“Youbetcha!” exclaimed the old woman. “And you’ll see me in one of the front seats—mebbe in two of ’em if they ain’t bigger than usual,” she added with twinkling eyes. He laughed boyishly, lifting the dilapidated old hat to both Mother Tubbs and the girl as he turned the corner of the shack. The old woman looked down admonishingly at Nell Blossom. “You weren’t a mite perlite to the minister, Nell,” she complained. CHAPTER IX—A BEGINNING That eastern mountain range was all etched with rose color now as Hunt went back to the hotel. But the town had scarcely quieted after its night’s revelry. Inebriates were still dribbling along the streets from the all-night places. He thought of Nell Blossom. She certainly was a flower in the mire of Canyon Pass. Joe Hurley had written none too enthusiastically about the girl, as far as concerned her beauty. And although Hunt was by no means given to impulsive judgments, he knew there was a refined atmosphere about the girl despite her gruff independence of manner and speech. His return to the hotel was unheralded save by the cheerful grin of Cholo Sam, the Mexican proprietor of the hostelry, who was sluicing out the barroom. “Some morning, thees, Señor Hunt.” He flashed a tentative, toothful smile toward the array of bottles behind his bar. “Weel you have one leetle drink, Señor? A ‘pick-my-up,’ you call eet, eh?” “Coffee, Sam,” replied Hunt briskly, acknowledging the offer in the spirit it was meant. “Coffee only—and perhaps a bit of bread with it. Service for two, please. My sister will want some. Will you bring it up?” “But surely, señor.” He hesitated. “Ees eet the truth that the señor ees a meenister—the padre? Si?” “Quite true, Sam. That is my business—my trade. And I have come here to Canyon Pass hoping to exercise it.” Hunt mounted to his room to find that Betty was already astir. She had been into his room during his absence. One of the bags he had brought upon the stagecoach had been opened and across the foot of the bed was carefully laid his ordinary Sunday garments—frock-coat, high-cut waistcoat, and narrow trousers of dead black sheen. With the outer garments was the stiff-bosomed white shirt—“boiled” Joe Hurley would have designated its variety—the silk socks, with a pair of low, gun-metal kid shoes set primly on the floor under the edge of the bed. Ford Hunt looked at all these once—then again. He thought of what he had been doing already on this Sunday morning. Then he burst into loud laughter. Sunday afternoon when the weather was propitious was the time for social intercourse in Canyon Pass. Those who had worked or played or had been intoxicated the night before had slept off the effects of their super-exertions for the most part. They came forth now shaved and in clean garments and strolled to Main Street.