ucted of lateral, raw pine logs, carefully
dovetailed, with the ends protruding at the angles. There was no great
originality of design, merely the delightful picturesqueness which
unstripped logs never fail to yield. She knew that every detail of the
building was to be carried out in the same way. The roof, the spire,
the porches, even the fence which was ultimately to enclose the
churchyard.

Then the inside was to be lined throughout with polished red pine.
There was not a brick or stone to be used in the whole construction,
except in the granite foundations, which did not appear above ground.
The lumber was hewn in the valley and milled in John Day's yard. The
entire labor of hauling and building was to be done by the citizens of
Rocky Springs. The draperies, necessary for the interior, would be
made by the busy needles of the women of the village, and the
materials would be supplied by Billy Unguin, the dry goods
storekeeper. As for the stipend of the officiating parson, that would
be scrambled together in cash and kind from similar sources.

The church was to be a monument, a tribute to a holy zeal, which the
methods of life in Rocky Springs denied. Its erection was an attempt
to steal absolution for the sins of its citizens. It was the pouring
of a flood of oil upon the turbulent waters of an after life which
Rocky Springs knew was waiting to engulf its little craft laden with
tattered souls. It was a practical bribe to the Deity its people had
so long outraged, were still outraging, and had every intention of
continuing to outrage.

Helen's merry eyes glanced from group to group of the men, until they
finally came to rest upon an individual standing apart from the rest.

She walked on toward him.

He was a forbidding-looking creature, with a hard face, divided in its
expression between evil thoughts and a malicious humor. His general
appearance was much that of the rest of the men, with the exception
that he made no display of offensive weapons. It was not this,
however, that drew Helen in his direction, for she well enough knew
that, in fact, he was a perfect gunpark of concealed firearms. She
liked him because he never failed to amuse her.

"Good morning, Dirty," she greeted him cheerfully, as she came up,
smiling into his bearded face.

Dirty O'Brien turned. In a moment his wicked eyes were smiling. With
an adept twist of the tongue his chew of tobacco ceased to bulge one
cheek, and promptly distende