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“I wouldn’t hev spoken of it before,” he said, with a sidelong glance at Briggs, “for it might be all in the line o’ Bulger’s ‘business,’ but suthin’ happened the other night that, for a minit, got me! I was passin’ the Bakers’ shanty, and I heard one of them gals a singing a camp-meeting hymn. I don’t calkilate to run agin you young fellers in any sparkin’ or canoodlin’ that’s goin’ on, but her voice sounded so pow’ful soothin’ and pretty thet I jest stood there and listened. Then the old woman–old Mother Baker– SHE joined in, and I listened too. And then–dern my skin!–but a man’s voice joined in–jest belching outer that cabin!–and I sorter lifted myself up and kem away.

“That voice, gentlemen,” said Mosby, lingering artistically as he took up a glass and professionally eyed it before wiping it with his towel, “that voice, cumf’bly fixed thar in thet cabin among them wimen folks, was Bulger’s!”

Briggs got up, with his eyes looking the darker for his flushed face. “Gentlemen,” he said huskily, “thar’s only one thing to be done. A lot of us have got to ride over to Sawyer’s Dam tomorrow morning and pick up as many square men as we can muster; there’s a big camp meeting goin’ on there, and there won’t be no difficulty in that. When we’ve got a big enough crowd to show we mean business, we must march back here and ride Bulger out of this camp! I don’t hanker arter Vigilance Committees, as a rule–it’s a rough remedy–it’s like drinkin’ a quart o’ whisky agin rattlesnake poison but it’s got to be done! We don’t mind being sold ourselves but when it comes to our standin’ by and seein’ the only innocent people in Rattlesnake given away–we kick! Bulger’s got to be fired outer this camp! And he will be!”

But he was not.

For when, the next morning, a determined and thoughtful procession of the best and most characteristic citizens of Rattlesnake Camp filed into Sawyer’s Dam, they found that their mysterious friends had disappeared, although they met with a fraternal but subdued welcome from the general camp. But any approach to the subject of their visit, however, was received with a chilling dissapproval. Did they not know that lawlessness of any kind, even under the rude mantle of frontier justice, was to be deprecated and scouted when a “means of salvation, a power of regeneration,” such as was now sweeping over Sawyer’s Dam, was at hand? Could they not induce this man who was to be violently deported to accompany them willingly to Sawyer’s Dam and subject himself to the powerful influence of the “revival” then in full swing?

The Rattlesnake boys laughed bitterly, and described the man of whom they talked so lightly; but in vain. “It’s no use, gentlemen,” said a more worldly bystander, in a lower voice, “the camp meetin’s got a strong grip here, and betwixt you and me there ain’t no wonder. For the man that runs it–the big preacher–has got new ways and methods that fetches the boys every time. He don’t preach no cut-and-dried gospel; he don’t carry around no slop-shop robes and clap ’em on you whether they fit or not; but he samples and measures the camp afore he wades into it. He scouts and examines; he ain’t no mere Sunday preacher with a comfortable house and once-a-week church, but he gives up his days and nights to it, and makes his family work with him, and even sends ’em forward to explore the field. And he ain’t no white-choker shadbelly either, but fits himself, like his gospel, to the men he works among. Ye ought to hear him afore you go. His tent is just out your way. I’ll go with you.”