“Sam Dutch, your name stands in this country for murder, treachery, drunkenness, and all other evils known to man. You’re as black-hearted a villain as ever I knew. If you’ve got one redeeming trait I don’t know what it is. Now, listen. You’re going to get out of town now. Right away. You’re not going to murder Scot McClintock. You’ll walk with me straight to Doc Benton’s stable. You’ll arrange with him for a horse. And you’ll drop into the saddle and light a shuck out of Carson.” The voice of the preacher rang harsh. It carried conviction, but Dutch wanted to know what was back of this edict. “Who says I’ll do all that?” he sneered. “I say it. If you don’t I’ll rouse the town and hang you in front of the jail. That’s a promise made before God, Dutch. I’ll keep it, so help me.” The killer’s mind dodged in and out cunningly and could find no way of escape. He dared not kill Marston. He dared not let him go out and rouse the town against him. Though he was armed and Marston was without a weapon, it was he who was defenceless and the preacher who held him covered. The bad man threw up his hands. “All right. You got me, Parson. I’ll light a shuck, but God help you if I ever get you right. I’ll sure fix you so you’ll never do me another meanness.” The preacher stood before him straight as a sycamore. “My life is in God’s hand, Sam Dutch. You strut across the stage of life, poor braggart, and think yourself mighty powerful. You’re no more than a straw in the wind. His eye is on you, man. You can’t lift a finger without His permission. And in His scripture He has said a word about you. ‘Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed.’ And again, ‘All they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.’ That’s His plain promise, Dutch. I tell you that your hour is close. It’s at hand. Repent and flee from the wrath to come.” Marston had the orator’s gift of impressive speech. As he faced the killer, hand lifted in a gesture of prophecy, eyes flashing the fire of his conviction, Vicky felt a shiver run over her. The preacher was, so she felt for the moment, a messenger of destiny pronouncing doom upon a lost soul. In the light of what so swiftly followed she was to recall many times his burning and passionate prediction. Dutch sneered, to cover the chill that passed through him. “The bullet ain’t moulded yet that can kill Sam Dutch,” he bragged. CHAPTER XXXIII THE BOOMING OF THE FORTY-FIVES At the gate Father Marston stopped. “You run along home, Vicky,” he said. “I’ll drop in after a while and see how the Colonel is.” The girl hesitated. “Hadn’t I better go with you?” she said. It was not necessary for her to say in words that she was afraid to leave the chaplain alone with Dutch. All three of them understood it. Marston laughed, rather grimly. “No, child. Mr. Dutch and I understand each other first rate. We’ll get along fine. See you later.”