When Douglas rode up to the outer corral in the dusk of the June evening, he was struck anew by the disorder of the place. Cattle tramped freely about the house. An old steer was poking his head in at the kitchen window. Chickens roosted on a saddle, which was flung in the stable muck. Tin cans, old wagon wheels, the ruin of a sheep wagon, were heaped in confusion at one end of the cabin. Three or four dogs barked as Doug rode up on old Mike. He called Prince in and looked inquiringly at two other horses tied to the dilapidated corral fence. They were Beauty, his father's horse, and Yankee, Peter's roan. As Doug sat hesitating, John and Peter came out of the kitchen laughing. They swung, spurs clanking, up to the fence. "What the devil are you doing here, Doug?" asked Peter Knight. "Hasn't he got a right to call on the Harlot of the Canyon?" demanded John, with a chuckle. "Hustle up, Peter! The crowd'll be there for the game before you are." "They can't get in till I unlock," replied Peter. "Here, John, take the key and ride on. I want to talk to Doug." John caught the key and trotted off. Sister snarled at Prince, who wagged his tail apologetically. "Sister's a shrew, all right," grinned Douglas. "She sure can run coyotes, though," said Peter. "She and Grandma Brown run this valley," added Douglas. Peter laughed. "I'm strong for the ladies! Did you ever watch the moon rise, Doug, from the top of the bench back of the cabin there?" "No," answered Douglas. "Come on up! It's not a long ride. I've been wanting to make you a proposition for some time." Douglas followed the postmaster silently. The horses were panting and sweating by the time they reached the top, and the rim of the moon was just peering over the edge of the Indian Range. All the valley lay in darkness. The two dismounted and threw themselves down on the ledge. Douglas lighted a cigarette while Peter filled his pipe. "What are you planning to do with yourself now you're through school, Douglas?" "Ride for Dad." "How'd you like to go East to school?" "Nothing doing! I've got more education now than I'll need as a rancher." "Well, I guess that's not particularly so," said Peter. "I was thinking--you know I'm alone in the world--that I might help you out if you had any leaning toward college or a profession." "Ranching is good enough for me, thank you all the same, Peter." For some moments Peter did not speak again. Coyotes wailed in the peaks above them. The moon showed more of its golden face. "Does your father ever talk to you about your own mother, Doug?" "No; I quit asking him questions years ago. Peter, all I know about my mother is that her name was Esther, that the smallpox wiped her folks out, and that they owned the north half of our ranch. There's an old photograph of her in Dad's bureau drawer. She was awful pretty."