"Aw, if you folks are going to start fighting, as usual, I'm going home," growled Scott Parsons. "Every time the crowd gets together, Jude has to start a scrap. It's getting god-awful cold, anyhow, and I've got chores to do." He spurred Ginger and was off.
"Same here!" chimed half a dozen voices, and more horses were spurred away.
Douglas glared at Judith. "Always making trouble! I should think you'd get sick of it."
"Let 'em not knock my mother, or my horse, or my dog, then," replied Judith, tossing her head.
"Your dog! Prince is my dog, miss, and don't you forget it for a minute," cried Douglas.
He spurred Buster onto the main trail which lifted gradually toward Dead Line Peak. Judith, after a pouting moment, followed him.
Except for this steady lift from seven thousand feet at Black Gorge to eight thousand feet at the base of Dead Line and Falkner's Peaks, the valley was as level as a floor. The sun was setting as the two left the post-office. Lost Chief Range, on their right, was black against fire. The snow of the valley was as blue as indigo. A gentle but bitterly cold wind rose from the east. Prince, yelping, set off after a skulking coyote. When he had disappeared beyond a distant herd grazing through the snow, Judith pushed her horse up beside Buster.
"Doug, am I any scrappier than the rest of them?"
Douglas, his cigarette hanging negligently from a corner of his mouth, nodded.
"Well, I have to be, Doug," insisted Judith.
"No, you don't. You just look for trouble, all the time. Why do you have to be?"
"Who is there to look out for me?" demanded the girl, chin in the air.
