usted
son of Satan workin' double-turn to support her?'

"Peets nods.

"'Shore! Well, it's sech reflections which final gives me the
reequired sand. An' so, one evenin' up in Albuquerque, we prances over
before a padre an' we're married. You bet, it's like a vision.'

"'Any papooses?' asks Tutt, plumb pompous.

"'None as yet,' confesses Dead Shot, lookin' abashed.

"'Which I've nacherally got one,' an' yere Tutt swells. 'You can put
your case _peso_ on it he's the real thing, too.'

"'Little Enright Peets is certainly a fine child,' remarks Nell.
'Dave, you're shore licensed to be proud of him.'

"'That's whatever,' adds Boggs. 'Little Enright Peets is nothin' short
of bein' the No'th Star of all hoomanity!'

"Mebby a week passes, an' one mornin' Dead Shot goes squanderin' over
to Tucson to bring his wife. An' nacherally we're on what they calls
in St. Looey the 'quee vee' to see her. At that, we-all don't crowd
'round permiscus when the stage arrives, an' we avoids everything
which borders on mob voylence.

"Dead Shot hits the street, lookin' that happy it's like he's in a
dream, an' then goes feelin' about, soft an' solic'tous, inside. At
last he lifts her out, an' stands thar holdin' her in his arms. She's
shore beautiful; only she ain't no bigger 'n a ten year old youngone.
Yellow-ha'red an' bloo-eyed, she makes you think of these yere china
ornaments that's regyarded artistic by the Dutch.

"They're certainly a contrast--him big as a house, her as small an'
pretty as a doll! An' you should see that enamored Dead Shot look at
her!--long an' deep, like a man drinkin'! Son, sometimes I fears
women, that a-way, misses all knowledge of how much they're loved.

"'She ain't sick,' says Dead Shot, speakin' gen'ral; 'only she twists
her off ankle gettin' out at the last station.'

"Dead Shot heads for the little 'dobe he's fitted up, packin' his
bloo-eyed doll in his arms. What's our impressions? No gent who signs
the books as sech'll say anything ag'in a lady; but between us, thar's
a sooperior wrinklin' of the little tipped-up nose, an' a cold feel to
them bloo eyes, which don't leave us plumb enthoosiastic.

"'It's like this,' volunteers Enright, who stacks in to explain
things. 'Every gent's got his ideal; an' this yere wife of his is Dead
Shot's ideal.'

"'Whatever's an ideal, Doc?' asks Boggs, who's always romancin' about
for information.

"'Which an ideal, Dan,' Peets replies, 'is the partic'lar go