The stricken man put his hands on the counter, peeked over the bar-keeper's shoulder at his favorite bottle, as if mournfully to a friend, but said not a word. He emptied a glass, and then, without looking right or left, opened the door, and went straight up to the Parsonage. The Parsonage was the name the boys gave to the cottage on the hill among the trees. "Gone for his two little bull-pups," said Stubbs. That was what the Parson called his silver-mounted derringers. "There will be a funeral at the Forks to-morrow," gasped the Jumper. Here the German undertaker arose cheerfully, and went down to his shop. "Well, Sandy is no sardine. Bet your boots Sandy ain't no sardine!" said Stubbs. "And, any how, he's got the start just a little, if the Parson does nail him. For he's won her heart; and that's a heap, I think, for wimmen's mighty scace in the mines--sumthin' to die for, you bet." CHAPTER XII. GRIT. The Parson was absent for hours, and the Howling Wilderness began to be impatient. "He's a heelin' himself like a fighting-cock," said Stubbs; "and if Sandy don't go to kingdom come with his boots on, then chaw me up for a shrimp." The man here went to the door, opened it, put his head out in the frosty weather, and peered up the creek for Sandy, and across the creek for the Parson, but neither was in sight. The "Gay Rooster" company knocked off from their work, with many others, and came to town in force to see the fight. The Howling Wilderness was crowded and doing a rushing business. The two bar-keepers shifted and carefully arranged the sand-bags under the counter, which in that day and country were placed there in every well-regulated drinking saloon, so as to intercept whatever stray bits of lead might be thrown in the direction of their bodies, in the coming battle, and calmly awaited results. About dark, a thin blue smoke, as from burning paper, curled up from the chimney of the Parsonage, and the Parson came slowly forth. "Blamed if he hasn't been a makin' of his will and a burnin of his letters. Looks grummer than a deacon, too," added the man, as the Parson neared the saloon. He spoke quietly to the boys, as he entered, but did not swear. That was thought again remarkable indeed. He went up to the bar, tapped on the counter with his knuckles, threw his head back over his shoulder toward the crowd, and yet apparently without seeing any one, and said: "Boys, fall in line, fall in line. Rally around me once again." They fell in line, or at least the majority did. Some, however, stood off in little knots and groups on the other side, and pretended not to have heard or noticed what was going on. These it was at once understood were fast friends of Sandy's, and unbelievers in the Parson. The glasses were filled quietly, slowly, and respectfully, almost like filling a grave, and then emptied in silence.