“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.