He wondered if her temper would grow worse as she grew older, as his
father's had. Funny things, tempers! People in a temper always looked and
acted fools. The guy that could keep hold was the guy that won out. Like
being able to control a horse with a good curb-bit. Funny why he felt
lonely. It was only lately that he had noticed it. Here was Buster and
here was Prince, and here was the approaching joke of the preacher. Why
then this sense of loneliness? Maybe loneliness wasn't the right word.
Maybe it was longing. And for what? Not for Jude! Lord, no! Not for that
young wildcat. But the feeling of emptiness was there, as real as hunger,
and at this moment as persistent. Funny thing, longing. What in the world
had a guy like him to long for?

A long coo-ee below the ledge interrupted his meditation. A young rider
leaped from the trail to the level before the schoolhouse, broke into a
gallop and slid, with sparks flying, to the door.

"Hello, Scott!" said Douglas, without enthusiasm.

"I thought Jude was here!" returned Scott. He was older and heavier than
Douglas, freckled of face and sandy of hair, with something hard in his
hazel eyes.

"He'd better leave Jude alone," thought Douglas, "the mangy pinto!"

There was a shriek and a gray horse, carrying a youth with the schoolmarm
clinging behind him, flew across the yard and reared to avoid breaking
his knees on the steps. The schoolmarm scrambled down, still screaming
protests at the grinning rider. One after another now arrived, perhaps a
dozen youngsters, varying in age from five to eighteen, each on his or
her own lean, half-broken horse, each appearing with the same flying leap