Without a word, they put their horses to a gallop that did not ease until they pulled in at the little log corral of the half-way house. There were two horses, John's and old Johnny's, in the shed.
Crumpled on the doorstep was old Johnny, Doug's shotgun across his knees, at first glance, sound asleep. It was bitter cold. Douglas and Peter pounded their numbed fingers, then examined the little old cowman. He was, indeed, asleep, but is was the sleep that knows no waking.
"I thought he knew better than this," said Douglas, pitifully.
"He hadn't any outside clothes on." Peter fingered the cotton jumper. "Had a sudden thought and went off as crazy as Jude. Let's lift him into the house."
They opened the door. On the floor beside the stove lay John, his right leg bloody. They laid old Johnny carefully against the wall. Douglas stood rigidly staring at his father. Peter hurriedly lifted the wounded man's hands, then forced some whiskey down his throat.
"Start a fire, Doug!" he ordered.
Douglas did not stir. He stood, blue eyes haggard, cheeks frost-burned, staring at his father. John opened his eyes.
"Get my right boot off, for God's sake!" he said faintly.
"Wait!" said Douglas peremptorily, when Peter would have obeyed. "Give him some more whiskey so I can hear the story and be off. Those were Judith's tracks back there."
"The pain is killing me!" protested John.
"Where is Judith? Have you hurt her?" demanded Doug.
Peter applied his flask again to John's mouth. John drank, then groaned. "I was drunk. Awful drunk. If
