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Updated: May 21, 2025
Peter Knight, watching the boy more closely than Doug at all realized, was deeply troubled by what he felt might permanently distort Doug's ideas of life. "How are you and Judith making it, Doug?" Peter asked him one Sunday afternoon early in April, when he and the young rider were sunning themselves in the post-office door.
He had gone almost beyond hailing distance before Charleton called, "Come down and see me soon, old cattle rustler!" Instantly Doug's spirits soared. He waved his hand with a grin and put the Moose to a trot. It was supper time when he clanked into the kitchen. His father and mother were at the table. "You're early, Doug!" exclaimed John. Doug nodded. "Where's Judith?"
Get down and fight with your fists, you thief and murderer!" Doug's voice was low with passion. There was a quick movement of Scott's right hand to his hip and Douglas felt a stinging pain in his left shoulder. Simultaneously with the shot, Scott put the spurs to Ginger, and Doug reeled as the mare's shoulder thrust against him. Judith jumped from Buster. "Doug, did he get you?"
So was Scott Parsons, who followed him, as well as Sheriff Frank Day and Jimmy Day, who brought up the procession. Judith, who had been washing dishes, hastily dumped the dish-water out of the window. Charleton, with his familiar, sardonic grin, propped Douglas up on a pillow. "What're you bringing him in here for, John?" demanded Peter harshly. "Doug's in no state for a row."
"Nothing doing, Scott!" grunted Charleton. "You've fallen down on the job, Charleton," Scott laughed, "so you've lost your right to boss." "No, he hasn't," said Douglas. "You come along!" But this time Doug's six-shooter flashed no more quickly than Scott's. Charleton, his face twisted with pain, waited for a thoughtful minute before he said: "Put up your guns, boys.
In spite of his cold ride, Doug's face was deadly white, his lips worked, and his eyes were dark with feeling. He took off his spurs slowly, and hung them carefully on their nail. Then he sat down on his bunk and stared at the preacher. "What happened, Douglas?" asked Fowler.
You're at the bottom of this whole trouble and I want you to see and hear it." "Draw it mild, Douglas!" protested the postmaster. "Don't bother about me," said Jude. "I sure-gawd can take care of myself." "What happens next?" inquired Jimmy Day. Nobody spoke for a moment; then very deliberately, Peter turned to the sheriff. "You remember Doug's mother, don't you, Frank?
Peter in the meantime had thrust his late supper back from the front of the stove and had put a couple of disreputable looking towels to boil in the dishpan. When Judith had finished and Doug's beautiful thin torso lay white against the dingy Indian blanket, Peter scoured his hands and examined the hole in the shoulder from which the blood pulsed slowly.
You can't force love to stay, once it has begun to fade." "Try me, Judith! Try me, dear!" Judith looked at him, lips parted, eyes sad. "Douglas, I'm afraid!" she whispered. And again the sense of loneliness flooded Doug's heart. There was a look of remoteness in Judith's expression, a look of honest fear that had no response for the fine assured emotion that had held him captive for so many years.
About mid-afternoon Doug heard the tinkle of a sheep-bell. He was not surprised, for he knew that he was well within sheep country. He followed the tinkle and came shortly to a wide draw where moved a mighty gray mass of sheep. The herder, on a bay horse, responded to Doug's halloo with a wave of his hand.
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