Bradley scowled but said nothing. "Bradley doesn't like that," murmured Belle to Kate, as soon as the creaking of the wheels gave her a chance to speak without his hearing. "He's a friend of Jim's." "Where did he come from?" continued Belle, raising her voice toward Bradley. Bradley took his time to answer: "Claimed he was goin' home," he said laconically. "How could he get across the creek with the bridges out?" persisted Belle. Bradley's eyes were on his horses. He was weary of question: "High water wouldn't bother him much." "Well, I want to know! I should think it would bother anybody the way it was sweeping down last night." "Hell!" ejaculated Bradley, parting with his manners and his patience together: "Jim could swim the Crazy Woman with his horse's feet tied." "Who _is_ 'Jim'?" Kate demanded of her companion in an undertone. "Jim Laramie? He lives in the Falling Wall." CHAPTER III DOUBLEDAY'S When they got back to the ford it was daylight and the Crazy Woman was hurrying on as peacefully as if a frown had never ruffled its repose. Gnarled trees springing out of gashes along its tortuous channel showed, in the debris lodged against their flood-bared roots and mud-swept branches, the fury of the night, and the creek banks, scoured by many floods, revealed new and savage gaps in the morning sun; but Bradley made his crossing with the stage almost as uneventfully as if a cloud-burst had never ruffled the mountains. Kate was eager to meet her father, eager to see what might be her new home. The moment the horses got up out of the bottom, Bradley pointed with his whip to the ranch-house. Kate saw ahead of her a long, one-story log house crowning, with its group of out-buildings, a level bench that stretched toward the foothills. The landscape was bare of trees and, to Kate, brown and barren-looking, save for a patch of green near the creek where an alfalfa field lay vividly pretty in the sun. The ranch-house, built of substantial logs, was ample in its proportions and not uninviting, even to her Eastern eyes. Bradley, with a flourish, swept past the stable, around the corral and drew up before the door with a clatter. In front of the bunk-house on the right, a cowboy rolling a cigarette, was watching the arrival, and just as Bradley plumped Kate, on his arms, to the ground, her father, Barb Doubleday himself, opened the ranch-house door. Kate had never seen her father. And until Bradley spoke, she had not the slightest idea that this could be he. She saw only a rough-looking man of great stature, slightly stooped, and with large features burnt to a deep brown. "Hello, Barb," said Bradley, without much enthusiasm. His salutation met with as little: "What's up?" demanded Doubleday. Kate noticed the huskiness in the strong, cold tone. "Brought y' a passenger."