outraged, y'r courts perverted, y'r justice bartered and hawked and
peddled from huckster to trickster, from heeler to headman, from
blackmailer to high judge--but A didna mean to break loose. Y'r fair
scene stirred m' blood; and A'm an old man; and A love the land. A was
born West. A'm none of y'r immigration boomsters who goes in a Pullman
car, then tells the world all about--Now, which way to y'r Missionary
Williams?"

Bat flushed; but he did not laugh. Oddly enough, he forgot the
feature-story. Wayland rose and came forward and involuntarily held
out his hand.

"I wish you'd stay for the night," he said. "A good many of us feel
the way you do; but like you, we're all up in air. Sawing the air
doesn't saw wood. A good many of us are in the fight right now; but,
unless we get somewhere, we're going to feel as if we were carving wind
mills. Suppose you put up here for the night? Besides, it's pretty
late to go down. Trail switches sharply--"

The old frontiersman heard absently.

"An old man's broodings," he ruminated.

"I'd call 'em D. T.'s," muttered Brydges.

"Don't fear for my bones on the trail." He came back from his reverie
as from a journey. "A'm the old breed that doesn't break. 'Tis you
young brittle fellows all bred to pace and speed and style needs look
to y'r goin's. Which way do A turn at the foot of the Ridge?
One--two--three--A see four lights. Which is the Mission?"