The river rushed like black oil, silver cakes of ice grinding above the roar of the current. The Moose was munching on a wisp of alfalfa. Douglas saddled him and led him softly out of hearing of the wagon, then sprang upon his back and put him to the canter.
Two hours later, Douglas was banging on the door frame of Fowler's sheep wagon.
"It's just me, Douglas Spencer," he replied to the preacher's startled query. "I had to come over to ask you something."
A light flashed through the canvas. Then the door opened. "Come in! Come in! Light the fire while I pull my boots on. This is like the days when I was saving souls and marrying couples."
Douglas quickly had a fire blazing and pulled the coffee-pot forward. He pushed his hat back on his head and the candle-light threw into sharp relief the firm set of his lips. His six-shooter banged on the bench as he sat down and put one spurred boot on the hearth. The preacher perched blinking on the edge of the bunk. Through the canvas came the endless restless movement of myriad sheep.
"Mr. Fowler," said Douglas, "I own some land that came to me from, my mother when I was twenty-one. If I build you a little church on it, will you come to Lost Chief and live there and preach? I'll be responsible for your wages."
Fowler's face was inscrutable. "Why do you want me to come, Douglas?"
For the first time, Doug's voice thickened. "I want you to help Lost Chief and to save Judith."
"Tell me about Judith."
Douglas hesitated, then he asked, "Catholics have a thing they call the confessional, haven't they? Well,
