of the community. The truth came out in an entirely unexpected manner.
About a week before he expected the preacher, Douglas rode down in the evening for his mail. Peter had gone to Mountain City on a rare visit and Young Jeff was acting as postmaster again. Scott Parsons was helping him sort the mail and it was Scott who fell upon a battered suitcase, tied with frayed rope.
"What's this mess?" he exclaimed. "Let's see this tag." He shoved the suitcase close to the lamp. "'The Rev. Mr. James Fowler. Care of Douglas Spencer.'" Scott looked up with an oath. "What do you know about this!" he gasped.
Douglas, standing with his back to the cold stove, said nothing.
Young Jeff dropped the handful of letters he was distributing, and examined the tag for himself. "Old Fowler, eh? Thought he was dead long ago. What's he coming to see you for, Doug? Going to preach—" He paused and his eyes grew round. "Doug's motion-picture theater! The sky pilot! That cabin is a church!"
Scott gave a gasp, followed by a shout of laughter. "How about it, Doug?"
Douglas grinned.
"What are you doing, Douglas? Starting a ranch for broken-down sky pilots?" asked Young Jeff.
Still Douglas made no reply. He strode over to the table and put his hand on the suitcase.
"Hold on!" protested Scott. "Answer a few questions. What are you trying to put over on us, Douglas?"
"You'll know, pretty soon," answered Doug.
"Well, you always were loco but I never thought you'd
