Bat had found the pieces of his pipe.  Fitting the meerschaum to the wood, he had gained confidence and was going ahead full steam.

“Saw ‘Macbeth’ in Smelter City Theatre last night.  ’Member the place where he says ‘Thou canst not say I did it?’ Well, that’s the beginning of the end for that old boy; fooled himself that time.  If he’d remembered that, though he didn’t do it with his own hand, he did do it all the same, he wouldn’t have believed his own lie and got all tangled up.  One of the first things Moyese told me when I went on his paper was never to monkey with the dee-fool who wastes time justifying himself:  do it and go ahead!  Fact is, Dick, I look on a newspaper man same as I do a lawyer:  he has his price; and he finds his market for his wares; and it’s none of his business what his private convictions are of the right or wrong.  He’s paid to defend or attack like a lawyer; and he goes ahead—­”

“And doesn’t pretend he’s fooling the public by giving news, eh, Bat?  Brydges, if you argue that fashion, you must excuse me if I grin.”

“Who’s the old party talking to your road gang down by the white tent?” asked Brydges, pointing where the Range sloped down to the Homestead Settlement and a long canvass bunk house marked the domicile of the road hands for the Forests.

“Oh, no, you don’t get away from the argument so easily, Bat!  You make the Senator’s job and your job and public service all round a bunco game, a bunco game with marked cards; while we Service and Land fellows act the decent sign for a blind pig—­”

“Hullo, he’s coming up,” interrupted Brydges.  “Seems your night for deputations, Wayland!  Looks like a parson!  By George, I didn’t know Senator had his drag net out for parsons as dummy entrymen!  Nothing like imparting quality!  By George, hanged if I know—­he looks like a peddler—­has a pack horse—­”

“Peddler o’ th’ Gospel, Son!  Good ee-vening to you, Gentlemen.”

The newcomer sang out greeting in a high thin falsetto that belied the ruddy youth of shaven cheeks and accorded more with his masses of white hair.

“Is this the Ranger place perched on top o’ th’ warld?  Y’r workmen in the white tent told me A’d find a short trail here-by t’ th’ next Valley.  ‘Tis y’r Missionary Williams A’m seekin’; A thought if A’d push on, push on, an’ cat-er-corner y’r mountain here, A’d strike y’r River by moonlight!  So A have!  So A have!  But it’s Satan’s own waste o’ windfall ‘mong these big trees!  Such a leg-breakin’ trail A have na’ beaten since A peddled Texas tickler done up in Gospel hymn books filled wi’ whiskey—­”

“Well—­I’ll—­be—­hanged,” slowly ejaculated Mr. Bat Brydges.  “Come far?” he asked aloud, fumbling his brain for a clue.

The old man, emerging from the timbers, took off his hat and swabbed the sweat from his brow.  Then he righted the saddle on his broncho.

“Eh, woman, do A scare y’?” This to Calamity, just turning down the Ridge trail with a dun gray blanket filled with odds and ends on her shoulders, when the padded thud of the pack horse coming through the heavy timber was followed by the stalwart form of the newcomer.  Face and form were frontiersman; vesture, clerical; but Old Calamity trotted back to the Range cabin.