"He ain't much to look at as a parson, but he's a-ketchin' his second
wind, and 'fore long you won't see him for dust."



CHAPTER VII

THE LAST OF THE PERMIT SUNDAYS


The spring "round-ups" were all over and Bruce had nothing to do but
to loaf about the Stopping Place, drinking old Latour's bad whisky and
making himself a nuisance. In vain The Pilot tried to win him with loans
of books and magazines and other kindly courtesies. He would be decent
for a day and then would break forth in violent argumentation against
religion and all who held to it. He sorely missed The Duke, who was away
south on one of his periodic journeys, of which no one knew anything
or cared to ask. The Duke's presence always steadied Bruce and took
the rasp out of his manners. It was rather a relief to all that he was
absent from the next fortnightly service, though Moore declared he was
ashamed to confess this relief.

"I can't touch him," he said to me, after the service; "he is far too
clever, but," and his voice was full of pain, "I'd give something to
help him."

"If he doesn't quit his nonsense," I replied, "he'll soon be past
helping. He doesn't go out on his range, his few cattle wander
everywhere, his shack is in a beastly state, and he himself is going
to pieces, miserable fool that he is." For it did seem a shame that a