me 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.

"I'm not laughing at you," said the sheriff.

"Oh, ain't ye?" mocked the man of peace. "Well, take care that ye
don't, ye big wart, or I'll trample them new clothes and browse
around on some of your features. I'll take ye apart till ye look
like cut feed. Guess ye don't know who I am, do ye? I'm--"

"Who is this man, Ross?" came the anxious voice of the bride,
descending the stairs.

The little man spun like a dancer, and, spying the girl, blushed to
the colour of a prickly pear, then stammered painfully, while the
sweat stood out under the labour of his discomfort:

"Just 'Shorty,' Miss," he finally quavered