families have bought piano-players, and there are at least a dozen talking machines in town—besides the female citizens,” and he laughed again.

“All that?” in a sneering tone. “Still, the bulk of the wages from the mines and washings are spent for drink and in gambling. The increase in bank deposits I bet are made by the merchants and honkytonk keepers, Mr. Hurley. Canyon Pass is prosperous—yes. But at the expense of everything decent and everybody’s decency. Mother Tubbs has got it right. Canyon Pass hasn’t got a heart.”

“Oh—heart!”

“Yes, heart. There’s neither law nor gospel, she says. Only such law as is enforced at the muzzle of the sheriff’s gun. And as far as religion goes—when was there ever a parson in Canyon Pass?”

“They’re rare birds, I admit. But you needn’t blame me, Nell.”

“I do blame you!” she exclaimed fiercely. “You’re at fault—you, and Slickpenny Norris who runs the bank, and Bill Judson of the Three Star, and the manager of the Oreode Company, and the other more influential men. It is your fault that there isn’t a church and other civilized things in Canyon Pass.”

“Great saltpeter, Nell! You’re not wailing for a Sunday School and a sky pilot?”

“Me? I reckon not!” She almost spat out the scornful denial. “I’m just telling you what your old Canyon Pass is. It’s a back number. But I’m free to confess if a parson and a crew of psalm-singing tenderfoots came here, I’d like enough pull my freight again—and that time for keeps! Even Hoskins would be more endurable.”

At this outburst Joe Hurley broke into laughter. Nell Blossom was paradoxical—had always been.

And yet, what Nell had said about the shortcomings of Canyon Pass stuck in Joe Hurley’s mind. Within a few days the thought, fermenting within him, resulted in that letter which had so interested—not to say excited—the Reverend Willett Ford Hunt in far-away Ditson Corners.