"Here in Lost Chief," agreed Grandma promptly, "they are the most rough-and-tumble, catch-as-catch-can batch of young coyotes that ever lived. They don't respect God, man, nor the devil. And why should they? That's educated into children, not born into them." "How do you feel about my coming back, Mrs. Brown?" asked Fowler. Grandma hesitated; then she said, "I'm too old to be polite, James Fowler. I'm a religious woman, myself, and I've often said we'd ought to have a church in Lost Chief. But it isn't men like you can start a church here. You are too religious and too goody-goody." The preacher winced. Douglas came to his rescue. "We're going to show Lost Chief that he's not goody-goody." Grandma shook her head. "I wish you luck, but, with all the nerve in the world, you can't preach to them that won't hear." "Do you know what deviltry they've planned for to-morrow?" asked Douglas. Grandma shook her head. "All I know is, Scott Parsons is the leader. He sees a chance to get back at you." Douglas finished his bacon thoughtfully. "All right," he said finally; "let 'em come. I'm waiting." "Well," said Grandma briskly, "I didn't come up here to give advice. I wanted a gossip with an old-timer. Mr. Fowler, you was up in Mountain City when that Black Sioux outbreak took place. Did you know Emmy Blake, she that was stolen by old Red Feather?" "Yes," replied Fowler, with a sudden clearing of his somber face. "I saw her when--" and he plunged into a tale that, matched by one from Grandma, consumed the evening. At nine o'clock the old lady rose. "I'll ride down the trail with you," said Douglas. "You fool!" sniffed the old lady. "Since when have folks begun nursing me over these trails?" "That's not the point," returned Doug. "I want to see Peter." "Well, come along, then," conceded Grandma. She pulled on her mackinaw and buttoned it. The nights were very cold. The next morning, a placard on the post-office door announced to Lost Chief that a meeting would be held in the log chapel on Sunday at two o'clock; and by that hour every soul in Lost Chief capable of moving was packed into the little cabin. After his talk with Peter, Douglas had changed his program. The postmaster, not the preacher, sat at the table. He wore a black coat over a blue flannel shirt, a coat that Lost Chief never saw except at funerals or weddings. His denim pants were turned up with a deep cuff over his riding-boots. The preacher sat on a chair, just below the platform. Douglas occupied a rear pew where he could keep an eye on Scott Parsons. There was very little talking among the members of the congregation, but much spitting of tobacco juice into the red-hot stove. Promptly at two o'clock, Peter rose and cleared his throat. "Well, folks, Douglas says he's trying to put into practice some of the stuff I've been preaching to him. So I suppose I'm to blame for this meeting. Now, there isn't anybody can accuse me of being religious."