Then Hunt’s hands moved suddenly, swiftly. In a flash he had snatched the broad-brimmed hat from Hicks’ head and placed it on his own, “Turn about is fair play, don’t you think?” said the parson, and without waiting for a reply he turned on his heel and went back across the street! The silence that had fallen on the crowd had been of that tense, strained quality that portended tragedy. Had Hunt showed offense at the trick played upon him and struck Hicks, the latter would have used his gun without mercy. And scarcely could a jury have been impaneled in Canyon Pass that would have convicted the ruffian. But of a sudden, a roar of laughter rose from the crowd. They rocked with it, beating their knees, holding their sides, laughing with wide-open mouths and streaming eyes. Nor was the comical appearance of Hicks’ dilapidated hat crowning the parson’s otherwise impeccable outfit all that spurred Canyon Pass to such wild cachinnation. The strident laughter was aimed at the chagrined gunman. Hicks knew it. The broad back of the parson offered a sure target; but he knew better than to draw his gun a second time. Instead he turned away, hatless, and sought sanctuary in the Grub Stake. Hunt had taken the first trick in this game he had “set into.” And Canyon Pass to a man admired a shrewd gambler. CHAPTER VIII—A FLOWER IN THE MIRE Had Betty Hunt not had Joe Hurley to steady her as she came down from the roof of the stagecoach to the ground in the midst of the crowd, she never could have stood upright through that scene! The sight of her brother’s hat flying overhead, the target of Hicks’ six-gun, led her to believe that Hunt was in peril—deadly peril. She wanted to beg Hurley to run to her brother’s rescue, but her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. What followed utterly appalled her. She verily believed that Hunt took his life in his hands when he approached and browbeat the bad man! But as she heard the boisterous laughter of the crowd and saw the strange hat flapping about the Reverend Willett Ford Hunt’s ears, Betty became suddenly angry. “Take off that horrid hat, Ford!” she cried when the parson joined them. “I beg of you, take it off at once.” “Don’t do it, Willie,” interposed Hurley. “Let it be. No crown of glory you may earn will ever so become you. Continue to wear it, Reverend, and not a soul in Canyon Pass will ever laugh at _you_, if they do at the hat. It will remind ’em that you’re an honest-to-goodness he-man.” Hunt smiled deprecatingly. “You make too much of it, Joe. Don’t worry, Betty, about the hat. I might as well keep the joke up a little while.” “‘Joke!’” she groaned. Hurley slapped Hunt resoundingly on the shoulder. “You’re all right, Willie!” This turned Betty against him all the more. It was so uncouth she thought on Hurley’s part and so undignified on her brother’s. With all these people looking on, grinning and gaping, was that the way to gain respect for a clergyman and for his work?