of the Valley was decidedly likable; and behind the genial front were
the big hands that would crush; behind the plausible eyes, the craft
that would undermine what the hands could not crush. Anaemic teachers
and preachers might as well throw paper wads at a wall as attempt to
dislodge this man with argument. Right was an empty term to him.
Might he understood; not right.

He sat waiting for them to go on. She remembered afterwards how he
made them play down from the first; and how, all the time that he was
watching them, plans of his own were busy as shuttles in behind the
plausible eyes.

"The point," continued Wayland, "is to get fifteen-thousand sheep up
there."

"Fifteen-thousand." It was the number, not the getting there that
touched him.

"A deep stone gully runs between the Holy Cross and the bench of the
Rim Rocks," explained the Missionary. "Look--behind the cabin--you can
see where the cut runs through the timber, a notch right in the saddle
of the sky line."

"How many of those fifteen-thousand are yours, Mr. Missionary?"

The Senator was gazing down in the Valley. Just for a second, Eleanor
thought the genial look hardened and centred.

"About two-thousand, Senator! I've just brought a thousand angoras in
to see if we can't teach weaving to the Indians. It would mean a good