# Judith of the Godless Valley/Chapter 10

CHAPTER X
WILD HORSES
"If I could believe in God and a heaven I'd ask nothing more of life except a good saddle-horse."
Charleton's Wife.
AND so another long winter was upon Lost Chief. It was much like other winters for Douglas except for the fact that he began systematically to trap for pelts. It was a heavy winter and game was plentiful, with pelts of exceptionally fine quality for which there was a good market in St. Louis. Douglas worked hard and began the accumulation of a sum of money which he planned to use eventually to start his own ranch on the old Douglas section, which was to be his when he came of age.
But although to the young rider the money earned seemed the main aspect of the winter's work, the important result really lay in the deepening it gave to his appreciation of the beauty and mystery of this mountain valley.
Lost Chief was lovely in the summer with its crystal glory of color on hill and plain. But Lost Chief in winter was awe-inspiring in its naked splendor. Dead Line Peak and Falkner's Peak, barren save for the great blue snows and for the black shadows that crept up and down their tremendous flanks, were separated from each other by a long, narrow, slowly rising valley. Down this valley rushed a tiny brook whose murmur the bitterest weather could not quite still. Along this brook grew ​quivering aspens, and beside it coyotes kept open a little trail. Along this trail, Doug set his traps, as well as up on the wall of the mountains where lynx-cats and wolverine were hid.
Each day at noon, mounted on the Moose, with Prince at heel, he rode the circuit of the traps, seldom reaching home until long after supper was cleared away. There were days when, on leaving the ranch for the long, bitter-cold ride, it seemed to Douglas that he never could come back again, that the pain of living in the same house with Judith in her girlish indifference was to be endured no longer. The primitive intimacy in which the family dwelt made every hour at home a sort of torture to him, a torture that he did not wish to forego yet that he scarcely could endure. One cannot say how much of Douglas' self-control was due to innate refinement, how much to expediency, how much to the male power of inhibition when fighting to win the love of a woman.
But, whatever the cause, Douglas was developing a power of self-control possessed by no other man in the valley. It made him, even at eighteen, a little grim, a little lonely, a little abstracted. And he rode his traps like a man in a dream. He thought much, but not constantly, of Judith; though she perfumed all his thoughts. For the most part he pondered on the blank mystery of life and on the enigma of love, which to him seemed far more productive of pain than of joy. Little by little, he found himself eager to get into the hills. Quite consciously he left the ranch each day with the thought that when he reached the crest of old Falkner's lower shoulder, where his lynx trap was set, and beheld the unspeakable strength and purity of the far-flung ranges, to whose vastness the Lost Chief peaks were but foothills, he would find a wordless peace.
​And thus the winter slipped away and blue-birds dipped again in the spring beyond the corral. And again alfalfa perfumed the alkaline dust that followed the birds into the Reserve; and then again, frost laid waste the struggling gardens of high altitudes; and for another winter Doug followed traps, varying the monotony by getting out pine-logs for his ranch house.
The winter that Judith was twenty and Douglas twenty-two was one of the most severe ever known in Lost Chief country. It was preceded by a summer of drought and the alfalfa and wild hay fields failed. Feed could not be bought. Steers and horses died by the score. Doug did little trapping. He and his father spent the bitter storm-swept days fighting to save their stock. By March they were cutting young aspens and hauling them to the famished herds to nibble. Coyotes moved brazenly by day across the home fields, stealing refuse from the very door-yards. Eagles perched on fence-posts near the chicken runs. Jack-rabbits in herds of many score milled about the wind-swept barrens, gnawing the grass already cattle-cropped to the roots. The cold and snow persisted till mid-April, and even then Lost Chief was only beginning to thaw on its lower northern edge.
It was a winter of tremendous nerve strain. There had been little opportunity for the neighbors to get together, and the battle with the cold never ceased. John Spencer, always at his best when great physical demands were being made upon him, came through the winter better than Douglas, whose profound restlessness was beginning to tell even on his youthful strength. It was almost as much of a relief to Doug's family as to Doug to have Charleton Falkner insist, late in April, that Doug go on a wild horse hunt with him.
It was like the opening of a prison door to the young ​rider. He had dwelt within himself too much, had seen too much of Judith, had been too deeply perplexed by his own relation to life. He resolved that during the week they were to be out on the hunt, he would not once permit himself a serious thought.
They left Charleton's ranch early one morning, driving a sheep wagon which trailed four saddle horses. On the tail-board of the wagon were a bale of alfalfa and several bags of oats, for which Charleton had scraped Lost Chief to the bottom of its bins.
The snow was running off the trail in roaring streams. There was brilliant sun. Magpies dipped across the blue. Charleton drove while Douglas lay across the bunk, his spurred boots resting on an embroidered sofa cushion which he had purloined from Mary for lack of a pillow. He lay thus all day, except at meal time, neither man caring to talk. All day long, they pushed north, over the hills, each hill and valley lower than the last. When they made their night camp, the snows were gone. The next day, too, they pursued ever-dropping trails, that disappeared toward noon, leaving Charleton to find his way through barren hills that were criss-crossed only by antelope and coyote tracks. At mid-afternoon, from the crest of one of these hills they beheld a winding, black river with a flush of green along its borders. They covered the miles to this at a trot and made their camp beside the rushing waters. The eager horses almost rended harness and halter in their desire to taste the budding grass around the sage-brush roots.
They carried food and fodder only for a week, so they dared allow but two days for the actual hunting. At dawn they had finished breakfast and were riding up into the rolling hills to the west. Brown hills against a pale blue morning sky, then a sudden flood of crimson ​against a high horizon line. Against this crimson, a row of grazing horses!
"We'll separate now," said Charleton. "Do like we always do. Pick out one horse and ride him down. They will be awful soft after such a winter. Don't get side-tracked from one horse to another. They'd kill the Moose off at that. He's getting pretty old for this kind of thing. I'll see you at camp to-night."
Douglas dropped into a valley which twisted under the hill where the wild horses were grazing. Here he dismounted and, leading his horse, began to snake his way upward through the sage-brush which covered the hillside. When he was within a hundred yards of the herd, he paused. There were fifteen horses, of every kind and color. Douglas selected a jet black mare with a wonderful tail and mane. Then he turned to mount. Charleton, at this moment, appeared on the far side of the hill. The Moose nickered, and the herd tossed heads and broke.
The mare dropped over the east side of the hill as if she had been shot. Douglas turned the Moose after her and they hurled down the steep slope with thundering hoofs. For some moments, the Moose sought to turn hither and yon as different horses flashed across his vision. But Doug held him to the black mare, and once the Moose realized that she alone was their quarry Douglas was able to give almost all his attention to watching her strategy.
She did not show fight nor did she double on her tracks. Fleet as a bird, she flew over the hills, dropping into canyons, leaping draws, jumping rock heaps, until little by little she drew ahead of the Moose until she became no larger than a black coyote against the yellow hills. But Douglas would not allow the Moose to break ​from his swift trot. As long as he could keep the mare in sight he was content.
The sun was sailing high and the Moose was winded when the mare, cantering painfully along the ridge of a hill, stumbled and fell. She was up again at once but her gait slowed, perceptibly. In less than a half-hour Doug was within roping distance of her. As the lariat sung above her head, she half turned, gave Doug a look of anguished surprise, leaped sideways and disappeared up a crevice in a canyon wall. Douglas spurred the Moose in after her. They were in a little valley, thick grown with dwarf willow. The mare was not to be seen.
Now began a search that persisted till the Moose's sturdy legs were trembling. Douglas threaded the valley again and again. There was no exit save through the one crevice by which they had entered. He had all but concluded that the mare had been swallowed up by the earth when he found her trail, turning up the south wall. He spurred the Moose upward, and there in a clump of cedars he found her hiding. With a laugh he again twirled his rope and it slipped over the tossing black head. As the Moose turned and the rope tightened, the mare gave a scream that was like that of a human being in dire agony. For a moment she dragged back, then, head drooping, trembling in every muscle, she followed in.
Dusk was falling when Douglas made the camp. Charleton already had started a fire in the little cook-stove. He came out and examined the mare as well as the failing light and her extreme timidity permitted.
"She's a beauty, Doug. Don't believe she's over four years old. Any brand on her?"
"No. From the looks of her hoofs, I'd say she'd been ​born with the herd. What luck did you have, Charleton?"
"None at all. I took after a young stallion and he wore my horse out. I know where he's bedding down to-night and I'll get him to-morrow or shoot him."
"You'll get him," said Douglas.
Charleton chuckled. "Nice thing if the mare is all we bring in. Make some coffee, Doug. The biscuits are baking. I could eat one of Sister's coyotes to-night." Charleton jammed another sage-brush knot into the little stove.
They were off at dawn. Douglas rode this day a young bay horse he had recently broken and named Pard. But though Pard was strong and willing, he lacked the skill of the Moose in running this rough country, and by noon Douglas was obliged to give up the pursuit of a dapple gray he had selected. He was far out on the plains when he made the decision to turn campward. To the distant south, in the Lost Chief ranges, a snowstorm was raging; but Pard and Douglas were dripping with sweat, under a sweltering sun. Strange, thimble-shaped green hills, dotted the plains about them. Douglas drew up at the base of one of these to rest his horse. Scarcely had he done so when a tiny herd of antelope trotted casually round the neighboring hillock. They halted, sniffed, and turned, but not before Douglas had drawn his saddle gun and fired at the leader. The creature went lame at once but disappeared with his fellows among the green hills.
Douglas followed and shortly found a spot of blood that was repeated at irregular intervals for a mile or so. Pard was grunting now, but Douglas rowelled him and pushed on until he saw the antelope kneeling in the lee of an outcropping of rock. It struggled to its feet ​and fell again, its beautiful head dropping against its crimsoned breast.
"Wonder if I can get you home alive to Judith?" said Douglas.
After a moment of thought, he loosened his lariat, swung and roped the antelope around the horns, dragging it from its futile sanctuary. Then he dismounted and removed the lariat. The antelope bleated but lay trembling, making no attempt to rise. Douglas examined the shattered shoulder.
"You poor devil!" he said. "Even if you weren't hurt so badly, you'd die of fright before I could get you home. Well, of course I'm sorry venison is out of season, but a man must eat!" He put his gun to the delicate head, and an hour later Pard was snorting under a gunny-sack of venison. Douglas lighted a cigarette and, whistling gaily, started once more for camp.
But this, if not a day of what Lost Chief would call real adventure, was at least to be a day of episode. About mid-afternoon Doug heard the tinkle of a sheep-bell. He was not surprised, for he knew that he was well within sheep country. He followed the tinkle and came shortly to a wide draw where moved a mighty gray mass of sheep. The herder, on a bay horse, responded to Doug's halloo with a wave of his hand. Douglas made his way round the edge of the draw and waited for the herder, who rode slowly up to meet him. Then he stared at the stranger's gray-bearded face with the utmost surprise.
"Mr. Fowler!" he cried. "What are you doing out here?"
The older man, in shabby blue overalls and jumper, a black slouch hat pulled over his eyes, smiled grimly.
"You have the advantage of me, young man. I don't remember your face."
​"I'm glad you don't!" replied Douglas. "But I've always wanted to tell you I sure-gawd was ashamed of myself. I was the kid that made you trouble at Lost Chief seven or eight years ago."
Fowler's black brows met as he studied the young rider's frank face.
"So you are!" he said slowly. "So you are! Well, I'll never have that kind of trouble again. Have you eaten? I'm late about dinner. Fact is, I get careless about my meals, living alone!"
"No, I've been out after wild horses and don't plan to eat till I get back to camp ten miles yonder on the creek."
"Better break bread with me," suggested the preacher.
"That's sure white of you. I don't mind if I do." Douglas returned Mr. Fowler's grim look with one of wistful curiosity.
The preacher silently led the way to the sheep-herder's wagon -which perched on the peak of a hill above the draw. "I don't have much to offer you but beans," he said as they dismounted.
Douglas looked from the blood-stained gunny-sack to the clergyman's deep-set eyes, hesitated, then said, "Beans are good and the sheep-man's staple." He followed into the wagon and sat on the edge of the bunk while Fowler prepared the frugal meal.
"Do you mind telling me," asked Doug, "why you are herding sheep instead of folks?"
"I couldn't earn a decent living herding folks. My wife died. I took anything that offered that would take me away from men and their accursed ways. There was something about sheep-herding that made me think of Jesus Christ and the country round about Bethlehem. I have found a kind of peace here."
​Douglas cleared his throat. "How long have you been at it?"
"A couple of years."
"How was it you couldn't earn a living, preaching?"
"It's an age of unfaith," replied the preacher.
"I don't believe it's an age of unfaith." Douglas puffed slowly on a cigarette. "That is, not like you mean. That Sunday, if you'd given us something we could have set our teeth in, we'd have listened to you. I remember distinctly, I sat down in the back of the room, saying to myself, 'Now if this old-timer has something interesting to say, I won't let the kids in.' But you—excuse me, Mr. Fowler—you just got up and bleated like a Montana sheep-man."
The preacher set the coffee-pot on the stove, straightened himself, and shouted, "I spoke the word of God!"
"I don't know whether there's a God or not. Probably there isn't any. But if there is, I'll bet He never talked foolish threats that a fellow has hard work to understand." Mr. Fowler gasped. "Now wait a moment," protested Douglas. "Don't get mad and throw me out like I did you! I'm a man now, and I tell you, Mr. Fowler, I'm troubled about many things and I want you to let me talk to you."
The beautiful, sympathetic light of the shepherd of souls shone in the clergyman's eyes. "Talk on, my boy! I too am troubled about many things. But not about God. I know Him."
"How do you know Him?"
"By His works, the sun, the stars, the universe, through His holy word, the Bible."
Douglas waved his hands irritably. "Words! Just words! How can they mean anything to a hard-headed man like me? Everything came out of a fire mist. ​How do you know it was a mind made that fire mist? Why couldn't it have been a—a— Christ, what could it have been?" Douglas paused with lips agape with horror as he gazed on the evil of the universe.
Fowler motioned the young rider to a seat at the table. "God bless our food and give us understanding," he said. Then he served Doug and sat staring thoughtfully at his own coffee-cup. "Were you ever in love?" he finally asked Douglas.
"Yes."
"Did she love you?"
"Not that I can find out!"
"Does she know that you love her?" pursued the minister.
"Yes, I told her so."
"But," said Mr. Fowler, "love isn't something you can put your teeth in. How can she believe you?"
"Because, I'm something she can put her teeth in! Believe me, Mr. Fowler, if God once convinced me He was real, I'd believe anything He told me. Just give me facts. That's all I want."
"The universe is a fact."
"Yes, but the universe being a fact doesn't prove there's any hereafter. Hang it, Mr. Fowler, can't you preachers get it through your heads that what people want you to prove to them is that there is a hereafter? That's all there is to your job. Prove that and you can lead us round by the nose. But if you can't show us that the soul doesn't die, there is no meaning in anything, and we might as well be like we are in Lost Chief."
"What's the matter with Lost Chief?" Mr. Fowler's smile was grim.
"Peter Knight says it's that we have no ethics. Inez ​Rodman says it's that we don't know beauty when we see it."
"Inez Rodman? O, that woman of the Yellow Canyon! If there were a minister in Lost Chief, she wouldn't be in the Valley."
"O, I don't know! Religion doesn't seem to affect her kind, anywhere. But Peter says we'd ought to have built a church along with the schoolhouse. I don't see myself how the kind of Bible stuff you teach could help a hard living, hard thinking kind of people like us."
"Did you ever read the Bible, Douglas?" asked the preacher.
"I've tried to. If you ask me to read it like it was only more or less true history, I could get away with it. But when you tell me it's the actual word of God and show me a picture of God in long white whiskers and a white robe, why you can't get away with it, that's all. I know that nothing like that ever produced Fire Mesa or Lost Chief Range or—or Judith."
Mr. Fowler groaned. "Douglas, you are blasphemous!"
"I'm not. I'm just unhappy. I think I was meant to be a religious guy. I'm of New England stock and they all depended a lot on religion. But I just can't swallow it."
"And you never will as long as you take the point of view you do. You must wipe your mind clear of all you have read and thought, for God says that unless we become as little children, we cannot believe. Religion is not a matter of knowledge and reason. Religion is a matter of hope and faith."
Douglas sat turning this over in his mind, his yellow hair rumpled, his clear eyes, with the sun wrinkles in the ​corners, fixed on the far snowy gleam of Lost Chief Range.
"Hope and faith," he repeated softly.
There was a shout from without. "O, you Doug!" and Charleton rode up at a gallop. He stopped before the open door. "I've been trailing you for two hours. I got three horses penned up in a draw and I need your help. Hello, Fowler! What the devil are you doing out here?"
"Come in and have a bite of grub, Falkner," exclaimed the preacher.
"Don't care if I do!" Charleton threw a weary leg across the saddle and dismounted. Douglas, who had finished his meal, returned to the bunk and Charleton took his place.
"Kind of funny to find you and Doug eating together," said Charleton.
"He should have given me a swift kick," agreed Douglas. "Instead, he fed me."
"That's sound religion, isn't it?" asked Mr. Fowler, pouring Charleton a cup of coffee.
"It's sound hospitality, anyhow," replied Charleton.
"Aw, any one would admit Fowler lives up to his faith," expostulated Douglas.
Charleton glanced at the young rider in surprise. "What's happened to you, old trapper?"
"Nothing. Only I wish I had the same religion he's got."
"So's you could herd the sheep?" asked Charleton.
"So's I could have peace," retorted Douglas.
"Peace? What does a kid like you want of peace? Anybody that can't find peace in Lost Chief is a fool."
"I'm no fool!" contradicted Doug, with a growing irritation at Charleton for interrupting his talk with ​Fowler. "And where is there a peaceful person in Lost Chief?"
"Douglas," said Charleton, "when you are as old as I am you'll realize that Lost Chief is as near heaven as man can hope to get. A poke of salt and a gun on your saddle, a blanket tied behind, a good horse under you, the Persian poet in your pocket, all time and the ranges before you, and what more could mortal man desire?"
"A woman, you've always said before," grunted Douglas.
"I was holding back out of respect to the sky pilot," laughed Charleton. "But since you mentioned it, there's Inez, who's always ready for a trip."
Mr. Fowler shot a quick look at Douglas, who again grunted indifferently and rolled a cigarette.
"Are you and Douglas partners, Falkner?" asked the preacher.
"Once in a while. Why are you herding sheep, Fowler? This herd yours?"
"No. They belong to a Denver man. I'm herding because I couldn't keep a church together."
Charleton nodded. "The day of the church is over."
There was silence during which Charleton devoured beans, Douglas smoked, and the preacher sat with his eyes on the slow moving herd.
Finally Charleton said, "And why do you think something is the matter with Lost Chief, Douglas?"
"In other parts of the country," replied Douglas, his blue eyes fixed unwaveringly on Charleton's dark face, "among people of our kind and breed, a girl like Judith couldn't run with a girl like Inez and be considered decent. And a couple like Jimmy and Little Marion couldn't have a party a week after they were married, ​the baby attending, and be considered O. K. by the so-called best folks and nothing more said."
Charleton's face grew darkly red. "Who told you that?" he asked in an ugly voice.
"I'm not a fool, as I've told you before. And as you very well know, I've wanted Judith for my wife ever since I was a boy and I haven't wanted her man-handled. And you know, as Jude said once, a girl has about as much chance of staying straight in Lost Chief as a cottontail has with a coyote pack. She's good because, well, because she's Judith, that's all. Now, I tell you when things are as hard as that for a young girl in a beautiful place like our valley, there's something wrong. And look at Little Marion!"
"Leave her out or you'll regret it," snarled Charleton.
"I'm not afraid of you, Charleton," said Douglas, with indifference not at all assumed. "Little Marion is a peach of a girl. She should have been a big influence. She's—she's had a wrong start."
"She's got a fine baby and a good husband."
"I never could argue with you, Charleton. But I know Lost Chief is a bad place for girls. Why, I'll bet there isn't a finer bunch of girls than ours in the world, for looks and nerve and smartness. Peter says he's never seen any that could touch them. And take the stories you read. Where's a heroine like Judith?"
There was something so simple and so earnest in Doug's manner and voice that the red died out of Charleton's face and he said, "I'm with you on that point, Douglas."
"Peter told me once," Douglas went on, "that the Greek race was the finest in the world in their minds and their looks and in every way, until the Greek women got promiscuous. That as soon as that happened the race ​began to decay. And he said that there isn't a nation in the world any stronger than the virtue of its women."
"How old are you, Douglas?" asked Mr. Fowler.
"Twenty-three. I just want to say this one thing more, then I'm through. When things like that happen to Jimmy and Little Marion, they aren't doing the right thing by Lost Chief, and"—rising with sudden restless fire—"I'd like to see Lost Chief be the kind of place my grandfather Douglas wanted it to be!"
Charleton yawned. "We'd better be moving along."
"Don't go for a minute," pleaded Mr. Fowler. "Douglas was right when he said that the whole world is hungry for a belief in immortality. And as long as the world exists it will have that hunger. And religion is God's answer to that hunger. Civilization without religion is the body without a soul. Religion brings a spiritual peace that man perpetually craves and that riches or women or horses or the hunt never brought and never can bring. At heart, there's not an unhappier man than you, Falkner. Why? Because you have no belief in immortality."
"Great God, Fowler, how can I believe in it when I can't?" shouted Charleton.
"Exactly! How can you?" returned Fowler, deliberately. "No foul-minded man ever yet had an ear for the word of the living God."
Charleton jumped to his feet. "What do you mean, you bastard cleric, you!"
"Aw, come off, Charleton!" exclaimed Douglas. "I've learned more dirt from you than I bet Judith ever has from Inez. Come on, let's go get the horses. Thanks for the grub, Mr. Fowler."
"You are very welcome. Don't go away angry with ​me, Falkner. If I called you foul-minded, you called me by a foul name."
"I guess we're even," agreed Charleton. "I'm obliged to you for the meal." He swung out of the wagon, mounted his horse and was off, Douglas following.
Charleton had hobbled his capture of horses in a little draw, several miles from the sheep camp. In the excitement and hard work of herding the creatures into the camp and re-hobbling them, there was no opportunity to discuss the visit with the preacher sheep-herder. Nor did Douglas wish to bring the matter up when, long after dark, they sat down to their supper of venison and biscuits. He kept Charleton firmly to the story of his capture of each horse and when this was done and the dishes washed, he went to bed.
But long after Charleton had crawled in beside him, Doug lay awake thinking of Judith and of the preacher. He wondered what influence a man like Fowler would have on a girl like Judith. He wondered if Judith would come out with him to call on the preacher. He thought it highly improbable. And then he thought of Peter and what Peter might have said that day had he and not Charleton interrupted Doug and the preacher. For the thousandth time, he thought of Peter's love for his mother and he wondered how his mother had kept herself fine as Peter said she had. Perhaps she had had some sort of religious faith.
"I wish Grandfather Douglas had put the church up with the schoolhouse," he said to himself. "Maybe it would have saved Judith as well as Scott Parsons."
Then he gasped. An idea of overwhelming importance had come to him. He lay for an instant contemplating it, then he crept from the bunk and the sheep wagon into the open. It was a frosty, star-lit night. ​The river rushed like black oil, silver cakes of ice grinding above the roar of the current. The Moose was munching on a wisp of alfalfa. Douglas saddled him and led him softly out of hearing of the wagon, then sprang upon his back and put him to the canter.
Two hours later, Douglas was banging on the door frame of Fowler's sheep wagon.
"It's just me, Douglas Spencer," he replied to the preacher's startled query. "I had to come over to ask you something."
A light flashed through the canvas. Then the door opened. "Come in! Come in! Light the fire while I pull my boots on. This is like the days when I was saving souls and marrying couples."
Douglas quickly had a fire blazing and pulled the coffee-pot forward. He pushed his hat back on his head and the candle-light threw into sharp relief the firm set of his lips. His six-shooter banged on the bench as he sat down and put one spurred boot on the hearth. The preacher perched blinking on the edge of the bunk. Through the canvas came the endless restless movement of myriad sheep.
"Mr. Fowler," said Douglas, "I own some land that came to me from, my mother when I was twenty-one. If I build you a little church on it, will you come to Lost Chief and live there and preach? I'll be responsible for your wages."
Fowler's face was inscrutable. "Why do you want me to come, Douglas?"
For the first time, Doug's voice thickened. "I want you to help Lost Chief and to save Judith."
"Tell me about Judith."
Douglas hesitated, then he asked, "Catholics have a thing they call the confessional, haven't they? Well, ​it's a good idea if the chap they confess to is the right kind. I don't believe a word of your religion and yet I have a feeling that you are the right kind. Judith! She's twenty-one now. I'm six foot one. She's about two inches shorter. Weighs, I guess, fifty pounds lighter. Finest gray eyes you ever saw. Red cheeks. Her mouth used to be too big, but now it's perfect. Rides and breaks a horse better than any man in the Valley, bar none. Loves animals and can tame and train anything. A great reader."
Douglas paused.
"She sounds very attractive. What's the trouble?" asked the preacher.
Douglas twisted his hands together. "You know who Inez Rodman is. Well, she is Jude's best friend! And she has formed all of Judith's ideas about love and marriage."
"Yet you say Judith is straight?"
"She sure-gawd is! But how can it last? She's restless and discontented and Inez is brilliant, feeds Judith's mind."
"Has her mother any influence over her?"
"None at all."
"How about her father?" asked the preacher.
"Of course, he's only her foster-father. She likes him and she hates him. He certainly couldn't help her."
"And you are sure there is no hope in Judith's mother?"
"O she's just broken, like a patient fool horse. Good as gold, you know, but with about as much influence over Jude as a kitten. Judith hasn't any one to tie to, not any one. Peter is all right but he jaws too much. She hasn't any one."
"Doesn't she care for you?"
​"She says she's fond of me. Fond of me! I'd rather she hated me. I'd as soon have a dish of cold mush from a woman like Jude, as fondness."
"And do you think I could influence Judith?"
"I don't know. But I want you to try. And it isn't all Judith with me. I love Lost Chief. I never want to live anywhere else. And I'd like to see it the kind of a place my grandfather Douglas wanted it to be. No, it honestly isn't all for Judith, though she's the beginning and the end of it."
There was something almost affectionate in the preacher's deep-set eyes as he watched Douglas.
"Do you realize, my boy, what you are asking? When you bring a preacher into Lost Chief, you are going to rouse an antagonism against yourself that will astound you. These people are of New England stock. There is no more intelligent stock in America, nor stock that is more conceited, more narrow, more obstinate, nor more ruthless. And the farther a New Englander gets from religion, the more brutal his virtues become. If you lake me into Lost Chief, you are going to start a depth of strife of which we cannot foresee the end."
"I hadn't thought of that," said Douglas. He rested his chin on his palm and eyed the glowing stove thoughtfully. "I guess you are right," finally; "nothing makes Lost Chief folks so mad as to have some one hint they aren't perfect." Then he chuckled. "It'll be a real man's fight. I wonder what Jude will say! Are you afraid, Mr. Fowler?"
"Afraid? Yes! I'm not as young as I was once and I am not over-anxious for such a struggle. But this thing isn't in my hands. If ever the Almighty showed Himself a directing force, He is showing it here. This is what He ordained from the day you drove me out ​of the schoolhouse. Do you remember what I said to you?"
"You quoted the Bible, I think. I don't remember what it was."
"I said, 'Ye shall find no place to repent you, though ye seek for it with tears."
Douglas murmured the words over to himself. His face worked a little. "It's true! It's the living truth!" he exclaimed unevenly. "Not that I've got anything to repent—" he hesitated. "What is repentance? What is life? Where is God, if there is a God? What does it all mean, anyhow?"
The preacher said slowly, "'There is a Divinity that shapes our ends, rough hew them as we will.' That's what it all means. When shall you be ready for me, Douglas?"
"I think the fall would be best. Suppose we say right after the round-up. I'll look for you on the twentieth of September."
"That will suit me. I can then give my boss ample notice."
"What pay will you want, Mr. Fowler?"
"Just enough to feed and clothe me. We'll arrange that after we get a church established."
Douglas rose with a broad grin. "I sure-gawd have let myself in for something now," he said. "But I'll take care of you, Mr. Fowler."
"All right, young Moses," returned the preacher, smiling into Doug's eager face. "Good-night."
Charleton was still sound asleep when Douglas at dawn lay down beside him and slipped into dreamless slumber.