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?”