Unusual excitement was evident in the Willcox Hotel, as the cowpunchers
of the Diamond H rushed in with mysterious packages which afterwards
developed into conventional attire. They had ridden to town early in the
afternoon, Saturday, the day the wedding of the Boss was to take place.
Confusion reigned in their small room. Roarer danced around, struggling
to fasten a collar, his face becoming apoplectic; while Holy, with his
entire vocabulary and muscular strength, was coaxing his feet into
patent leather shoes a size too small. When his frantic efforts
culminated in a broken loop-strap, it left him, for once in his life,
speechless.
Before a bilious mirror, Limber plastered his hair down rigidly with a
stick of barber's cosmetique, recommended by the bar-tender; and Bronco
stood ruefully contemplating four enormous pairs of white kid gloves
reposing in a long row on the bed.
"I don't balk at toggin' up swell for the Boss's weddin'," came in a
gasp from Roarer as he clutched at his throat, "but derned if I see why
the feller what invented collar-buttons and biled shirts wasn't lynched
for his fust offense. Doggone the beastly little contraption, anyhow!"
The others regarded him sympathetically, for they, too, had struggled,
as the numerous twisted, soiled collars about the room testified; even
those now decorating their brown throats showed marks of desperate fray.
"I've spiled seven collars and busted five collar buttons already,"
groaned Roarer, pausing in his struggle. "Oh, Lord! Where did that
thing go. Any one see it? It's wusser'n a flea the way it lit out."
They grasped his meaning. Each had recently been on a voyage of
discovery for other collar buttons.
"Mebbe it's under the bed," suggested Holy, trying to balance himself
and walk in the tight shoes. He paused, standing like a gigantic stork
on one foot. "Mine rolled under the bed."
Roarer fell to his knees and groped without avail, then crawled out on
all fours, gazing up disconsolately into the faces of the other men.
"Not a hair nor a hide of it," he puffed, still on his knees. "That's
the last one we had, and what's wust, thar ain't no more collar-buttons
in the whole blamed town. Everyone's been buyin' 'em this afternoon."
"Well, it couldn't get outen the room;" consoled Limber, whose toilet
was finished before the others, because he had had the foresight to
enlist the services of a clerk in Soto's store, and after buying a
shirt, collar and tie, the two had retired to a small back room. Hence,
Limber had emerged victorious and unruffled, but his sympathies were
with the other punchers.
"They say collar-buttons take to a bureau if the bed don't suit 'em," he
suggested. "Suppose you start a round-up on that range, Roarer. I'd like
to help you out, but this collar checks me up too high."
Inspired by the idea, Roarer assumed his devotional attitude and clawed
wildly. Something gave way, and he emerged precipitately.
"I got her," he triumphed, "but something busted--What was it?" he
supplemented with an anxious glance over his shoulder.
The others surrounded him.
"Suspender," reported Limber. "Button's busted off'n your trousers."
"Much damage?" he inquired of the investigating committee, which
continued looking him over.
"Nothin' but what can be fixed up with a pin," was Bronco's decision.
"Any one got a pin?"
They shook their heads. It was a pinless crowd, but a brilliant idea
struck Holy, who delved into the pockets of his discarded leather chaps
and produced a horse-shoe nail. Drawing a piece of the trouser cloth
through the button-hole of the suspended flap, he thrust the nail in
dexterously.
"Thar you are," he pronounced cheerfully.
"Say, Holy, you're a wonder!" flattered Roarer obsequiously.