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"Fit for anything, dad, thanks to you."
"Not to me, Barry. To yourself largely."
"No," said the boy, throwing his arm round his father's shoulder,
"thanks to you, dear old dad,--and to God."

CHAPTER II
ON THE RED PINE TRAIL

On the Red Pine trail two men were driving in a buckboard drawn by a
pair of half-broken pinto bronchos. The outfit was a rather ramshackle
affair, and the driver was like his outfit. Stewart Duff was a rancher,
once a "remittance man," but since his marriage three years ago he had
learned self-reliance and was disciplining himself in self-restraint.
A big, lean man he was, his thick shoulders and large, hairy muscular
hands suggesting great physical strength, his swarthy face, heavy
features, coarse black hair, keen dark eyes, deepset under shaggy
brows, suggesting force of character with a possibility of brutality in
passion. Yet when he smiled his heavy face was not unkindly, indeed the
smile gave it a kind of rugged attractiveness. He was past his first
youth, and on his face were the marks of the stormy way by which he had
come.


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