“I want to know if you’re going to lick me, Dad?”

“What did I promise you, last night?” he demanded.

“Do you mean to keep that promise?” asked Judith.

“Go out and tend to your milking!” roared John, rising to his feet and throwing the book across the room.  “Get out of my sight, you little fool, you blankety-blank—­” But Judith had fled and Douglas retired to the kitchen.

Supper was a silent affair.  But that evening when the family had gathered under the lamp to read, Douglas said, “Scott Parsons wants me to take the mail stage for him Wednesday.”

“Where’s he going?” asked John.

“Out after his registered bull.  It’s strayed again.”

“Huh!” grunted John.  “Are he and Oscar Jefferson still fighting over that bull?”

“I guess so,” replied Douglas.  “Can I go, Dad?”

“It will put the dehorning off another day, but I guess you can go.  That extra money will come in handy.  How would you like to drive the mail regularly next winter, Douglas?”

The boy tossed “Treasure Island” on the table.  “Do you mean you’d let me have it?”

“What would you do with the money?”

Douglas hesitated.

Judith spoke.  “I know what I’d do.  I’d put half the money into books.  The other half I’d use to buy me some buckers and I’d go into training as a lady bronco buster.”

Everybody laughed, and Mrs. Spencer said, “You won’t have time to keep your nose in a book if you start in that line, Judith!”

“I’ll always read,” retorted Judith loftily.

“I’d buy me a silver-mounted saddle and silver spurs,” said Douglas, “and that dapple gray of Oscar Jefferson’s and a good greyhound, and I’d go into the wild horse catching business.”

John groaned.  “We’ve sure-gawd got an ambitious pair of kids here, Mary!  What about the money you get from this trip, Doug?”

“Will you let me keep it?” asked Douglas, eagerly.

“I’ll see!” John picked up his book again.

“Let me go with you, Doug!” pleaded Judith.

“Nothing doing!” exclaimed her stepfather succinctly.  “You go to bed now before you get me aggravated.”

Judith tossed her head but obediently retired to her corner of the room, undressed and crawled into her bed.  Douglas was not long in following her example.

It was about eight o’clock Wednesday morning and twenty below zero when the mail buckboard driven by Douglas took the rising trail from Black Gorge eastward over the Mesa Pass.  The snow was heavy and the trail only indifferently opened.  To add to the difficulties, Scott had hitched Polly, a half-broken mule, to the stage in place of the mare who had gone lame.  James, the remaining horse, was steady, however, and Douglas had only a moderate amount of trouble until the long steep grade up to the Pass began.  Here, after a quarter of an hour of reluctant going, the mule balked.  James did what he could to pull her along, Douglas plied the blacksnake; but to no avail.  When she finally did move it was to lie down with deliberate slowness.  Douglas jumped out into the drifts and by risking his life among her agitated legs he managed to get her up.  An hour passed in the intense cold before she finally was harnessed and meekly pulling more than her share.