y. "He seen Bill
Winters through, when they tried to prove the murder of Jack Bronson
onto him, an' it cost him a thousan' dollars. The districk attorney
had it in fer Bill, count of him courtin' his gal."

"Yes, and I could tell of a dozen things the old man has done for
people that nobody but I ever knew about--in some instances even the
people themselves didn't know." He turned to Patty: "Good-by, Miss
Sinclair. I'm mighty glad to have met you. I knew your father very
well. If you see the Wattses, tell them I shall try and swing around
that way on my return." The parson mounted a raw-boned, Roman-nosed
pinto, whose vivid calico markings, together with the rider's
brilliant scarf gave a most unministerial, not to say bizarre effect
to the outfit. "So long, Tom," he called.

"So long, Len! If they's anything we can do, let us know. An' be sure
an' stop in comin' back." Thompson watched the man until he vanished
in a cloud of dust far out on the trail.

"Best doggone preacher ever was born," he vouchsafed. "He can ride,
an' shoot, an' rope, an' everything a man ort to. An' if anyone's
sick! Well, he's worth all the doctors an' nurses in the State of
Montany. He'll make you git well just 'cause he wants you to. An' they
ain't nothin' too much trouble--an' they ain't no work too hard for
him to tackle. There ain't no piousness stickin' out on him fer folks
to hang their hat on, neither. He'll mix with the boys, an' listen to
the natural cussin' an' swearin' that goes on wherever cattle's
handled, an' enjoy it--but just you let some shorthorn start what you
might call vicious or premeditated cussin'--somethin' special wicked
or vile, an' he'll find out there's a parson in the crowd right quick,
an' if he don't shut up, chances is, he'll be spittin' out a couple of
teeth. There's one parson can fight, an' the boys know it, an' what's
more they know he _will_ fight--an' they ain't one of 'em that
wouldn't back up his play, neither. An' preach! Why he can tear loose
an' make you feel sorry for every mean trick you ever done--not for
fear of any punishment after yer dead--but just because it wasn't
playin' the game. That's him, every time. An' he ain't always
hollerin' about hell--hearin' him preach you wouldn't hardly know they
was a hell. 'The Bishop of All Outdoors,' they call him--an' they say
he can go back East an' preach to city folks, an' make 'em set up an'
take notice, same as out here. He's be'n offered three tim