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“Don’t see you often,” he continued, with a touch of implied curiosity, which grew as his guest, with lingering fondness, up-ended a glass brimful of the raw, fiery spirits.

“No, the old man don’t lemme get away much. He knows that dwellin’ close to the ground, as I do, I pine for spiritual elevation,” with a melting glance at the bottles behind the bar, doing much to explain the size of his first drink.

“Like it, do ye?” questioned Bailey indicating the shelf.

“Well, not exactly! Booze is like air–I need it. It makes a new man out of me–and usually ends by gettin’ both me and the new one laid off.”

“Didn’t hear nothing of the weddin’ over at Los Huecos, did ye?”

“No! Whose weddin’?”

“Ross Turney, the new sheriff.”

“Ye don’t say! Him that’s been elected on purpose to round up the Tremper gang, hey? Who’s his antagonist?”

“Old man Miller’s gal. He’s celebratin’ his election by gettin’ spliced. I been expectin’ of ’em across this way to-night, but I guess they took the Black Butte trail. You heard what he said, didn’t ye? Claims that inside of ninety days he’ll rid the county of the Trempers and give the reward to his wife for a bridal present. Five thousand dollars on ’em, you know.” Bailey grinned evilly and continued: “Say! Marsh Tremper’ll ride up to his house some night and make him eat his own gun in front of his bride, see if he don’t. Then there’ll be cause for an inquest and an election.” He spoke with what struck the teamster as unnecessary heat.

“Dunno,” said the other; “Turney’s a brash young feller, I hear, but he’s game. ‘Tain’t any of my business, though, and I don’t want none of his contrac’. I’m violently addicted to peace and quiet, I am. Guess I’ll unhitch,” and he toddled out into the gathering dusk to his mules, while the landlord peered uneasily down the darkening trail.

As the saddened Joy lit candles in the front room there came the rattle of wheels without, and a buckboard stopped in the bar of light from the door. Bailey’s anxiety was replaced by a mask of listless surprise as the voice of Ross Turney called to him.

“Hello there, Bailey! Are we in time for supper? If not, I’ll start an insurrection with that Boxer of yours. He’s got to turn out the snortingest supper of the season to-night. It isn’t every day your shack is honoured by a bride. Mr. Bailey, this is my wife, since ten o’clock A. M.” He introduced a blushing, happy girl, evidently in the grasp of many emotions. “We’ll stay all night, I guess,”

“Sure,” said Bailey. “I’ll show ye a room,” and he led them up beneath the low roof where an unusual cleanliness betrayed the industry of Joy.

The two men returned and drank to the bride, Turney with the reckless lightness that distinguished him, Bailey sullen and watchful.

“Got another outfit here, haven’t you?” questioned the bridegroom. “Who is it?”

Before answer could be made, from the kitchen arose a tortured howl and the smashing of dishes, mingled with stormy rumblings. The door burst inward, and an agonized Joy fled, flapping out into the night, while behind him rolled the caricature from Bar X.

“I just stopped for a drink of water,” boomed the dwarf, then paused at the twitching face of the sheriff.

He swelled ominously, like a great pigeon, purple and congested with rage. Strutting to the new-comer, he glared insolently up into his smiling face,

“What are ye laughin’ at, ye shavetail?” His hands were clenched, till his arms showed tense and rigid, and the cords in his neck were thickly swollen.

“Lemme in on it, I’m strong on humour. What in —- ails ye?” he yelled, in a fury, as the tall young man gazed fixedly, and the glasses rattled at the bellow from the barreled-up lungs.