," he said, after some considerable
silence. "Makes you feel good. Makes you feel life's worth a bigger
price than we mostly set it at."

His quiet eyes took the other in in a quick, sidelong glance. He saw
that Buck was steadily, but unseeingly, contemplating the black slopes
of Devil's Hill, which now lay directly ahead.

"Guess you aren't feeling so good, boy?" he went on after a moment's
thoughtful pause.

The direct challenge brought a slow smile to Buck's face, and he
answered with surprising energy--

"Good? Why, I'm feelin' that good I don't guess even--even Beasley
could rile me this mornin'."

The Padre nodded with a responsive smile.

"And Beasley can generally manage to rile you."

"Yes, he's got that way, surely," laughed Buck frankly. "Y' see
he's--he's pretty mean."

"I s'pose he is," admitted the other. Then he turned his snow-white
head and glanced down at the lean flanks of Caesar as the horse walked
easily beside his mare.

"And that boy, Kid, was out in all that storm on your Caesar," he went
on, changing the subject quickly from the man whom he knew bore him an
absurd animosity. "A pretty great horse, Caesar. He's looking none the
worse for fetching that whisky either. Guess the boys'll be getting
over their drunk by now. And it's probably done 'em a heap of good.
You did right to encourage 'em. Maybe there's folks would think
differently. But then they don't just understand, eh?"

"No."

Buck had once more returned to his reverie, and the Padre smiled. He
thought he understood. He had listened overnight to a full account of
the arrival of the new owner of their farm, and had gleaned some
details of her attractiveness and youth. He knew well enough how
surely the isolated mountain life Buck lived must have left him open
to strong impressions.

They set their horses at a canter down the long declining trail which
ran straight into the valley above which Devil's Hill reared its ugly
head. And as they went the signs of the storm lay everywhere about
them. Their path was strewn with debris. The havoc was stupendous.
Tree trunks were lying about like scattered nine-pins. Riven trunks,
split like match-wood by the lightning, stood beside the trail, gaunt
and hopeless. Partially-severed limbs hung drooping, their weeping
foliage appealing to the stricken world about them for a sympathy
which none could give. Even the hard, sun-baked trail, hammered and
beaten to an iron consistency under a