"That'll not hold him."

"Well, let him go. Have a cigar. The bishop is expected for Sunday, and
I've got to see his room is fixed up for him."

"The bishop!" said the foreman. "I've heard him highly spoken of."

"You can hear him preach to-morrow. The bishop is a good man."

"He's better than that; he's a man," stated the foreman--"at least so
they tell me."

Now, saving an Indian dance, scarce any possible event at the Shoshone
agency could assemble in one spot so many sorts of inhabitants as a visit
from this bishop. Inhabitants of four colors gathered to view the
wolf-dance this afternoon--red men, white men, black men, yellow men.
Next day, three sorts came to church at the agency. The Chinese laundry
was absent. But because, indeed (as the foreman said), the bishop was not
only a good man but a man, Wyoming held him in respect and went to look
at him. He stood in the agency church and held the Episcopal service this
Sunday morning for some brightly glittering army officers and their
families, some white cavalry, and some black infantry; the agency doctor,
the post-trader, his foreman, the government scout, three gamblers, the
waiter-girl from the hotel, the stage-driver, who was there because she
was; old Chief Washakie, white-haired and royal in blankets, with two
royal Utes splendid beside him; one benchful of squatting Indian
children, silent and marvelling; and, on the back bench, the commanding
officer's new hired-girl, and, beside her, Lin McLean.