"They're apt to be worse than either the whites or the Indians," Christie explained. "And this Monk Bethune is an educated man, which should make him doubly dangerous. Well, I must be going. I've got to ride clear over onto Big Porcupine. I heard that old man Samuelson's very sick. There's a good man--old Samuelson. Hope he'll pull through." "You bet he's a good man!" assented Thompson, warmly. "He seen Bill Winters through, when they tried to prove the murder of Jack Bronson onto him, an' it cost him a thousan' dollars. The districk attorney had it in fer Bill, count of him courtin' his gal." "Yes, and I could tell of a dozen things the old man has done for people that nobody but I ever knew about--in some instances even the people themselves didn't know." He turned to Patty: "Good-by, Miss Sinclair. I'm mighty glad to have met you. I knew your father very well. If you see the Wattses, tell them I shall try and swing around that way on my return." The parson mounted a raw-boned, Roman-nosed pinto, whose vivid calico markings, together with the rider's brilliant scarf gave a most unministerial, not to say bizarre effect to the outfit. "So long, Tom," he called. "So long, Len! If they's anything we can do, let us know. An' be sure an' stop in comin' back." Thompson watched the man until he vanished in a cloud of dust far out on the trail. "Best doggone preacher ever was born," he vouchsafed. "He can ride, an' shoot, an' rope, an' everything a man ort to. An' if anyone's sick! Well, he's worth all the doctors an' nurses in the State of Montany. He'll make you git well just 'cause he wants you to. An' they ain't nothin' too much trouble--an' they ain't no work too hard for him to tackle. There ain't no piousness stickin' out on him fer folks to hang their hat on, neither. He'll mix with the boys, an' listen to the natural cussin' an' swearin' that goes on wherever cattle's handled, an' enjoy it--but just you let some shorthorn start what you might call vicious or premeditated cussin'--somethin' special wicked or vile, an' he'll find out there's a parson in the crowd right quick, an' if he don't shut up, chances is, he'll be spittin' out a couple of teeth. There's one parson can fight, an' the boys know it, an' what's more they know he _will_ fight--an' they ain't one of 'em that wouldn't back up his play, neither. An' preach! Why he can tear loose an' make you feel sorry for every mean trick you ever done--not for fear of any punishment after yer dead--but just because it wasn't playin' the game. That's him, every time. An' he ain't always hollerin' about hell--hearin' him preach you wouldn't hardly know they was a hell. 'The Bishop of All Outdoors,' they call him--an' they say he can go back East an' preach to city folks, an' make 'em set up an' take notice, same as out here. He's be'n offered three times what he gets here to go where he'd have it ten times easier--but he laughs at 'em. He sure is one preacher that ain't afraid of work!"