“Do you mean count on me for the plan or the cabins?” asked Peter.

“Both!”

“Yes, you can, Douglas!  I don’t know whether the plan is a good one or not.  But I’m delighted to see you taking a step like this.  It’s gratifying to me, Doug.  It is indeed; and I know your mother would have been delighted.”  Peter’s voice broke, and he said harshly, “Now, get along, Doug.  I’ve got to sort the mail.”

For the first time that day, Douglas’ lips wore a little smile.  He whistled to Prince, who had grown too lazy of late to propitiate Sister as he had in his younger days and who was keeping that growling old Amazon at her distance by snapping at her viciously.  Prince lunged over to Pard’s heels and Doug started off for his call on Johnny Brown.

“I deponed I’d come, didn’t I?” asked old Johnny.  “It’s been a gregus long time and I’m only half-muscled as well as half-witted now.  But I’ll come.  I’d help you build a cabin in hell if you wanted me to.  Honest, I would, Doug.”

Douglas did not laugh.  “Thanks, Johnny!  Then I’ll look for you to-morrow.”

“I deponed I’d come, didn’t I?” repeated the old fellow, and he was still deponing when Douglas started homeward.

Peter inveigled Young Jeff into taking the post-office for a couple of weeks.  Post-office keeping did not accord at all with the ideas of pleasant living of the native-born of Lost Chief.  Undoubtedly if Peter had not offered his services year after year there would have been, a great part of the time, no post-office in the Valley.  But Peter had means of his own with which to piece out the salary and for some inscrutable reason he clung to the sort of prestige he enjoyed in the community as a Federal employee.  His friends always protested violently at substituting for him, but always gave in, fearful lest Peter carry out his threat of giving up the job.  So he appeared at Douglas’ ranch, bright and early, bringing a graphic account of Young Jeff’s despair over a pile of second-class mail.

Lost Chief Creek bordered one edge of Douglas’ acres.  Dead Line Peak pushed an abrupt shoulder into the stream at the northwest corner.  Below this shoulder lay a grove of silvery aspens and of blue spruce, dripping with great bronze cones.  Just above the flood line of the creek, Douglas trimmed out enough trees from the grove to give elbow-room for the cabins and corrals.  By the end of Peter’s two weeks, the heaviest part of the building had been done.

On the last day of the fortnight—­it had been a very pleasant fortnight for Peter—­he and Douglas dawdled long over their noon meal while old Johnny began the work he loved, the chinking of the log walls.  Leaning against a log at the edge of the clearing, Lost Chief Valley sloped below them.  A blue line of smoke rose from the Spencer chimney.

“Dad is sure sore at me this time,” said Douglas.  “He’s hardly spoken to me for a week.”