"Well, I got a few convictions myself, Parson. Maybe there ain't much to be said for s'loon men, but your friend who runs that pill foundry sells booze to Indians, I suspect, which ain't right an' which no self-respectin' s'loon man would do."
"Son, all life is a compromise," laughed Weyl. "You go buy what you like to drink; I'll buy mine. How's that?"
"That's about as fair as a proposition can be, I guess."
Ten minutes later they were seated in the shade of the pine tree, backs against the corral where the sweat-crusted horses munched alfalfa. Bayard drank from a foaming bottle of beer, Weyl from a pop container. Both had removed their hats, and their physical comfort approached the absolute.
The cowman, though, was not wholly at ease. He listened attentively to the rector's discourse on the condition of his parish, but all the while he seemed to be bothered by some idea that lurked deep in his mind. During a pause, in which the brown pop gurgled its way through Weyl's thin lips, Bruce squinted through the beer that remained in his bottle and said,
"Somethin's been botherin' me th' last day or so, Parson, an' I sure was glad when I seen you comin' up in this here ... chariot of fire."
"What is it, Bruce?"
"Well, here's th' case. If a jasper comes to you an' tells you somethin' in confidence, are you bound to keep your mouth shut even if somebody's likely to get hurt by this here first party's plan? I know your outfit don't have no confession—'tain't confession I want.... It's advice ... what'd you do if you was in that fix?"
The other straightened his long limbs and smiled gravely.
"I can tell you what I would do, Bruce; but, if it's a matter of consequence, I can't advise you what to do.