The moment Dan drew the mules to a halt, Hurley was half way to the ground and turned on the step to help Betty down. She glanced timidly at Hunt again. He was preparing to descend on the other side of the coach, leaving her entirely to Hurley’s care. Then occurred that incident which would ever be engraved upon Betty’s memory, and which marked indeed the coming of the Reverend Willett Ford Hunt to Canyon Pass on the archives of the town’s history in letters that never would be effaced. As Hunt started to descend from the roof of the coach there sounded a single pistol-shot and the hat he wore—a low-crowned affair, the single mark of the cleric in his dress—sailed into the air with a ragged hole through brim and crown. As the hat flew upward a fusillade of five more shots followed the first, and the hat was torn to rags as it sailed over the roof of the coach. The crowd roared—some in anger, but most in derision. The man standing by the door of the Grub Stake reloaded his gun before putting it away, grinning broadly. Hunt was startled; but his own smile did not fade. What was it Joe had impressed so emphatically upon his mind? “It’s the first impression that counts with Canyon Pass folks. Give ’em the chance, and they’ll laugh you out of town. And remember, they are bound to judge you, Hunt, by their own standards.” The young minister felt that the occasion was momentous. His usefulness here in Canyon Pass might depend upon his action or comment in this emergency. His nerves were perfectly steady. How was his _nerve_? He knew the man who had shot the hat from his head was such a good shot that he had been in no danger at all. But Hunt felt that something more was expected of him than the mere ignoring of a rude and offensive act. He started across the road toward the gunman. Those who stood in the way opened a lane for him with some alacrity. The smiles upon the faces of those who moved stiffened. Something extraordinary, something they had not at all expected, was about to happen. Hicks, slouching against the front of the Grub Stake, came to sudden attention. His fingers crooked, creeping toward the butt of his gun again. Every atom of the ruffian’s courage—such as it was—lay in that weapon. Without it—and its leaden death—he was a sheep for bravery! Smiling still Hunt reached him. The parson’s steady gaze held that of Hicks as the human eye is said to hypnotize the gaze of all wild beasts. Hicks, however, was not wild. Not now. Not so you could notice it! “Brother,” Hunt said cheerfully, “you’ve spoiled my hat. It’s the only hat I’ve got with me until my trunks come in by freight. You’ve had your fun, and it’s only fair you should pay for it.” The expression of Hicks’ face sunk into a sneer. He thought the white-livered parson was trying to get money from him for the hat. He must indeed be a “softie.”