“Some of the gang,” replied the parson, stopping in his occupation of cutting strips of bacon for the frying pan. “They have threatened me with vengeance because I sheltered John Brown and his men on their way north a month or two back. Reynolds brought me word this morning that they had concluded to visit me to-night. Reynolds hasn’t the nerve to come out as I do, and avow his principles, but maybe it’s better so that the gang don’t know it; through him I keep informed of all their movements.” “Don’t know thar leetle program, do you?” carelessly questioned Maybee, as he threw back the lid of the coffee-pot to keep its contents from boiling over. “No; Reynolds didn’t learn that,” replied Steward, as he adjusted the meat in the pan and placed it over the fire, “He thinks their intention is to decorate my anatomy with tar and feathers.” “Mos’ cert’n’ly,” nodded Maybee, as he took his turn at tending the frying meat while Steward sliced potatoes to brown in the bacon fat after the meat was cooked. “Mr. Steward, if we had been of their number when we came to the door just now, what would you have done?” asked Warren. The parson held his knife over a half-peeled potato, and looked the young man in the face, while his eyes glowed with excitement. “Well, had you been one of Bill Thomson’s riders, I would have sent a bullet through you without a word. It is written: ‘This day will the Lord deliver thee into my hand; and I will smite thee, and take thy head from thee.’” “Pardon me for what I am about to say,” continued Warren, “but I cannot understand how you can reconcile such a proposed course with your profession. I make no pretention to piety myself, but I have a profound respect for those who conscientiously do.” The preacher faltered. “Don’t misunderstand me,” Warren hastened to say, seeing the man of God hesitate. “I am not charging you with anything. I simply cannot reconcile the two ideas, that’s all. I don’t quite understand your position.” “That’s jest what I’ve wanted to say to Steward here, many a time, but not being gifted with gab, which mos’ people calls eddi-kation, I haven’t been able to perceed like the prefesser,” meaning our English friend, Mr. Maxwell. “Thar was that secret citizens’ meetin’ down in the timber, and Steward was fer shootin’ down at sight without a trial all onery cusses that was even suspected of bein’ onfriendly to the principles of the Free-Staters. Dad gum ’em, that’s my methods to a T, but it’s kin’ o’ rough jestice fer a parson,” chuckled Maybee.