"I hate Dad! I hate him! Scott and I were jogging home by way of the west trail as peaceful as anything when Dad has to come along and start a row going!"
"Anybody hurt?" asked Douglas, watching Judith as she sat down on the edge of her bed, big tears on her cheeks.
"No, but no thanks to Dad! Scott turned round and left because I asked him to. There's Dad now!"
John clanked in, but before he could speak Judith rose and shook her forefinger in his face.
"Now, Dad," she said steadily, "there's going to be no rowing and no cursing. I'm sick of it! Right here and now I warn you to stop interfering with me or I'll leave!"
John raised his ready fist.
"None of that!" Doug's voice was quiet. "Finish what you have to say, Jude."
John scowled, breathing heavily, his eyes never leaving Judith.
"I'm sick of it," she repeated. "There must be places in the world where there's something beside family rows."
"Are you through?" demanded John.
"Yes, I am."
"Then I've got one thing to say. You let Scott Parsons alone." John flung himself on the bed, and before Mary had taken off his spurred riding boots he was asleep.
Douglas went out to the corral where, soon after, Judith appeared with her milking pail. The tender pink mists rolled slowly away from the yellow wall of Lost Chief range. Judith, with heavy eyes and burning cheeks, looked from the mists to Douglas, who leaned on the fence and watched her.
