"Ungrateful is the word," agreed Peter grimly. "But I'd like to know just what Marion was under obligation to you for?"
Charleton did not reply.
"When are they going to be married?" asked Peter, after a moment.
"First of the month. We'll give 'em a party up here in the hall that Lost
Chief will never forget. John, do you ride to-morrow?"
"Yes, Charleton. Everybody's reported but you."
"I'll be there. Start from your place, as usual?"
John nodded, and the rest of the evening was given over to a discussion of details of the round-up.
The fall round-up was always a long and arduous affair. The cattle were scattered all through the ranges covered by the Forest Reserve. Slowly and with infinite labor and skill, they were sought out and herded down into Hidden Gorge Canyon, below Fire Mesa. Thence, they were driven to the plains east of the post-office, where the riders cut out their own cattle.
The weather held for two weeks, star-brilliant at night, with the low of mother-cows separated from their calves from mountain to mountain, with the crisp wind bringing down the frosted leaves of the aspens, and at noon the hot dust swirling up from the horses' hoofs into the sweating faces of the riders.
Perhaps thirty men rode in the Lost Chief crowd. The work was more or less solitary by day, but at night over the camp-fires, there was society enough. Douglas enjoyed it all to the very tips of his being. He was coming now into the great strength that belonged to his height and could do his full share of the heavy work. He had thought that, rolled in his blankets, under the stars, he would find inspiration that would help him solve the problem of life. But long before the camp-fire was low, he would drop into slumber that ended only when his father shook him at dawn.