The preacher reached for his hip, and a dozen revolvers covered him instant.
"Seh," he said, quite gentle, "my handkerchief is in my hip-pocket; observe me blow my nose at yo' remarks."
He trumpeted into his big red handkerchief.
"Why do you make this bluff," says Jim, "at being a preacher, when you've been all your life in the saddle?"
"Yo' questions, seh, are personal for a stranger, and the character you gave me to yo' greasers was some hasty, and the salute of guns you offer makes me feel unworthy. As to your thanks for an honest warning to save yo' lost cattle and haste to yo' dying mother——"
Jim flushed with shame.
"I beg your pardon, sir."
"And you accept my warning?"
"If you'll prove you forgive me by shaking hands, Mr.——"
"Misteh? Just call me friend—no more. And Jim, when you've been to Holy Crawss, yo' natural feelings will call you swift to Grave City, where you'll find your father in mortal danger, I feah."