at
the blacksmith-shop of Webber, had been more than merely spread; it had
almost been flooded over town. Long before the hour of ten, scheduled
by common consent for church to commence, Webber was sweeping sundry
parings of horse-hoof and scraps of iron to either side of his hard
earth floor, and sprinkling the dust with water that he flirted from
his barrel. He likewise wiped off the anvil with his leathern apron,
and making a fire in the forge to take off the chill, thrust in a huge
hunk of iron to irradiate the heat.

Many of the denizens of Borealis came and laid siege to the barber-shop
as early as six in the morning. Hardly a man in the place, except
Parky, the gambler, had been dressed in extravagance so imposing since
the 4th of July as was early apparent in the street. Bright new
shirts, red, blue, and even white, came proudly to the front. Trousers
were dropped outside of boots, and the boots themselves were polished.
A run on bear's-grease and hair-oil lent a shining halo to nearly every
head the camp could boast. Then the groups began to gather near the
open shop of the smith.

"We'd ought to have a bell," suggested Lufkins, the teamster.
"Churches always ring the bell to let the parson know it's time he was
showin' up to start the ball."

"Well, I'll string up a bar of steel," said Webber. "You can get a
crackin' fine lot of noise out of that."

He strung it up in a framework just outside the door, ordinarily
employed for hoisting heavy wagons from the earth. Then with a hammer
he struck it sharply.

The clear, ringing tone that vibrated all through the hills was a
stirring note indeed. So the bell-ringer struck his steel again.

"That ain't the way to do the job," objected Field. "That sounds like
scarin' up voters at a measly political rally."

"Can you do it any better?" said the smith, and he offered his hammer.

"Here comes Doc Dennihan," interrupted the barkeep. "Ask Doc how it's
done. If he don't know, we'll have to wait for old If-only Jim
hisself."

The brother of the tall Miss Doc was a small man with outstanding ears,
the palest gray eyes, and the quietest of manners. He was not a doctor
of anything, hence his title. Perhaps the fact that the year before he
had quietly shot all six of the bullets of his Colt revolver into the
body of a murderous assailant before that distinguished person could
fall to the earth had invested his townsmen and admirers with a modest
desir