The other laughed and cast a half shameful look at his buckboard, which Bayard was inspecting critically. It was held together with rope and wire; bolts hung loosely in their sockets; not a tight spoke remained in the wheels; the pole was warped and cracked and the hair stuffing of the seat cushion was held there only by its tendency to mat and become compact, for the cover was three-quarters gone. "It's deplorable, ain't it," Bayard chuckled, "how th' Lord outfits his servants in this here country?" The clergyman laughed. "That's a chariot of fire, Bruce!" he cried. "Don't you understand?" "It'd be on fire, if I had it, all right! It ain't fit for nothin' else. Why, Parson, I should think th' devil'd get you sure some of these nights when you're riskin' your neck in this here contraption an' trustin' to your Employer to restrainin' th' wickedness in that pair of unlovely males you call horses!" "Well, maybe I should get a new rig," the other admitted, still laughing. "But somehow, I'm so busy looking after His strays in this country that I don't get time to think about my own comfort. Maybe that's the best way. If I took time to worry about material discomforts, I suppose I'd feel dirty and worn and hot now, for I've had a long, long drive." "A drink'd do you a lot of good, Parson," said Bruce, with a twinkle in his eye. "I don't mind drinkin' with you, even if you are a preacher." "And _because_ I'm a member of the clergy I have to drink with you whether I like it or not, Bruce!"--with a crack of his big hand on Bayard's shoulder. "A bottle of pop would taste fine about now, son!" "Well, you wait here an' I'll get that brand of sham liquor," said Bruce, turning to start for the saloon. "Hold on, Bruce. I don't want to hurt your feelings, but I don't feel that I want to let you buy anything for me out of that place. Get me some at the drug store." The younger man hesitated. "Well, I got a few convictions myself, Parson. Maybe there ain't much to be said for s'loon men, but your friend who runs that pill foundry sells booze to Indians, I suspect, which ain't right an' which no self-respectin' s'loon man would do." "Son, all life is a compromise," laughed Weyl. "You go buy what you like to drink; I'll buy mine. How's that?" "That's about as fair as a proposition can be, I guess." Ten minutes later they were seated in the shade of the pine tree, backs against the corral where the sweat-crusted horses munched alfalfa. Bayard drank from a foaming bottle of beer, Weyl from a pop container. Both had removed their hats, and their physical comfort approached the absolute. The cowman, though, was not wholly at ease. He listened attentively to the rector's discourse on the condition of his parish, but all the while he seemed to be bothered by some idea that lurked deep in his mind. During a pause, in which the brown pop gurgled its way through Weyl's thin lips, Bruce squinted through the beer that remained in his bottle and said,