Douglas strode out of the shed and up to the fence, followed by Peter on Yankee.
"I don't want to quarrel with you, Dad—" he began, furiously.
"Then don't start something you can't see the finish of," interrupted Judith. "Let me run my own affairs, Doug."
"That's sound advice." John's voice was cool. "I don't want to quarrel with you either. But I'm still master of my own ranch and, by God, I'll knock you down if you interfere in this."
Peter leaned over and put his hand on Douglas' shoulder.
"Don't be a fool, Doug! Go off and think before you talk."
For a moment there was silence. Douglas stood tense under Peter's kindly hand, his face turned toward the beautiful shadow of Falkner's Peak. The heavens, deep purple and glorious with stars, were very near. Suddenly Douglas turned on his heel and clanked into the house, where he threw himself down on his bed.
The old, futile bitterness was on him again, and he was quite as bitter at Judith as at his father. Of what could the girl be thinking? What did girls think about men like John, or any other men for that matter? If only there were some woman to whom he might go for advice. Grandma Brown? No; he had talked to her once and she had failed him. Charleton's wife had failed with her own daughter. There remained Inez Rodman, who knew Judith better than any one else knew her. Inez! Doug's mind dwelt long on this name. But he felt sure that the woman of the Yellow Canyon had forgotten what she had thought and felt at sixteen. And, after all, he did not want again to see life through
