Roarer's childish accents pleaded, "Can't you help me get into this
collar? It's the only one we got left that's fitten to put on, and it
ain't big enough for this shirt, nor me, neither, but I've got to get
into it somehow."
Holy inspected the dilemma. "I'll go see if I kin find something," he
said vaguely as he left the room. In a few minutes he returned.
"I got a button-hook off'n the chambermaid. We can fix it up now!"
Surrounded by an admiring group, he grasped the collar band of Roarer's
shirt, thrust the button-hook through the button-hole of the collar and
gave a vigorous twist.
An agonized squeal, like a dying pig, assaulted the air and Roarer
retreated rapidly with the button-hook hanging to the collar, while he
rubbed the prominent bone in his throat that had interfered with the
adjustment.
"What in thunder do you think you're doin'?" he piped, glaring at Holy.
"Looks like you was figgerin' to make cider outen my Adam's apple, the
way you squoze."
"Well, I done the best I knowed how," defended Holy. "That's the way
things goes. I pulled an ol' Bar Z cow outen the mud, and the fust thing
the durned cow done was to make a bee-line for me whilst I had my back
to her a cinchin' my saddle. She spiled the only pair of trousers I
owned, and then went back into the mudhole and died. Thar's a heap of
human nature in cows, and heaps of cow nature in humans! Here's the
button-hook." Holy rescued it from the floor where it had dropped as
Roarer massaged his throat. "You dig yourself outen your own mud-hold.
I'm done!"
He limped painfully across the room and dropped into a chair, the
picture of disgust, and watched with fishy eye as Roarer plied the
button-hook until the collar succumbed.
The agony was almost over, but the four pairs of gloves promised further
trouble.
"Say, Bronc," insinuated Roarer as he contemplated the bed, "Couldn't a
feller go without wearin' these derned things? Suppose we just put 'em
in the outside pockets of our coats and let the fingers hang out, to
show we got 'em?"
"No, sirree!" vetoed Bronco emphatically, in the self-assumed role of
social adviser. "There ain't nothin' too good for the Boss; and the boys
down to the store told me that white kid gloves has got to be wore at
weddin's. So them gloves has got to go on, if it busts us flat!"
With looks of grim determination and the spirit that inspired the 'noble
Six Hundred,' they swooped down on the gloves. Appropriating a pair,
each man settled himself on a chair. The room was silent. Moments passed
unheeded. Four struggling cowpunchers sat in four creaking chairs and
laboured until four pairs of huge hands were encased in bedraggled white
kid gloves, which the owners surveyed with triumph.
"They squinch," announced Holy, closing his hand convulsively, "but
they'll stretch if you work 'em a bit."
There was an ominous sound, and a look of consternation on Holy's face
as he gazed at the split glove on his left hand.
"Now, you'll have to get another pair," commanded Bronco.
"Hanged if I will," retorted Holy, rebelling at the prospect of
repeating his experience.
"Then you got to remember to keep your hand shet up," compromised
Bronco. "Lucky it's the left hand, because we all got to shake hands
with the bride and the minister you know."
"Say, Bronc, are you sure about the minister?" asked Limber dubiously.
"You bet! You see it's this way," elucidated Bronco. "The groom is in
luck to get the girl, ain't he? So you shake hands with him. The girl's
lucky to get married, ain't she, stead of dyin' an old maid? So you
shake hands with her; and the minister is the luckiest one of the bunch,
because he gets paid for marryin' them and he don't take no chances on
havin' trouble afterwards. That's why you have to shake hands with the
minister."
No one disputed the logic.
"People makes me think of flies in cold weather when it comes to gettin'
married," reflected Limber audibly. "The flies that's outside the window
keep tryin' to get in, and them that's inside keep workin' for all
they're wuth to get out. Looks like they're just bound to be miserable
either way."
"I knowed a feller down in Texas had two dogs named David and Jonathan,"
said Bronco. "Wherever you seen one dog the other was right along side
of him, like his shadder. You jest couldn't keep 'em apart. One day some
smart geezer seen 'em sleepin' peaceful an' ca'm, side by each, and tied
one of David's hind legs to one of Jonathan's, and when them dogs woke
up they blamed each other, and from cussin' something awful in dog
lingo, they lit in and chawed hair and hide till they was pried apart.
Ever since then the minute they see each other, it's just a signal for
them to start a free-for-all to a finish. The way them two dogs has
soured on each other is a caution."
"What's that got to do with gettin' married?" demanded Holy with a
snort.
Bronco gazed at him a few seconds before he answered, "Well there's lots
of folks that would be good friends all their lives if they didn't hunt
up a minister to marry 'em and give 'em the right to scrap till they
die. When David and Jonathan got too serious, somebody got a club. But
if you find a man and his wife scrappin' and you try to ca'm them, they
both turn and pitch into you for meddlin' with their family pleasures."
Limber took out his watch and announced it was time to start, and
Bronco, after a final survey of his charges, led the procession from the
chamber of torture. They crossed the street, holding their hands stiffly
at their sides, while each gloved finger stood out separately, like an
individual Declaration of Independence.
As they ascended the stairs leading to Mrs. Green's rooms, Bronco
whispered his last instructions, "Don't forget to shake hands with the
whole outfit; and you be careful Holy, to keep your left hand shet."
Holy, leading the procession, halted suddenly and called back to Bronco,
"I thought you said we was only to shake hands with the Boss and the
Little Lady and the gospel-shark," but as the door opened in front of
them, Bronco made no reply.
The room was filled with guests, and after the first wave of bashfulness
had receded, the Diamond H boys bunched together like a herd of scared
cattle. Doctor Powell crossed the room and joined them, then Mrs. Green
entered with Jamie, the little brother of the bride. Powell smiled and
the child shyly edged closer, until he was lifted to the doctor's knee.
There was a slight confusion. Traynor stepped to a space in front of the
minister, and the doctor, rising, consigned the child to Limber, then
advanced to his place beside Traynor.
The cowboys of the Diamond H fidgeted nervously, and wondered at the
Boss's calm appearance, noting with proprietary pride how handsome he
looked and how high he held his head. There was a tender smile on his
lips and his eyes were fixed on the door leading to the hallway.
Bronco leaned closer to Holy, whispering, "I bet he don't even know
he's got a collar on. Ain't some men lucky?"
"Shet up," boomed Holy's voice treacherously, and many heads turned
toward them, while Holy tried to efface himself behind Roarer and
Bronco.
The door leading to the hall opened and Jack Green came in with Nell on
his arm. The women's eyes became moist as they looked at the girl, and
the men silently voted Allan Traynor a lucky chap. Mrs. Green had
dressed the girl in a pretty white gown, and the real wedding veil that
floated about the slender form was the one that had been worn ten years
previous by the agent's kind-hearted wife.
Outside, a mocking bird sang in the wonderful Arizona moonlight, as
though it understood and sent its benison of love while the solemn words
were spoken. Traynor stooped and kissed the girl, whose eyes looked into
his with a dazzling light that shone through tears, like the sun
breaking through a mist.
"Till Death us do part," he repeated unsteadily.
Then Jamie was beside them, holding up his thin arms to his sister, who
kissed him tenderly. The boy turned uncertainly to Traynor, looked up at
him, and laughed gayly as he was caught by the man's strong hands and
held up a second, while Traynor said, "You've got a grown-up brother,
now, old man."
Beaming, Jamie slipped his hand into Nell's and stood beside them as the
guests showered congratulations on the couple.
Bronco marshalled the Diamond H boys in line and Traynor suppressed his
inclination to laugh at the unaccustomed regalia of store clothes,
'biled shirts' and white kid gloves, when the men held out their hands
to the bride and groom.
Holy, recalling Bronco's final instructions on the stairway, forgot the
damaged glove in his exuberance, and shook hands vigorously with
everyone he could reach. Then with the consciousness of duty nobly done,
he sought a corner and mopped his moist forehead with a Lilliputian
sheet that he considered a handkerchief. Bronco edged up to him, and a
sudden light gleamed in Holy's eyes.
"Say, Bronc, what the devil did you keep kickin' me an' trompin' on my
feet for?" he demanded indignantly. "You acted like a cayuse with the
stringhalt."
"Stringhalt!" grunted Bronco, "If you'd had any hoss sense whatsoever,
you'd knowed I was doin' my durndest to get you to shet that big fist of
your'n."
Holy looked down at the tattered glove that dangled in dingy strings
from the offending hand, then he pulled it off in sections. "I hope some
one will shoot the top of my head off if I ever wear them damned things
again. Not on your life--even if the Boss was to get married every day
in the year for the rest of his life!"
He jerked off the other glove, wadded them together in a compact ball,
and deftly tossed it out the open window.
The wedding party adjourned to a feast spread in the dining room of the
Willcox Hotel, where toasts were given and merriment continued unabated
till the west-bound 'Flyer' stopped at the signal, and Traynor and his
bride left for a couple of weeks in California, leaving Jamie with Mrs.
Green.
Powell boarded the train at the same time, as he had to go to Tucson on
business connected with his intention to bid for the Hot Springs Ranch.
Bonfires had been lighted near the track, and the boys fired a salute to
the Boss and his bride. The coloured porter darted back to the platform
of the train, and looked at the men with wild eyes.
"You ain't got no call to be scairt," reassured Bronco, "We're jest
seein' a bridal couple off, that's all."
Then the whites of the porter's eyes disappeared entirely, and in the
black face shone a row of gleaming teeth.
The tail-light of the train disappeared in the distance, the bonfires
died away, and the boys of the Diamond H. feeling they had done things
up 'good and proper,' sought their beds in the hotel.
"Gosh! I'm glad the Boss ain't a Mormon!" sighed Bronco, as he dropped
to sleep. The only response to his remark was a chorus of snores in
which he soon joined.
Out in the dusty road was a tiny ball that had once been a pair of white
kid gloves.