That evening, as Douglas sat in his favorite place beside the alfalfa stack, old Johnny led up his little gray mare.

“I’ll be cowling myself along home now, Doug,” he said.  “John is awful insidious to me.  I just want to say, Doug, that you’re the first man in this valley ever stuck up for me and some day I depone I’ll get even with you.”

“Good for you, Johnny!” nodded Douglas.  “When I get my old ranch going, you come up and work for me.”

“I will so do,” replied the old man solemnly, and he rode away in the moonlight.

And Douglas returned to the new theme old Johnny had given him.  Of what were women made that they could be over-broken as his father had over-broken Mary?  And why should Lost Chief, so small that control was simple, permit such a thing to be?

CHAPTER V

THE HUNT ON LOST CHIEF

“A guy that don’t rustle cattle when the rustling is good, is a fool.”

—­Scott Parsons.

One hot afternoon in August Douglas had just unhitched the panting team from the plow in the new oat field when Charleton Falkner trotted up on Democrat.

“How’s the fall plowing, Doug?”

“Just out of the woods, Charleton.”

“Your father says he can spare you for a day or two.  I wish you’d come down to my place to-night.  I’m planning a trip.  I don’t suppose John would loan you Beauty for a couple of days?”

Douglas shook his head.

“Well,” Charleton went on, “I guess Buster can stand up under the work.”

“Buster belongs to Judith now.  I’ve been trying to get time to break that dapple gray Young Jeff gave me, after the trial.  He’s a good horse.  Darned if I don’t think I can ride him now!”

“I know that horse and he is a good one,” agreed Charleton.  “Ride the young moose if you can stick on him.  You’ll need all his wind and limb on this trip!” and Charleton trotted away.

It was full starlight that night when Douglas freed his feet from the stirrups before Charleton’s door and jumped like lightning from the saddle.  His horse jumped with him, landing in the kitchen as Douglas brought up against the door-jamb.  There was a roar of laughter from within, and as the horse lunged backward out of the door, Charleton appeared.

“So you and the moose are here!  Better hobble him, Doug!”

Douglas laughed and tied the rearing horse to a hayrack.  Then he followed Charleton into the kitchen.  Scott Parsons was sitting by the table, hat on the back of his head, spurred boots on the cold stove hearth.  Mrs. Falkner was just finishing the supper dishes.  She greeted Douglas with a tired smile.

Douglas, with a resentful glance at Scott, shifted his gun belt, shoved his own hat to the back of his head, and sat down.  Mrs. Falkner pitched the dish water out the back door and went into the next room.