Lost Chief Creek bordered one edge of Douglas' acres. Dead Line Peak pushed an abrupt shoulder into the stream at the northwest corner. Below this shoulder lay a grove of silvery aspens and of blue spruce, dripping with great bronze cones. Just above the flood line of the creek, Douglas trimmed out enough trees from the grove to give elbow-room for the cabins and corrals. By the end of Peter's two weeks, the heaviest part of the building had been done. On the last day of the fortnight--it had been a very pleasant fortnight for Peter--he and Douglas dawdled long over their noon meal while old Johnny began the work he loved, the chinking of the log walls. Leaning against a log at the edge of the clearing, Lost Chief Valley sloped below them. A blue line of smoke rose from the Spencer chimney. "Dad is sure sore at me this time," said Douglas. "He's hardly spoken to me for a week." "About Fowler, I suppose." "Yes. He feels that I am disgracing him. He's sure I'm going to turn religious. I can't make him believe that that is not why I'm bringing Fowler in." "What is your real reason, Doug?" asked Peter, taking a huge bite of cold fried beef. "I don't want to turn religious. I don't want to be anything that's queer or unreasonable. What I want is to get to believe--in a future life." Peter laughed. "Isn't that religion?" "I don't think so! You can believe in immortality without believing in miracles and that Eve was made out of a man's rib, and without being goody-goody." Peter made no comment for a moment. He finished his beef and lighted his pipe before he said, "I have an idea that the kind of a mind that can believe in the soul's floating around in space can swallow the rib story without much choking. What I want to see in Lost Chief is the kind of ethics that Christ taught." "Ethics! Ethics!" scoffed the younger man. "Who gives a hang about ethics if they aren't going to help us live again? You can bet I don't! Ethics may do for a cold-blooded guy like you, Peter. But me! I want something as big and as real and as warm-looking as Fire Mesa." "Poor old Fowler!" groaned Peter. Douglas glanced at the postmaster questioningly; then his eyes wandered back toward the ranch house. A tiny figure in blue leaped on a horse and was off at a gallop. "Judith's going to Inez' place," said Douglas. "She sees too much of Inez!" Peter scowled. "Her mind is getting exactly Inez' twist to it." "There was a time when you told me Inez could give Judith good advice." Doug's voice was bitter. "So she could. But I never said Inez and Jude should be buddies, did I?" Douglas threw his cigarette into the creek and rolled over on his face with a groan. "I'm sick of worrying about it!" he said. "Does she still talk about going the round of the rodeos with a string of buckers?"