ed, and his thoughts concentrated
upon the one person he blamed for all the mischief. Beasley was the
man--and he felt that wherever Beasley might be, trouble would never
be far----What was that?

An unusual sound had caught and held his attention. He rose quickly
from his seat and stood peering out into the darkness which he had
failed to notice creeping on him. There was no mistaking it. The sound
of running feet was quite plain. Why running?

He turned about and moved over to the arm rack. The next moment he was
in the doorway again with his Winchester at his side.

A few moments later a short, stocky man leapt out of the darkness and
halted before him. As the Padre recognized him his finger left the
trigger of his gun.

"For Gawd's sake don't shoot, Padre!"

It was Curly Saunders' voice, and the other laid his gun aside.

"What's amiss?" demanded the Padre, noting the man's painful gasping
for breath.

For a moment Curly hesitated. Then, finally, between heavy breaths he
answered the challenge.

"I got mad with the Kid--Soapy," he said. "Guess I shot him up. He
ain't dead an' ain't goin' to die, but Beasley, curse him, set 'em on
to lynch me. They're all mad drunk--guess I was, too, 'fore I started
to run--an' they come hot foot after me. I jest got legs of 'em an'
come along here. It's--it's a mighty long ways."

The Padre listened without moving a muscle--the story so perfectly
fitted in with his thoughts.

"The Kid isn't dead? He isn't going to die?" His voice had neither
condemnation nor sympathy in it.

"No. It's jest a flesh wound on the outside of his thigh."

"What was the trouble?"

"Why, the durned young skunk wus jest tryin' to set them--them women
payin' a 'party' call on the gal at the farm, an' they wus drunk
enough to do it. It made me mad--an'--an', wal, we got busy with our
tongues, an' I shot him up fair an' squar'."

"And how about Beasley?"

"Why, it was him set the Kid to git the women on the racket. When he
see how I'd stopped it he got madder than hell, an' went right out fer
lynchin' me. The boys wus drunk enough to listen to his lousy talk."

"Was he drunk?"

"Not on your life. Beasley's too sweet on the dollars. But I guess
he's got his knife into that Golden Woman of ours."

The Padre had no more questions to ask. He dropped back into the room
and lit the oil lamp.

"Come right in, Curly," he said kindly. Then he laid his rifle on the
table and pointed at it. "The