ittle knots and groups, talking earnestly. There was but one
topic--only the one great subject--the impending meeting between the two
leading men of the camp, and the probable result.

The Parson was among the first present that day, pale and careworn. They
treated him with all the delicacy of women. Not a word was said in his
presence of his misfortune, or the occasion of their meeting. To the
further credit of the Forks I am bound to say that there had as yet been
no bets as to which one of the two men they should have to bury the next
day.

The day passed, and still Sandy did not appear. Had there been any other
way out of camp than through the Forks and up the rugged, winding,
corkscrew stairway of rocks opposite, and in the face of the town, it
might have been suspected that he had taken the Widow and fled to other
lands.

The Parson came down a little late next morning, pale and quiet, as
before. He did not swear. This time, in fact, he did not even drink. He
sat down on a bench behind the monte-table, with his back to the fire
and his face to the door. The men respectfully left a rather broad lane
between the Parson and the door, and the monte-table was not patronized.

The day passed;--dusk, and still Sandy did not appear. By this time he
had hardly three friends in the house.

"Hasn't got the soul of a chicken!" "Caved in at last!" "Gone down in
his boots!" "Busted in the snapper!" "Lost his grip!" "Don't dare show
his hand!" These and like expressions, thrown out now and then from the
little knots of men here and there, were the certain indications that
Sandy had lost his place in the hearts of the leading men of the Forks.

Toward midnight the bolt lifted!

Shoo!

The door opened, and Sandy entered, backed up against the wall by the
door, and stood there, tall and silent.

His great beard was trimmed a little, his bushy hair carefully combed
behind his ears, and the necktie was now subdued into a neat love-knot,
in spite of its old persistent habit of twisting around and fluttering
out over his left shoulder. His eye met the Parson's but did not quail.

The bar-keeper settled down gracefully behind the bags of sand, so that
his eyes only remained visible above the horizon.

The head of the "Gay Roosters" tilted a table up till it made a
respectable barricade for his breast, and the crowd silently settled
back in the corners, packed tighter than sardines in a tin box.

You might have heard a mous