The place of meeting was partially obscured by several clumps of mountain pines, which grew along the sides of the ravine, and enclosed it in their sombre shade. It was bright starlight. When the gathering was complete and had settled into that grim composure which seemed to await an opportunity for a hundred voices to be raised, the chairman called upon a Methodist clergyman present to open their proceedings with prayer. This request, at such a time, must appear strange to the minds of many of my readers. And yet, why should it? It bore testimony to some sincerity and some solemnity in the hearts of the people, even though they had assembled for an unlawful, perhaps some of them for a revengeful, purpose. They felt, doubtless, that the law did not and would not protect them, and if they had known that the person whose doom they were there to decide, at that very moment stood near, armed, a secret observer of their proceedings, with friends within the call of his voice to aid him or obey his orders, they might very properly have concluded that the law exposed them to outrage and murder. Prayer had no mockery in it in such an exigency. Patterson afterwards jocosely remarked that it was the first prayer he had listened to for twenty years. Its various petitions, certainly, could not have fallen pleasantly upon his ears. Patterson returned unobserved to the jail at a late hour, fully possessed of the designs of the committee. A system of espial was kept up by his friends, by means of which the sheriff and his deputies were enabled to devise a successful counter-plot. At eleven o’clock in the morning of a bright Sabbath, a few men were seen congregating upon the eastern side of Moore’s Creek, below the town, for the supposed purpose of carrying out the decision of the previous evening, which was the execution of Patterson. Patterson and thirty of his friends, armed to the teeth, were in the jail-yard looking through loopholes and knot-holes, anxiously watching them. When their numbers had reached a hundred, a signal was given to the sheriff. He quickly summoned a _posse_ of one hundred and fifty men, who had received intimation that their services would be needed. Fully armed, they marched slowly to a point on the west side of Moore’s Creek, where they confronted the Vigilantes. Nothing daunted at this unexpected demonstration, the latter quietly awaited the arrival of several hundred more, who had promised to join them. Hours passed, but they came not. Not another man was bold enough to join them. Robbins, who, after much persuasion, had consented to act as their leader, was greatly disgusted, and for three hours declined all propositions to disband. Every hill and housetop was crowded with spectators, citizens of Idaho and Buena Vista Bar, anticipating a collision. The newly elected delegate to Congress was on the ground, making eager exertions to precipitate a contest.