“All right!  I don’t promise unless you do.”

“I can’t promise, Jude.  Honest, I can’t.”

Jude laughed and jumped to her feet.  “You are a goose, Doug, but I sure am fond of you.”  Then she left him.

Douglas sat still, his head pressed against the indescribable sweetness of the alfalfa hay, eyes on the wonder of the stars.  Finally he said aloud, “I wish there was somebody a fellow could talk to that knows things.  I wish my grandfather Douglas was alive.  Peter jaws too much.  What I want is to know facts, then judge for myself.”

His father passed by the haystack, pitchfork on shoulder.  “Who are you talking to, Doug?” he asked.

“The biggest fool in Lost Chief,” replied Douglas, rising and following his father to the house.

CHAPTER VI

LITTLE SWIFT CROSSES THE DIVIDE

“Ride ’em till they drop, then break another.  That’s what Nature does and that’s what I do.”

—­John Spencer

The following afternoon when Douglas rode after the mail he went round by the west trail to call on Charleton.  He found the crippled philosopher propped up in bed, reading the Atlantic Monthly and smoking a pipe.  Mrs. Falkner and Little Marion were in the corral doing the chores.

“Well, how’s the Moose after his disappointment?” asked Charleton.

“Going strong!  Any news of Scott?”

“No; I don’t expect any news for a week till I get on my feet.”

“I guess we might as well let him go and try again without him,” said Doug, looking out the door at Little Marion, who was astride a saddleless mule which was doing its best to climb the corral fence.

Charleton grinned.  “No one can double-cross me without my taking the trouble to show him he can’t do it twice, can they, Marion?” as his wife came in with an armload of wood she had just split.

“You are as revengeful as a wolf, if that’s what you mean,” replied Mrs. Falkner.  “Not that you’ve tried it on me.”

Charleton gave her an amused glance not unmixed with admiration.

“I don’t know that even a wolf would tackle a lynx cat,” he chuckled.

Douglas looked from the beautiful woman around the homelike room.  “You’re a lucky chap, Charleton,” he said suddenly.

Mrs. Falkner had picked up her sewing-basket.  “Nobody with a mind like Charleton’s is so awful lucky,” she said.

“Ouch!” grinned Charleton, and lighted his pipe afresh.

Douglas pondered on Mrs. Falkner’s remark on his way back to the post-office.  Peter was sitting on the doorstep with Sister.  The mail had been distributed and most of Lost Chief had come and gone.

“That horse is tired, Doug,” said Peter.  “What have you been doing?  Running him to break him?”

“Aw, he’s all right,” protested Douglas.  “Don’t climb a tree about him, Peter.  I want to talk to you.  Make Sister move over.”