Wal, I rid Shank's mare over t' Hairoil's. Whilst we was goin', the parson opened up on the subject of Dutchy and that nasty, mean purp of hisn. And I ketched on, pretty soon, to just what he was a-drivin' at. I fell right in with him. I'd never liked Dutchy such a turrible lot anyhow,--and I did want t' be a friend to the parson. So fer a hour after we hit the shack, you might 'a' heerd me a-talkin' (if you'd been outside) and him a-laughin' ev'ry minute 'r so like he'd split his sides. Monday was quiet. I spent the day at Silverstein's Gen'ral Merchandise Store, which is next the post-office. (Y' see, She might come in fer the Bar Y mail.) The parson got off a long letter to a feller at Williams. And Dutchy was awful busy--fixin' up a fine shootin'-gallery at the back of his "Life Savin' Station." Tuesday, somethin' happened at the parson's. Right off after the five-eight train come in from the south, Hairoil druv down to the deepot and got a big, square box and rushed home with it. When he come into the thirst-parlour about sun-set, the boys ast him what the parson was gittin'. He just wunk. "I bet _I_ knows," says Dutchy. "De preacher mans buys some viskey, alretty." Hairoil snickered. "Wal," he says, "what I carried over was nailed up good and tight, all right, all right." Wal, say! that made the boys suspicious, and made 'em wonder if they wasn't a darned good _reason_ fer the parson not wearin' duds like other religious gents, and fer his knowin' how to ride so good. And they was _sore_--bein' that they'd stood up so strong fer him, y' savvy. "A cow-punch," says Monkey Mike, "'ll swaller almost _any_ ole thing, long 's it's right out on the table. But he shore cain't go a _hippy-crit._" "You blamed idjits!" chips in Buckshot Millikin, him that owns such a turrible big bunch of white-faces, and was run outen Arizonaw fer rustlin' sheep, "what can y' expect of a preacher, that comes from _Williams?_" Dutchy seen how they all felt, and he was plumb happy. "Vot I tole y'?" he ast. But pretty soon he begun to laugh on the other side of his face. "If dat preacher goes to run a bar agin me," he says, "py golly, I makes no more moneys!" Fer a minute, he looked plumb scairt. But the boys was plumb _disgusted_. "The parson's been playin' us fer suckers," they says to each other; "he's been a-soft-soapin' us, a-flimflammin' us. He thinks we's as blind as day-ole kittens." And the way that Tom-fool of a Hairoil hung 'round, lookin' wise, got under they collar. After they'd booted him outen the shebang, they all sit down on the edge of the stoop, just sayin' nothin'--but sawin' wood. I sit down, too. We wasn't there more'n ten minutes when one of the fellers jumped up. "There comes the parson now," he says. Shore enough. There come the parson in his fancy two-wheel Studebaker, lookin' as perky as thunder. "Gall?" says Buckshot. "Wal, I should smile!" Under his cart, runnin' 'twixt them yalla wheels, was his spotted dawg.