There came a knock at Preacher Sampson Steward’s cabin door that same night about midnight. Instantly his mind was on the alert. He had been stretched on the bed at full length for an hour listening intently to sounds outside. The thunder and lightning had ceased, and the rain and the wind beat a monotonous tattoo against the window panes. There was a world of possibilities in that knock. He could not from the sound tell whether it heralded peace or war, and these were troublous times in Kansas. It was in Preacher Steward’s nature to speak his convictions fearlessly, and this made him a special object of hatred to many pro-slavery men who would have gladly rid the country of his presence, did not his well known courage and marksmanship afford him some protection against open attack. A tallow candle sputtered in its place on the stand. Near the stand was the window, protected by a wooden shutter. Beside him on the bed where he lay half-dressed, his wife and two children lay wrapped in slumber. The knock was repeated; Steward sprang to the floor, reached out his hand and grasped his pistols, laying them handy for use on the stand by the sputtering candle, seized his rifle, cocked it, slipped the heavy iron bolt of the door with his free hand, stepped back a pace and drew a bead on the door, then with set face and tightly drawn lips, he said firmly: “Come in!” The door swung open, admitting a gust of rain and wind. The tall, stout figure of Ebenezer Maybee was outlined against the blackness of the night, his attire plentifully sprinkled with the mud and rain. One hand held a driving whip, the other grasped the door-latch, while his keen eyes watched the white face behind the rifle whose muzzle almost touched his breast, yet giving no sign of fear. “What!” The parson turned fighter with a vengeance, he said at length, in quiet tones. “This ain’t at all ’bligatory on you, Steward. You ought to know my knock by this time. Put up your gun.” Steward instantly complied. “Is it you, Maybee?” he queried, standing the weapon with its muzzle against the wall. “Come in!” “Somethin’ inter-estin’ you’ve picked up by the way of makin’ your friends welcome, Steward?” Maybee replied, with a grim smile, as he closed the door and advanced to grasp the minister’s extended hand. “God forgive me, Maybee, but it is more than human nature can stand. Sunday week it was only by a special act of Providence that my congregation escaped massacre. Since then I’m a marked man. I am on special guard duty to-night.” “What’s up?” “Had a message from the Rangers.” An exchange of significant glances followed this speech. “Oh. I see. Perhaps then we’d better bring in our fugitives at once.” “What have you this time?” “A young man and woman and a young Englishman, who is helping them away. It’s a long story. All of ’em’s good shots; the gal ain’t slow on a pinch.”