Scot hailed Baldy Green, a well-known stage driver. “How about places up on the stage for me and Hugh to-morrow, old-timer?”
Baldy rubbed the top of his shiny head and grinned at him. “Full up. Like to ditch a couple of my passengers for you if I could—a jewellery peddler and a sky pilot—but I don’t reckon I can, Scot.”
The eyes of the older McClintock sparkled. “Show ’em to me, Baldy.”
Three minutes later the Beau Brummel of Virginia City might have been seen in earnest conversation with a clergyman who hailed from Buffalo, New York. He was telling the story of the Indian attack upon his brother and making certain deductions from it. His manner of grave deference was perfect.
“But bless my soul, do you really think the redskins are likely to attack the stage to-morrow?” asked the startled missionary.
“Can’t tell, sir. They were certainly heading this way when last seen. Big chance of it, I’d say. I’m a sinner—a professional gambler. What does it matter about me? But you—the only minister of the Gospel in a hundred miles—you can’t be spared. The harvest is ripe for the reaper. Why not wait here a day or two and make sure the Piutes are not around?”
The missionary was frankly frightened, but he had in him the stuff of heroes. His lower lip became a thin straight line of resolution. No professional gambler should put his courage to shame. If he rode through the valley of the shadow he had a promise from Holy Writ to comfort him.
“I’ll go if the stage goes,” he said stoutly.
Scot McClintock knew when he was beaten temporarily. But he was not the man to give up a point upon which he had set his heart. He looked up a friend of his, the mayor of the town, drew him aside, and whispered persuasively in his ear.
The fat little man with whom he talked exploded a protest. “But doggone it, Scot, if the Gospel shark accepts, won’t I have to go to his meetin’?”