"You don't conject right about them things," cried Johnny. "You got to listen to things."
No one heeded the sad-faced little man. Peter stooped for another frozen clod. "I'd give my right hand for my mother's faith in a living God," he said.
"But if there isn't any God, what is there?" cried Douglas, with passionate protest in his voice.
"Don't you try to discuss matters you ain't old enough to understand, son," ordered John Spencer.
"Unbelief is the price we pay for scientific progress," said Charleton. "Me, I'm willing to pay."
"I'm not," growled Peter, "but I don't see any way round it. Come on, Johnny, do your share."
"I ain't going to dig any more," declared the little man. "You all say I ain't all here, and the part that ain't here is the part that works. Sabez?"
Everybody laughed.
"And," Johnny went on, seriously, "I ain't sure it's a good idea to plant 'em so deep. It takes a long time to grow up to heaven. It's a gregus far away place."
"Right you are, Johnny, old man," agreed Peter. "It sure is gregus far away."
Nobody urged Johnny to return to the job and the rest of the work was finished in silence.
That afternoon the funeral took place. There were services at the post-office, where any one who wished spoke in praise of the dead man. There were many speeches and it was late afternoon when the funeral cortège reached the cemetery. The Forest Reserve was mysterious with shadows and with the unending murmur of the pines. Snow gleamed blue over the valley. The saddle horses and teams were hitched to the stout fence that surrounded the cemetery, and Lost Chief Valley crowded about the open grave.
