His great beard was trimmed a little, his bushy hair carefully combed behind his ears, and the necktie was now subdued into a neat love-knot, in spite of its old persistent habit of twisting around and fluttering out over his left shoulder. His eye met the Parson's but did not quail. The bar-keeper settled down gracefully behind the bags of sand, so that his eyes only remained visible above the horizon. The head of the "Gay Roosters" tilted a table up till it made a respectable barricade for his breast, and the crowd silently settled back in the corners, packed tighter than sardines in a tin box. You might have heard a mouse, had it crossed the floor. Even the fretful fire seemed to hold for the time its snappish red tongue, and the wind without to lean against the door and listen. The Parson slowly arose from the table. He had his right hand in his pocket, and was very pale. Experienced shootists, old hands at mortal combat with their kind, glanced from man to man, measured every motion, every look, with all the intense eagerness of artists who are favored with one great and especial sight, not to be met again. Others held their heads down, and only waited in a confused sort of manner for the barking of the bull-dogs. Neither of Sandy's hands were visible; but, as the Parson took a few steps forward, and partly drew his hand from his pocket, Sandy's right one came up like a steel spring, and the ugly black muzzle of a six-shooter was in the Parson's face. Still he advanced, till his face almost touched the muzzle of the pistol. He seemed not to see it, or to have the least conception of his danger. It was strange that Sandy did not pull. Maybe he was surprised at the singular action of the Parson. Perhaps he had his eye on the unlifted right hand of his antagonist. At all events he had the "drop," and could afford to wait the smallest part of a second, and see what he would do. "I have been a-wait-ing"--the Parson halted and paused at the participle. "I have been a-wait-ing for you, Sandy, a long time." His voice trembled. The voice that had thundered above a hundred bar-room fights, and had directed the men through many a difficulty in camp, was now low and uncertain. "Sandy," he began again, and he took hold of the counter with his left hand, "I am a-going-a-way. Your cabin will be too small now, and I want you to promise me to take care of the Parsonage till I come back." Sandy sank back closer still to the wall, and his arm hung down at his side. "You will move into the Parsonage when it is all over. It's full of good things for Winter. You will take it, I say, at once. Promise me that." The Parson's voice was a little severe here--more determined than before; and, as he concluded, he drew the key from his pocket and handed it to Sandy. "You will?" "Yes."