The missionary was frankly frightened, but he had in him the stuff of heroes. His lower lip became a thin straight line of resolution. No professional gambler should put his courage to shame. If he rode through the valley of the shadow he had a promise from Holy Writ to comfort him. “I’ll go if the stage goes,” he said stoutly. Scot McClintock knew when he was beaten temporarily. But he was not the man to give up a point upon which he had set his heart. He looked up a friend of his, the mayor of the town, drew him aside, and whispered persuasively in his ear. The fat little man with whom he talked exploded a protest. “But doggone it, Scot, if the Gospel shark accepts, won’t I have to go to his meetin’?” “Maybe so. What of it? Be a good scout, Adams. I want that boy of mine to get up to Virginia to-morrow so that I can make him comfortable.” The mayor grinned. “Never saw your beat for gettin’ your own way. All right. I’ll rustle up some of the women and ask him.” Scot dropped into the What Cheer House and glanced around. The jewellery salesman was sitting in a corner by himself. McClintock introduced himself and invited the stranger to a rum cocktail or a whisky sling. In five minutes he knew all about the peddler’s business and how much he hoped to make from the sale of his stock at Virginia. “But why not sell it here in Carson? The town’s booming. Lots of money here. More women. Up in Virginia they can’t think anything except mines,” Scot suggested. “My friendt, I make more at Virginia.” “Well, you know your business better than I do. Hope we get through without trouble.” “Trouble? Vat kind of trouble?” “Injuns on warpath. They shot up my brother. I’m taking him up with me to a doctor. From the way the Piutes were heading I rather expect an attack on the stage to-morrow.” The peddler rose to the bait, excitedly, with shrill voice. “And I haf paid my fare to Virginia. It’s an outrage. I vill demand a refund. I vill sue the company. I vill nodt travel in onsavety. You are right, my friendt. I sell my stock right here in Carson if I get a refund.” “I would,” agreed McClintock sympathetically, “I know Baldy Green. Let’s see if he’ll stand for the refund.” The stage driver played up to his friend with a serious face. It was not customary to make refunds. He had a kind of hunch the stage would get through without being attacked. But if the gentleman wanted to stay at Carson and if McClintock would guarantee him against loss to the company through an empty seat, probably it could be arranged. Incidentally, he mentioned that he had just heard from the clergyman cancelling his passage. He had been urged by a deputation of Carson citizens to stay in town over Sunday and preach on the plaza. This call, he felt, could not be ignored.