e decided that
here was a glorious opportunity to save bodies and souls at once.
Without consulting any one he mounted Blazing Star, and in half an hour
was at the Corner. Tying his horse to a tree, he went to the house that
was the known meeting place. There were lights in the window and
boisterous noises issuing forth. At the door he stopped and listened;
rough voices were grumbling; there was an occasional curse, a laugh,
then a woman speaking shrilly; a minute's silence, during which the
sweet song of a night bird was heard in the dark bushes by the stream,
whereupon a hoarse, brutalized voice shouted:

"Oh, hurry up and start that bung, you act like a schoolgirl."

The Preacher knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again and much
louder. There was a moment's silence. Then a heavy voice:

"Who's there?"

"It's me," was the unhelpful reply.

A man moved to the door again demanding:

"Who's there?"

"It's a friend who wants to join you."

There was some discussion, then the door was cautiously opened. The man
inside got a glimpse of the tall form of the Preacher, let off a savage
snarl and oath, and attempted to slam the door. But he was not quick
enough; the Preacher got his foot in and pushed irresistibly. There were
curses from within and others came to help. But the Preacher was too
much for them; the door went back with a clatter and he stood in the
middle of the room. The rude log cabin held five men, three women, and a
table on which was a small keg of whiskey and some glasses. The keg had
not yet been opened, and the glasses were empty.

"What do you want here?" growled the biggest of the men, advancing
threateningly.

"Sure, I am here to spill that accursed stuff on the ground and hold a
prayer meeting in the hopes of saving your souls," was the answer.

"Get to h--l out of this and mind your own business," he said, fingering
an ugly knife he had snatched from the table.

Hartigan did not move. As the big brute edged in, not at all quickly,
for the fight was scarcely yet on, Hartigan landed a swift football drop
kick under the hand that held the knife. The weapon was dashed up to the
ceiling and stuck shivering in the logs, while its owner stumbled and
fell with a growl of pain, one hand hanging helpless. Two other men
rushed to the attack. They had no weapons, and the Preacher man[oe]uvred
to take them singly. With two chops and an undercut he laid them on
their backs, and the remaining men