The Pensacola journal. (Pensacola, Fla.) 1898-1985, 1915-09-07

ever new story of divine love7 These were
questions Father Walsh put squarely to him
self again and again; none realized better
than he that crisis impended. In the bear
ing of the men he could read the struggle.
Ziegler and his henchmen were sullenly
mutinoas, but they were in the minority,
strange to relate. And stranger still, Lewis,
the gambler, led the cohorts which ranged
themselves on the priests side. He found an
able assistant in Pink Perry. On the Tues
day preceding the opening, the split became
so wide that actual conflict between the forces
for righteousness and the followers Of Nam
mon was imminent. AS for Doghole, any in
habitant Of that blot on earth's surface who
dared to show himself within five miles of the
town, took his life in his hands.
Father Walsh came and went, and none
could have guessed from his demeanor that
he sensed the strain, so boyish vas his en-
thusiasm. He supervised the placing of the
cross on the tower, trembling as the men
made it fast, and then he Strengthened, his
chubby face grave with high resolve. At that
moment he grew in stature before the eyes of
the onlookers; glimpsing the unquenchable
spirit that burned in his eyes, they forgot that
too tolerant Of backsiders, and consequently
Of nature soft. A radiance TRANSPORTED him,
the same indomitable zeal that drove the
Jesuits through wilderness and torture in
quest for souls
Wednesday broke with soft sunshine and
velvet breeze. The old-timers stood with
feet wide apart in the middle Of the road, and,
cooking an eye, recalled Just such day in
1880, and ausured fair weather for the Sab
bath, with touch Of heat. At FIVE O'Clock, a
brigade of clouds massed on the hills, and at
six deluge drove down on Deadeye, sending
the inhabitants seurrying to sealed protection.
Long forks Of lightning licked hungrily from
the black press and the valley quaked to the
thunder A huge cottonwood, the towns
sole natural shade, was rent at a stroke and fell
with a shrek across. the yard of Ziegler's
place At this omen the knowing shook their
heads
Came a rider from poghole, drenched,
heavy with mud and exhausted, his horse
stean1ing in front Of the porch with dropping
head and believing nostrils and one foreleg
crippled. Where was the priest? They led
him across, through the binding sheets of
rain, to the Eating House. Black Hans was
dying, smashed to pieces in a cage at the
mines, and he feared to face the beyond I'M.
shriven. He adiured Father Walsh, by all
the vows of his priesthood, to come to him.
This message the Doghole man delivered,
standing awkwardly on the threshold, the
water seeping from his clothes TO the floor.
Get me a horse, said Walsh to Riordan,
and he moved to don a slcker.
Sure, father, you can't be goin' the night.
It's your death it would be, an not a boss is
there in town The burro =. huh!
aZiegler has one Hurry" He was al
ready half enveloped in the oilskin. Riordan
threw out his hands.
Il is nineteen miles. You could not get
there, father. An besides Black
Hans i. he will go to hell anyway"
Riordan pleaded, made bold by genuine
concern.
2 Riordanl" exclaimed the priest sharply,
and the giant ceased, abashed.
That boss Of Ziegler's is a bronc, Father
Walsh. Hell pitch hard, " interjected one Of
the group which choked the doorway
g cannot help it. Hurry"
What can't you help? What will pitch
hard? Where are you going?" It was
Lewis, who shouldered his way into the room.
Il ride tonight for a soul, said Father
Walsh
The gambler peered into the priests face