His name and his repute stood as a title of ruthless power, of guile and murder. It was a name with which children were frightened into obedience in log-cabins, up and down the creeks where Falkinses and Falerins dwelt. And for a space Black Pete said nothing. He stood looking down, his broad shoulders drawn back, his hat at the familiar forward tilt, his long chin raised, and in his steady eyes the contemplative half-dreamy look of a pastor gazing down on his flock. Perhaps he was thinking of that other scene when another man had stood, just as he did now, on an elevation at the front of a court-house. That man had fallen at his order. The Deacon knew that to one-half of his auditors he was a man "marked down" and a truce-breaker, but his face mirrored no such recognition, no apprehension, and, when he began to speak, his voice went out to the far edge of the crowd, though it went in such soft modulation that it did not seem loud to those who stood nearest. He declared that he was not attempting to defend his past. His present mission was reparation. He told with a homely and convincing force, yet with modesty and humbleness, of his experiences and conversion. He had come back only to ask permission to stay; and, if permitted to do so, his influences would hereafter be for peace. McAllister and Henry Falkins would testify that it was at his suggestion that these speeches had been made. He had talked with the Spooner leaders, and could also speak for them. He was ready to establish a truce of two years' duration, and he hoped at the end of that time it might be made permanent. He did not hope to be believed without proof. He therefore offered himself as a hostage, and hereby placed himself in the custody of the three Falkinses, who stood upon the court-house steps. He would go unarmed to their houses as often as required, and keep in touch with them--as a probationer. He took all the chances that such a course involved--and took them willingly, he said, since, if he could bring peace to men who should live as neighbors and friends, his own life was a little thing. It was a masterful bit of hypocritical eloquence, of _argumentum ad hominem_; but it was made to simple and illiterate hearers. At its end, he turned dramatically, drew from its holster his heavy-calibered revolver, and presented it, grip foremost, to Job Falerin. An almost awed silence fell on the audience. Across the street, windows began to open cautiously and female heads to peer out. The long, unbroken quiet had reassured the town. Curiosity was overcoming caution. From the hotel, a short distance away, two traveling salesmen, who had heretofore remained indoors, ventured to take a walk of investigation. Then with an audacity that only a born leader would have risked, the Deacon made a suggestion to his custodians and with them went down the stairs, not among the Spooners, but among the Falkinses. He walked like a revival convert being accepted into fellowship.