Marston stepped forward. He had served through the war as a chaplain and the spirit of a soldier was in him.
“Hands off, Dutch!”
The teeth of the bad man ground together audibly. “You sittin’ in, Parson?” he asked in a thick, furious voice.
“Yes. Take your hands off her.”
The gaunt gray-eyed preacher faced the killer’s rage and overmatched it. He had both moral courage and the physical to back it.
“Where’s Scot McClintock?” demanded Dutch.
“We’ll take that up when you’ve turned Miss Lowell loose.”
“By God, you’re not runnin’ this.”
“Get your hand away.”
The bully felt that he either had to kill this man or do as he said. He dare not shoot him down. Father Marston was too well beloved in Nevada. His was one of those staunch souls which commanded an immense respect. Back of him now the gunman felt the whole weight of civilized opinion in the state. It was a spiritual power too potent to be ignored.