"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!
