
was to be the subject of the morrow's sermon.
"I was going to preach on the Golden Rule," replied Mr. Fowler.
"No," said Douglas decidedly. "You give 'em a talk on the hereafter and
why you think there is one." He lighted a cigarette and cut more bacon.
"Young man, are you presuming to dictate to me how to preach the word of
God?"
"I sure am!" grinning with the cigarette between his white teeth. "I'm
in this thing up to my horns and I don't aim to make any false moves
that I can help. I've been reading the New Testament this summer. So
far, the most I've got out of it is that Christ was the most diplomatic
preacher that ever lived. Let's be as diplomatic as we can. What's the
use of preaching slush to a lot of sensible, hard-thinking folks who
don't believe in anything."
The preacher bit his knuckles and took a turn or two up and down the
cabin. Douglas noted with a little sense of pity the extreme thinness of
the rounded shoulders under the denim jumper. Douglas dished the bacon
and put a loaf of Mary's bread beside the fried potatoes.
"Show us that our souls go marching on like old John Brown's," said the
young man, persuasively, "and you'll have all Lost Chief eating out of
your hand."
"You talk of faith," cried Fowler impatiently, "as if it were a problem
in algebra."
Douglas hesitated. "Maybe I do." His voice suddenly trembled.
Fowler paused as he was about to seat himself at the table. "I hear a
horse!" he said.
Douglas went to the door.
"It's just me!" called Grandma Brown's voice. "Come and help me down. I
was up to see your mother this afternoon," she went on as Douglas helped
her dismount, "and I thought I'd come along up and have a visit with the
preacher."
"That's fine!" exclaimed Douglas. "Come in, Grandma. We're just drawing
up to the table."
"Good," sighed the old lady; "I'm half starved. Howdy, Mr. Fowler!
Haven't had enough of Lost Chief yet, huh?"
The preacher rose and shook hands. "Not yet, Mrs. Brown! Will you draw
up?"
The old lady plumped down at the table and Douglas, loaded her plate and
poured her a cup of coffee. "The older folks," she said abruptly, "won't
make you any trouble. Charleton Falkner and some of his pals will be
smarty, but the young fry will sure try to break up every meeting you
have."
"The modern youngster is pretty rough!" sighed the preacher.
"Here in Lost Chief," agreed Grandma promptly, "they are the most
rough-and-tumble, catch-as-catch-can batch of young coyotes that ever
lived. They don't respect God, man, nor the devil. And why should they?
That's educated into children, not born into them."
"How do you feel about my coming back, Mrs. Brown?" asked Fowler.
Grandma hesitated; then she said, "I'm too old to be polite, James
Fowler. I'm a religious woman, myself, and I've often said we'd ought to
have a church in Lost Chief. But it isn't men like you can start a
church here. You are too religious and too goody-goody."
The preacher winced. Douglas came to his rescue. "We're going to show
Lost Chief that he's not goody-goody."
Grandma shook her head. "I wish you luck, but, with all the nerve in the
world, you can't preach to them that won't hear."
"Do you know what deviltry they've planned for to-morrow?" asked
Douglas.
Grandma shook her head. "All I know is, Scott Parsons is the leader. He
sees a chance to get back at you."
Douglas finished his bacon thoughtfully. "All right," he said finally;
"let 'em come. I'm waiting."
"Well," said Grandma briskly, "I didn't come up here to give advice. I
wanted a gossip with an old-timer. Mr. Fowler, you was up in Mountain
City when that Black Sioux outbreak took place. Did you know Emmy Blake,
she that was stolen by old Red Feather?"
"Yes," replied Fowler, with a sudden clearing of his somber face. "I saw
her when--" and he plunged into a tale that, matched by one from
Grandma, consumed the evening.
At nine o'clock the old lady rose.
"I'll ride down the trail with you," said Douglas.
"You fool!" sniffed the old lady. "Since when have folks begun nursing
me over these trails?"
"That's not the point," returned Doug. "I want to see Peter."
"Well, come along, then," conceded Grandma. She pulled on her mackinaw
and buttoned it. The nights were very cold.
The next morning, a placard on the post-office door announced to Lost
Chief that a meeting would be held in the log chapel on Sunday at two
o'clock; and by that hour every soul in Lost Chief capable of moving was
packed into the little cabin.
After his talk with Peter, Douglas had changed his program. The
postmaster, not the preacher, sat at the table. He wore a black coat
over a blue flannel shirt, a coat that Lost Chief never saw except at
funerals or weddings. His denim pants were turned up with a deep cuff
over his riding-boots. The preacher sat on a chair, just below the
platform. Douglas occupied a rear pew where he could keep an eye on
Scott Parsons. There was very little talking among the members of the
congregation, but much spitting of tobacco juice into the red-hot stove.
Promptly at two o'clock, Peter rose and cleared his throat. "Well,
folks, Douglas says he's trying to put into practice some of the stuff
I've been preaching to him. So I suppose I'm to blame for this meeting.
Now, there isn't anybody can accuse me of being religious."
"A fourth-class postmaster couldn't be religious," remarked Charleton
Falkner.
"They always go crazy about the second year of office," volunteered John
Spencer.
Everybody laughed, even Peter. Then he went on:
"So when I say I'm going to back Doug up in this experiment you none of
you can say it's because I'm pious. It's because I think Lost Chief
ought to have a church to help the young people decide the right and
wrong of things."
"How come, Peter?" demanded Jimmy Day. "Ain't the young folks round here
pleasing to your bachelor eye?"
"To my eye, yes!" answered the postmaster. "Best-looking crowd I ever
saw. But to my mind, no! And there isn't one of you over fifteen who
doesn't know what I mean when I say it. Now, Doug's idea seems sensible
enough to me. He says he'd be happier if he could believe in a life
after death. He says if any preacher can prove to him that the soul is
immortal, he is willing to play the game so as to win that future if it
is proved that you have to follow rules to win it. Folks, if there is
anything sissy about that, I'd like to have one of you rear up and say
so."
"There isn't a preacher in the world can prove that," said Mrs. Falkner.
"If there was, he'd be greater than Christ."
"Didn't Christ prove it?" cried Mr. Fowler quickly.
"No!" replied Mrs. Falkner. "He believed it Himself and He lived like He
believed it, but He didn't prove it."
Fowler jumped to his feet. "He proved it over and over; by fulfilling
the prophecies, by the miracles He performed and by returning after
death."
"How do you know He returned after death?" asked Mrs. Falkner.
"The Bible says so."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Mrs. Falkner. "The Bible is just history, most of
it hearsay. And I read in the _Atlantic_ the other day that Napoleon
said that history was just a lie agreed upon."
"This is blasphemy!" shouted Mr. Fowler. "This is--"
"Wait!" Peter interrupted with a firm hand. "Every one is to say what
they decently please. You'll never get anywhere in this valley, if you
show yourself shocked by anything anybody says."
"I don't want to shock the preacher, Peter,"--Mrs. Falkner's beautiful
face was wistful--"I'd like to have his faith. I sure-gawd would! But! I
just want to make him see that to folks like us in Lost Chief who read
and think and look at these hills a lot, the Bible never could prove a
hereafter to us."
"But the Bible is the inspired word of God," insisted Fowler.
"Who says so?" asked Mrs. Falkner.
"The Bible."
"Good heavens, isn't that childish?" she appealed to the congregation.
"Seems to me only God could prove that and we don't even know He
exists."
There was silence in the room. Douglas, looking over the backs of many
familiar heads, felt a curious yearning affection for these neighbors
who so far had met his experiment so kindly. Then his eyes turned to the
aspens without the window and beyond these to the far red clouds over
Fire Mesa. The first snow of the season was beginning to sift through
the trees. He wished that he had the courage to ask Mrs. Falkner what
she thought of Inez' poem:
A fire mist and a planet,
A crystal and a cell--
but he would rather have cut out his tongue than repeat the verse before
this audience.
Mr. Fowler was running his fingers through his beard, glancing
hesitatingly from Douglas to Peter.
"Well, is it the sense of this meeting," asked the postmaster, "to let
the preacher tell us how he feels about it?"
"Go to it, old wrangler," said Charleton. "I can spout the Persian Poet
to 'em if you run short of Bible stuff."
"Baa--a--a!" bleated a small boy in the back of the room.
"I'm going to give the first young one that makes a disturbance a dose
of aspen switch," said Grandma Brown.
There was a general chuckle that quieted as Mr. Fowler began to speak.
"Religion doesn't rest on proof. It rests on Faith. And faith is
something every human being possesses. If you plant a seed, you have
faith that it will produce a plant. No power of yours can bring the
plant. But you have faith--in what?--that the plant will appear. Every
night that you go to bed you believe that a new day will come. You
cannot bring that day but you have absolute faith that to-morrow will be
brought by--what? The stars come nightly to the sky, the moon and the
earth whirl in their appointed places. You have absolute confidence that
they will continue to float in the heavens. On what do you place that
confidence?
"Friends, I cannot prove to you that there is a God. But if you will be
patient with me, I will give you a faith that asks no proof." He opened
his Bible and began to read.
"And Jesus said unto them, I am the bread of life; he that cometh to me
shall never hunger and he that believeth in me shall never thirst....
"If any man thirst, let him come unto me and drink. He that believeth
in me, out of his belly shall flow rivers of living water....
"He that believeth in me, believeth not in me but in Him that sent me.
And he that seeth me, seeth Him that sent me. I come a light unto the
world, that whosoever believeth in me should not abide in darkness.
"I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in me though
he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth
in me shall never die."
Mr. Fowler paused and closed the book.
"Words!" said Charleton. "Just poetry!"
"You are speaking of the living words of the Almighty!" shouted the
preacher. "You--" But he was interrupted. There was a sudden unearthly
uproar of dogs without. The door burst open and old Sister, howling at
the top of her lungs, bolted straight up the aisle to Peter. A can was
tied to her tail. Prince, similarly adorned, and ably seconding his old
friend's outcry, followed her. Several cats, all dragging tin cans, were
flung spitting and yowling through a window.
Chaos reigned. Douglas seized Prince. Peter grabbed Sister. A dozen
people took after the cats. They were not as easy to capture as the
dogs; and during the progress of the chase, a sudden noxious odor filled
the room. Douglas saw a thick black vapor rising from a bubbling mess on
the top of the stove. The congregation bolted, leaving the field to one
lone cat who climbed the wall to the window and disappeared with a final
yowl.
There was no attempt to bring the audience back, and shortly the trail
was dotted with riders. But that evening as he sat alone with Douglas,
the preacher was not at all sad.
"You were right," he said to the young man, "in having Peter open the
meeting. The older people were interested. No doubt they were
interested; and in spite of the mischief that broke us up, I feel as if
a start had been made. It's a rarely intelligent group of people. I
admit that."
Douglas nodded. "We'll wear 'em down. See if we don't. The kids
certainly put it over on me. I was feeling safe as long as I could watch
Scott and Jimmy, and they had Grandma Brown's grandson doing the work
for them." He chuckled and shook his head. "I just can't head them off
on that kind of work. All we can do, as I say, is to wear them down. And
maybe we can win Judith and one or two of the others, right soon."
Mr. Fowler sighed. "We can certainly interest some of the older people
for a while with a discussion like we had this afternoon. But not the
young people. Beauty and emotion and mystery must make the religious
appeal to young folks. A church can't exist as a debating society."
Douglas turned this over in his mind, finally focussing his thoughts on
Inez; she who loved beauty and dragged her emotions in the mire.
"Mr. Fowler," he said finally, "I'll bet Inez would have been a very
religious person if she'd been started with the beauty and emotion and
mystery!"
"That's a queer thing to say!" The preacher's voice was a little
resentful.
Douglas went on as if he had not heard. "But you can't get Judith that
way. She hasn't any emotions except temper and a sense of humor!"
"There isn't a woman born who isn't full of emotion," said Mr. Fowler,
dryly. "And the deeper they conceal it, the more they have. I think I'll
go to bed, Douglas. I feel as if I'd come through a hard day."
"Same here," agreed Douglas, and shortly the cabin was in darkness.
For a day or so the preacher stayed quietly in and about the cabin. He
swept the chapel and cleaned out the stove and polished the windows and
each day made a little fire. Douglas frequently found him there at
night, on his knees. At least once a day he said, "It was a wonderful
thing, Doug, for a young man like you to build me this little chapel, in
my old age." He insisted on grace before meals and a chapter aloud from
the Bible before bed. Douglas was embarrassed but entirely acquiescent.
Mr. Fowler was to have a free hand with his spiritual development.
About the middle of the week, Judith rode down to the post-office with
Douglas. "Well, how's the sky pilot and his disciple?" she asked.
"I believe the old boy is almost happy," replied Douglas. "He thinks
that little old church I built is pretty fine."
"Inez says it looks like a big cow stable."
"That's nice of Inez. Why didn't she tell me how to make it better
looking?"
"What does Inez care about it? Honest, Doug, you are making an awful
fool of yourself. A man like Fowler can't preach to us."
"Why, he never had a chance to preach here yet!" exclaimed
Douglas. "And, what do you expect in a place like Lost Chief, a
ten-thousand-dollar-a-year sky pilot? Besides, I don't want preaching
from him. I want just the one thing like Peter said. And Fowler has that
in him just as strong as the highest paid preacher in the world. Give
him a show, Judith. Come up, every Sunday. You might back me that much."
"And have everybody in the crowd laughing at me like they are at you?
I won't do anything against the old man, Douglas, for your sake. But
that's all I'll promise."
"I'm not going to let you off that easy, Jude. Come up to supper
to-night. I won't let him talk religion. Honest, he's as interesting as
a book when he gets to telling some of his experiences."
Judith shook her head. "I'd rather stay at home with 'Pendennis.'"
"If I get Inez to come, will you?" urged Douglas.
Judith grinned impishly. "Yes, I'd come with Inez."
They returned from the post-office via the west trail and stopped at
Inez' place. She was eating a belated dinner in her slatternly kitchen,
and waved a hospitable hand over the table.
"Thanks, no," said Doug. "I just stopped by to see if you and Judith
wouldn't come up and have supper with the sky pilot and me. I won't let
him talk religion and he's got some good stories to tell."
Inez looked Douglas over. He and the tall Judith seemed to fill the
kitchen. Doug finally had covered his big frame with muscles and he was
a larger and handsomer man than his father.
"Doug," said Inez, "I am truly flattered. What are you trying to do?
Convert me?"
Douglas answered with simple sincerity. "I don't care a hang whether you
get converted or not."
"O you don't! Well, just to spite you, I'll come and let the old fellow
try his hand!"
"Not really, Inez?" gasped Judith.
"I'd do more than that for Doug and for Lost Chief," said Inez soberly,
"Doug isn't the only person who loves this old hole in the hills."
Judith turned to Douglas with a sudden wistfulness in her eyes, a
sudden flare of a fire he had not seen in them before. He waited for her
to speak but she only turned away toward the door.
"I'll look for you about six then, Inez," he said, and he followed
Judith.
When the girls appeared at the cabin that evening, the table was set and
the steak was frying. Inez and Judith winked at each other when Mr.
Fowler said grace but otherwise the meal progressed decorously enough.
It was Inez who brought up the tabooed subject. They had been sitting
round the stove listening to a tale of old lynch law which the preacher
told with real skill, when Inez interrupted him with entire irrelevance.
"Mr. Fowler, do you really believe there is such a thing as right and
wrong?"
The preacher paused, studying Inez' face. Her dark eyes were steady and
thoughtful. Her mouth, except for the slightly heavy lower lip, was
sensitive. Her whole expression was one of pride and independence.
"Yes, I believe in right and wrong," replied Mr. Fowler, deliberately.
"What makes you believe that a man who lived nearly two thousand years
ago can decide what is right or wrong for Lost Chief?" she asked.
"The Bible," answered the preacher.
"But the Bible is full of things that I would call crooked. Those
prophets were always putting slick tricks over on each other and the
people. There was a lot of dirty work done in the name of the Lord by
those ancient Jews."
The preacher leaned toward the woman. "Do you believe in right and
wrong, Inez Rodman?"
"No, I don't. I believe in kindness and in beauty. That's all."
"How does one believe in beauty?" asked Mr. Fowler.
"I mean," she replied, "that if you fill your mind with the beauty of
this Lost Chief country and with poetry, there is no room for anything
ugly."
"What would you call ugly?"
"Being mean to other people is one kind of ugliness."
"That's what I believe too," said Judith suddenly.
"Then, of course, neither of you two would have anything to do with the
attempt to run the preacher out," suggested Douglas.
"No, I wouldn't," replied Inez; "and I told Scott so. That doesn't mean
that I don't consider you plumb loco, Doug. Mr. Fowler isn't the kind to
make the folks see the beauty of these hills. If he was I'd be helping
instead of indifferent."
"If the folks would let God enter their hearts," cried the preacher,
"they'd see beauty in these hills they never dreamed of."
"Well, as far as beauty goes, Inez," Douglas spoke thoughtfully, "you
can't say there isn't considerable of that in the Bible. Take the Songs
of Solomon. There never was finer love-making than that!"
"The Songs of Solomon don't deal with human passion," said Mr. Fowler
hastily. "They are a recital of man's love for the Almighty and His
works."
"O, no, Mr. Fowler!" cried Doug. "'Behold thou art fair, my loved one,
behold thou art fair. Thou hast doves eyes within thy locks.' No man
ever said that about anything but a woman."
No one spoke for a moment. Old Prince, who was lying with his head
baking under the stove, growled and barked, then made for the door. Wolf
Cub barked without, and a dog answered.
"Sister!" exclaimed Inez. "Peter must be coming."
Douglas opened the door and Prince shot out. Shortly Peter, then
Charleton, came in, stamping the snow from their spurs and pulling off
their gauntlets.
"Where did you two come from?" asked Judith, as the newcomers
established themselves on up-ended boxes close to the stove.
"Just met here," replied Peter. "I had supper at Spencer's and came up
to argue with the sky pilot."
"I'm setting traps up on Lost Chief," said Charleton, lighting a
cigarette.
"Look out you don't mistake any of Scott's traps for yours," suggested
Inez.
Everybody chuckled, and Peter said, "Elijah Nelson was down at my place
yesterday. He's a pleasant, easy spoken man. I guess he and Scott have
been having a lot of quiet fighting up there we haven't heard about."
"Is that what he came to see you about?" asked Doug.
"No. It seems his trail out to the Mountain City road is snowed up. He
wants to get his mail over here if Scott will let him use his trail. He
wants me to speak to Scott about it."
"What Scott will claim," Charleton smiled, "is that he positively must
have a retired location and complete privacy on his trail."
There was another chuckle, during which the preacher looked from one
keen face to another, but he did not speak.
"What has the scrapping been about, Peter?" asked Inez.
Douglas turned quietly to look at her. It suddenly occurred to him that
Inez used Peter's name with a cadence that was new to him. He saw that
she was watching Peter's thin sallow face with a shadow of strain about
her eyes.
"O it's about a bull again," laughed Peter. "It seems that Scott has an
old red bull that Nelson says is one of his, rebranded."
"But I thought," began Judith; then she caught Charleton's sardonic eye
and subsided.
"What did you think, Judith?" asked Peter.
"Nothing. Go on with your story."
"There is no story to it. Scott's been keeping a six-shooter guard on
the upper springs of Lost Chief, so's old Nelson hasn't had but half his
usual allowance of water for his ditches. He is sorer about that than he
is over the bull, though he certainly is determined to get the critter
back. But he got small comfort out of me. I told him to keep his plural
fingers off of Lost Chief Creek, or he would lose more than an old red
bull."
"Right-o!" grunted Charleton.
"Are you going to ask Scott to let Nelson use his trail, Peter?" asked
Inez.
"Sure! Why not?" laughed Peter.
"You will make Scott sore at you," replied Inez. "I haven't any quarrel
with Scott myself, but I know he has a mean streak in him. If he thinks
you are in cahoots with Nelson he will make you trouble."
"I'm not afraid of Scott," said Peter.
"Well, you'll need to be if you mix up in his affairs. He holds grudges
over nothing."
"Awful bad man, Scott!" Douglas spoke with his quiet smile.
"I'm telling you he is!" insisted Inez. "He's been more than half in
love with Judith for years and he'd just as soon double-cross Jude as
anybody else. I want you to let him alone, please, Peter."
Peter was watching Judith. Only Douglas seemed aware of the concentrated
entreaty in Inez' voice. "Poor Inez," he thought, "if she's caring for
Peter, she'll be having her own little double Hades for everything she's
done." He looked at Peter. Judith was staring thoughtfully at the stove
and the postmaster's deep eyes were fastened on the girl's fine,
clean-cut features, with a burning fire that suddenly brought Doug's
heart to his throat.
"What's your opinion of Scott, Judith?" asked Peter.
"The same as Inez'. But I can't help liking him. He's done me lots of
favors and he's kept me from making a fool of myself a number of times,
even if he did double-cross me once. And he admires me. He certainly
does!" She laughed with girlish naïveté and the others joined her.
"Then you must like me too!" said Peter.
"You are a nice old gentleman," retorted Judith.
Peter's lips closed grimly.
The preacher spoke with sudden vehemence. "Yet you people are allowing
this same Scott to try to destroy Douglas' dream for Lost Chief."
"I say Scott is a valuable citizen," drawled Charleton. "He guards us
from Mormons, from Christians, and from wild women."
Douglas did not join in the laugh that greeted this sally. An entirely
new fear had come upon him. He bit his lip and stared from Judith to
Peter and back again.
Inez rose suddenly. "Well, the moon is up. Come, Judith! It's time for
wild women to retire to their caves."
Judith gave a gigantic yawn, stretched her beautiful long body till the
tips of her fingers almost touched the low rafters, and said, "It's a
good thing Charleton and Peter will be going along to protect us from
Scott, the bad man."
The four presently jingled off down the snowy trail. Prince took up his
shivering night-watch on the steps. Douglas and Mr. Fowler looked at
each other soberly and went to bed.