In a remote part of the valley some five miles back of Cedar Mountain was Bylow's Corner, a group of three or four houses near the road, the log cabins of homesteaders. These men had, indeed, few pleasures in life. Their highest notion of joy was a spree; and every month or two they would import a keg of liquor, generally of a quality unfit for human consumption. The word had been passed around that Pat Bylow had got a keg of the "real stuff," and the rest of the Corner assembled on a certain Saturday night for an orgy, which it was expected would last about two days. Word of it reached Hartigan, too, and he decided that here was a glorious opportunity to save bodies and souls at once. Without consulting any one he mounted Blazing Star, and in half an hour was at the Corner. Tying his horse to a tree, he went to the house that was the known meeting place. There were lights in the window and boisterous noises issuing forth. At the door he stopped and listened; rough voices were grumbling; there was an occasional curse, a laugh, then a woman speaking shrilly; a minute's silence, during which the sweet song of a night bird was heard in the dark bushes by the stream, whereupon a hoarse, brutalized voice shouted: "Oh, hurry up and start that bung, you act like a schoolgirl." The Preacher knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again and much louder. There was a moment's silence. Then a heavy voice: "Who's there?" "It's me," was the unhelpful reply. A man moved to the door again demanding: "Who's there?" "It's a friend who wants to join you." There was some discussion, then the door was cautiously opened. The man inside got a glimpse of the tall form of the Preacher, let off a savage snarl and oath, and attempted to slam the door. But he was not quick enough; the Preacher got his foot in and pushed irresistibly. There were curses from within and others came to help. But the Preacher was too much for them; the door went back with a clatter and he stood in the middle of the room. The rude log cabin held five men, three women, and a table on which was a small keg of whiskey and some glasses. The keg had not yet been opened, and the glasses were empty. "What do you want here?" growled the biggest of the men, advancing threateningly. "Sure, I am here to spill that accursed stuff on the ground and hold a prayer meeting in the hopes of saving your souls," was the answer. "Get to h--l out of this and mind your own business," he said, fingering an ugly knife he had snatched from the table.