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!'"