“I know you’ll not—if you don’t git a chance, sweetie.” His fangs showed again in an evil grin. “If I hurt you some it ain’t a circumstance to the way you hurt me onct. I ain’t aimin’ to let you play me no tricks like you done then.” They came to a house, set a little back from the road in a young orchard. Victoria opened the gate and they walked in. Her brain had registered an inspiration. Straight to the porch she went. Dutch warned her. “Remember. No tricks, missie. You lead right into the room where he is an’ don’t say a word. Un’erstand?” “Yes. You’ll promise not to hurt him?” “My business. I got an account to settle with both them McClintocks.” “At any rate, you won’t hurt anybody else in the house,” she said faintly. “You’ve got to promise that.” “Suits me. I ain’t intendin’ to run wild.” “Swear it,” she insisted. He swore it. Vicky, still with his hateful fingers about her wrist, opened the door and walked into the house. At her touch a second door swung. Before Dutch could recover from the surprise of what he saw, he had moved forward with the girl into a room. A man was sitting at a desk writing. He looked up, astonished at this interruption. The man was Father Marston. “He wants me to take him to Scot,” Vicky said simply. Her explanation sufficed. Dutch, a many times killer, stood before him with a drawn revolver in his hand. The minister rose. “So you brought him here instead. Well done, Vicky.” The desperado ripped out a violent oath. “Make a fool of Sam Dutch, will you?” His fingers moved up to the fleshy part of the girl’s forearm and tightened. She could not keep back a cry of pain. Marston stepped forward. He had served through the war as a chaplain and the spirit of a soldier was in him. “Hands off, Dutch!” The teeth of the bad man ground together audibly. “You sittin’ in, Parson?” he asked in a thick, furious voice. “Yes. Take your hands off her.” The gaunt gray-eyed preacher faced the killer’s rage and overmatched it. He had both moral courage and the physical to back it. “Where’s Scot McClintock?” demanded Dutch. “We’ll take that up when you’ve turned Miss Lowell loose.” “By God, you’re not runnin’ this.” “Get your hand away.” The bully felt that he either had to kill this man or do as he said. He dare not shoot him down. Father Marston was too well beloved in Nevada. His was one of those staunch souls which commanded an immense respect. Back of him now the gunman felt the whole weight of civilized opinion in the state. It was a spiritual power too potent to be ignored. The fingers loosened from Vicky’s arm and fell away. “Where’s McClintock at?” the man with the revolver asked again hoarsely. “First tell me this. What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in prison where you belong?” “Because I broke out. Tha’s why.” “Then I’ll give you a piece of advice. Get out of town. Now. Quick as you can hit the road.” “I’m askin’ you where McClintock’s at, Parson.” Again the eyes of the two battled.