The next day the puzzled cowman rode the trail to Yavapai to find that Ann was out. He was told that Nora had taken her riding, so he waited for their return, restless, finding no solace in the companionship that the saloon, the town's one gathering place for men, afforded.

He stood leaning against the front of the general store, deep in thought, when a distant rattle attracted his attention. He glanced down the street to his right and beyond the limits of the town saw a rapidly moving dust cloud approach. As it drew near, the rattling increased, became more distinct, gave evidence that it was a combination of many sounds, and Bayard smiled broadly, stirring himself in anticipation.

A moment more and the dust cloud dissolved itself into a speeding mantle for a team of ponies and a buckboard, on the seat of which sat the Rev. Judson A. Weyl. The horses came down the hard street, ears back, straining away from one another until they ran far outside the wheel tracks. The harnesses, too large for the beasts, dangled and flopped and jingled, the clatter and clank of the vehicle's progress became manifold as every bolt, every brace, every bar and slat and spoke vibrated, seeming to shake in protest at that which held it to the rest, and, above it all, came the regular grating slap of the tire of a dished hindwheel, as in the course of its revolutions it met the metal brake shoe, as if to beat time for the ensemble.

The man on the seat sat very still, the reins lax in his hands. The spring under him sagged with his weight and his long legs were doubled oddly between the seat and broken dash. He appeared to give no heed to his team's progress; just sat and thought while they raced along, the off horse breaking into a gallop at intervals to keep pace with its long stepping mate.

Across from where Bayard stood, the team swung sharply to the right, shot under a pinyon tree, just grazing the trunk with both hubs of the wheels, and rounded the corner of a low little house, stopping abruptly when out of sight; and the rancher laughed aloud in the sudden silence that followed.

He went across the thoroughfare, followed the tracks of the buckboard and came upon the tall, thin, dust covered driver, who had descended, unfastened the tugs and was turning his wild-eyed, malevolent-nosed team of half broken horses into a corral which was shaded by a tall pine tree. He looked up as Bayard approached.

"Hel-lo, Bruce!" he cried, flinging the harness up on a post, and extending a hearty hand. "I haven't seen you in an age!"

"How are you, Parson?" the other responded, gripping the offered hand and smiling good-naturedly into the alert gaze from the black eyes. "I ain't saw you for a long time, either, but every now and then, when I'm ridin' along after my old cows, I hear a most awful noise comin' from miles away, an' I say to myself, 'There goes th' parson tryin' to beat th' devil to another soul!'"

The other laughed and cast a half shameful look at his buckboard, which Bayard was inspecting critically. It was held together with rope and wire; bolts hung loosely in their sockets; not a tight spoke remained in the wheels; the pole was warped and cracked and the hair stuffing of the seat cushion was held there only by its tendency to mat and become compact, for the cover was three-quarters gone.

"It's deplorable, ain't it," Bayard chuckled, "how th' Lord outfits his servants in this here country?"

The clergyman laughed.

"That's a chariot of fire, Bruce!" he cried. "Don't you understand?"

"It'd be on fire, if I had it, all right! It ain't fit for nothin' else. Why, Parson, I should think th' devil'd get you sure some of these nights when you're riskin' your neck in this here contraption an' trustin' to your Employer to restrainin' th' wickedness in that pair of unlovely males you call horses!"

"Well, maybe I should get a new rig," the other admitted, still laughing. "But somehow, I'm so busy looking after His strays in this country that I don't get time to think about my own comfort. Maybe that's the best way. If I took time to worry about material discomforts, I suppose I'd feel dirty and worn and hot now, for I've had a long, long drive."

"A drink'd do you a lot of good, Parson," said Bruce, with a twinkle in his eye. "I don't mind drinkin' with you, even if you are a preacher."

"And because I'm a member of the clergy I have to drink with you whether I like it or not, Bruce!"—with a crack of his big hand on Bayard's shoulder. "A bottle of pop would taste fine about now, son!"

"Well, you wait here an' I'll get that brand of sham liquor," said Bruce, turning to start for the saloon.

"Hold on, Bruce. I don't want to hurt your feelings, but I don't feel that I want to let you buy anything for me out of that place. Get me some at the drug store."

The younger man hesitated.

"Well, I got a few convictions myself, Parson. Maybe there ain't much to be said for s'loon men, but your friend who runs that pill foundry sells booze to Indians, I suspect, which ain't right an' which no self-respectin' s'loon man would do."

"Son, all life is a compromise," laughed Weyl. "You go buy what you like to drink; I'll buy mine. How's that?"

"That's about as fair as a proposition can be, I guess."

Ten minutes later they were seated in the shade of the pine tree, backs against the corral where the sweat-crusted horses munched alfalfa. Bayard drank from a foaming bottle of beer, Weyl from a pop container. Both had removed their hats, and their physical comfort approached the absolute.

The cowman, though, was not wholly at ease. He listened attentively to the rector's discourse on the condition of his parish, but all the while he seemed to be bothered by some idea that lurked deep in his mind. During a pause, in which the brown pop gurgled its way through Weyl's thin lips, Bruce squinted through the beer that remained in his bottle and said,

"Somethin's been botherin' me th' last day or so, Parson, an' I sure was glad when I seen you comin' up in this here ... chariot of fire."

"What is it, Bruce?"

"Well, here's th' case. If a jasper comes to you an' tells you somethin' in confidence, are you bound to keep your mouth shut even if somebody's likely to get hurt by this here first party's plan? I know your outfit don't have no confession—'tain't confession I want.... It's advice ... what'd you do if you was in that fix?"

The other straightened his long limbs and smiled gravely.

"I can tell you what I would do, Bruce; but, if it's a matter of consequence, I can't advise you what to do.

"That's one of the hardest things I have to meet—honest men, such as you, coming to me with honest questions. I'm only a man like you are; I have the same problems, the same perplexities; it's necessary for me to meet them in the way you do. Because I button my collar behind is of no significance. Because I'm trying to help men to know their own souls gives me no superiority over them. That's as far as I can go—helping men to know themselves. Once that is accomplished, I can't guide their actions or influence their decisions. So far as I can determine, that's all God wants of us. He wants us to see ourselves in the light of truth; then, be honest with ourselves.

"In your particular matter, I couldn't stand by and see a man walk into danger unaware and yet it would mean a lot for me to betray another man's confidence. I suppose I'd do as I do in so many matters, and that is to compromise. I would consider it my duty to keep a confidence, if it was made in the spirit of honesty and, just as surely, it is my duty to save men from harm. My word of honor means much ... yes. But my brother's safety, if I am his keeper, is of as much consequence, surely. If I couldn't compromise—if taking a middle course wouldn't be practical—then I think I would choose the cause which I considered most just and throw all my influence and energy into it.

"That's what I would do, my friend. Perhaps, it is not what you would do, but so long as you are honest in your perplexity then, basically, whatever action you decide on, must be right."

Bayard drank again, slowly.

"I've never been inside your church," he said at length. "I'm like a lot of men. I don't care much about churches. Do you preach like that on Sunday?"—turning his face to Weyl.

The other laughed heartily.

"I don't preach, Bruce! I just talk and try to think out loud and make my people think. Yes ... I try to be before my people just as I am before you, or any other friend."

"Some day, then, I'm likely to come along and ask to throw in with your outfit ... your church. I'll bet that after I've let a little more hell out of my system, I could get to be a top deacon in no time ... in your church!"

The clergyman smiled and rested his hand affectionately on Bayard's knee.

"We're always glad to have stoppers come along," he replied. "Every now and then one drops in to see what we're like. Some have stayed and gone to work with us and turned out to be good hands."

Bruce made no response and the other was not the sort to urge. So they sat a time in companionable silence until the younger man asked,

"Had you come far to-day?"

"Wolf Basin. I went over there yesterday and married old Tom Nelson's girl to a newcomer over there."

Bayard looked at him keenly. He had wanted to bring up another question, but had been unable to decide upon a device for the manipulation of the conversation. This was a fortunate opening.

"Did you hear the yarn they was tellin' 'bout old Newt Hagadorn, when they 'lected him justice of th' peace in Bumble Bee? At his first weddin' Newt got tangled up in his rope an' says,

"'Who me 'nd God has j'ined together let no man put apart!'"

Weyl threw back his head and laughed heartily. Bruce shook with mirth but watched his friend's face, and, when the clergyman had sobered again, he asked,

"How about this who-God-hath-joined-together idea anyhow, Parson? Does it always work out?"

"Not always, Bruce,"—with a shake of his head—"You should know that."

"Well, when it don't, what've you parsons got to say about it? You've hogtied 'em in th' name of all that's holy; what if it don't turn out right? They're married in th' name of God, ain't they?"

Weyl drained the last of his pop and tossed the bottle away.

"I used to think they were ... they all were, Bruce. That was when I was as young in years, as I try to be young in heart now. But the more couples I marry, the stronger is my conviction that God isn't a party to all those transactions, not by a long sight!

"If my bishop were to hear me say that, he'd have me up for a lecture, because he is bothered with a lot of traditions and precedent, but many men are calling on Him to bless the unions of young men and women when He only refuses to answer. Men don't know; somehow they can't see that God turns his face from marriage at times; they keep on thinking that all that is necessary is to have some ordained minister warn society to keep hands off, that it is the Father's business ... when it is not, when love, when God, isn't there."

"How are young goin' to tell when He's missin' from those present?"

Weyl shrugged his shoulders.

"The individuals, the parties concerned, are the only ones who know that."

"When they do know, when they don't give up even then? What are you goin' to do 'bout that?"

The other man shook his head sadly.

"There are many things that you and I—that society—must do, Bruce, my son. It's up to us to change our attitude, to change our way of looking at human relations, to pull off the bandages that are blinding our eyes and see the true God. Other things besides marriage demand that unerring sight, too....'

"But what I'm gettin' at," broke in the other, pulling him back to the question of matrimony, "is, what are you goin' to do, when you know God ain't ridin' with a couple, when it's a sin for 'em to be together, but when th' man holds to his wife like I'd hold to a cow with my brand on her, an' when th' woman—maybe—hangs to him 'cause she thinks th' Lord has had somethin' to do with it."

"In that case, if she thinks of the Father's connection as an affair of the past, she must know it is no longer holy; someone should open her eyes, someone who is unselfish, who has a perspective, who is willing to be patient and help her, to suffer with her, if need be."

"You wouldn't recommend that a party who sort of hankered to wring th' husband's neck an' who thought the wife was 'bout th' finest thing God ever put breath into, start out to tackle th' job, would you?"

Weyl rubbed his chin in thoughtful consideration; then replied slowly:

"No, it is our duty to give the blind sight; we can only do that by knowing that our motives are holy when we undertake the job. That is the first and only matter to consider. Beyond motives, we cannot judge men and women....

"My bishop would drop dead before me, Bruce, if he heard that."

The other was silent a moment; then he said, slowly, "I wish some of us miser'ble sinners could be so open minded as some of you God fearin', hell-preachin' church goers!"

After a long interval, in which their discussion rambled over a score of topics, Bayard left.

"If you ever get near th' Circle A in that chariot of fire, I hope she goes up in smoke, so you'll have to stay a while!" he said. "An' I hope M's. Weyl's with you when it happens."

"Your wishes for bad luck are only offset by the hope that sometime we can come and spend some days with you, my friend!" laughed the minister as they shook hands.

Ann and Nora had returned when Bruce reached the Manzanita House and in the former's room a few moments later, after he had reported on Lytton's slow gaining of strength, Bayard said to her,

"Do you believe what I tell you, ma'am?"

She looked at him as though she did not get his meaning, but saw he was in earnest and replied,

"I've never doubted a thing you've told me."

"Then I want you to believe one more thing I'm goin' to tell you, an' I don't want you to ask me any questions about it, cause I'm so hogtied—that is, situated, ma'am—that I can't answer any. I just want to tell you never to let your husband go back to th' Sunset mine."

"Never to let him? Why, when he's himself again that's where his work will be—"

"I can't help that, ma'am. All I can say is, not to let him. It means more to you than anybody can think who don't know th' ways of men in a country like this. Just remember that, an' believe that, will you?"

"You want him to give up everything?"

"All I want, ma'am, is for you to say you'll never let him go there."

Finally, she unwillingly, uncomprehendingly, agreed to do all she could to prevent Ned's return to the mining camp.

"Then, that's all, for now," Bayard announced, dryly, and went from the room.

Their hands had not touched; there had been no word, no glance suggestive of the emotional outburst which characterized their last meeting, and, when he was gone, the woman, with all her conscience, felt a keen disappointment.