ster" company knocked off from their work, with many others,
and came to town in force to see the fight. The Howling Wilderness was
crowded and doing a rushing business.

The two bar-keepers shifted and carefully arranged the sand-bags under
the counter, which in that day and country were placed there in every
well-regulated drinking saloon, so as to intercept whatever stray bits
of lead might be thrown in the direction of their bodies, in the coming
battle, and calmly awaited results.

About dark, a thin blue smoke, as from burning paper, curled up from the
chimney of the Parsonage, and the Parson came slowly forth.

"Blamed if he hasn't been a makin' of his will and a burnin of his
letters. Looks grummer than a deacon, too," added the man, as the Parson
neared the saloon.

He spoke quietly to the boys, as he entered, but did not swear. That was
thought again remarkable indeed.

He went up to the bar, tapped on the counter with his knuckles, threw
his head back over his shoulder toward the crowd, and yet apparently
without seeing any one, and said:

"Boys, fall in line, fall in line. Rally around me once again."

They fell in line, or at least the majority did. Some, however, stood
off in little knots and groups on the other side, and pretended not to
have heard or noticed what was going on. These it was at once understood
were fast friends of Sandy's, and unbelievers in the Parson.

The glasses were filled quietly, slowly, and respectfully, almost like
filling a grave, and then emptied in silence.

Again it was observed that the Parson did not swear. That was
considered as remarkable as the omission of prayer from the service in a
well-regulated church, and, I am sure, contributed to throw a spirit of
restraint over the whole party friendly to the Parson. Besides, it was
noticed that he was pale, haggard, had hardly a word to say, and most of
all, had barely touched the glass to his lips.

No one, however, ventured to advise, question, or in any way disturb
him. All were quiet and respectful. It was very evident that the feeling
in the Forks, at first, was largely with Sandy.

But Sandy did not appear that evening. This, of course, was greatly
against him. The Forks began to suspect that he feared to take the
responsibility of his act, and meet the man he had so strangely defamed,
and, to all appearances, so deeply injured.

The next day the saloon was crowded more densely than before. Men stood
off in l