“The boys are livelier than usual to-night,” said Saunders.  “The ones they are talking about marrying are two of the boys—­a herd rider and the cook.  It’s another joke.  You and Sam will have to sleep here to-night anyway; p’rhaps you’d better see ’em through with it.  Maybe they’ll quiet down after that.”

The matchmakers found Miss Sally seated on the tongue of the grub wagon, calmly smoking his pipe.  The Marquis was leaning idly against one of the trees under which the supply tent was pitched.

Into this tent they were both hustled, and Phonograph, as master of ceremonies, gave orders for the preparations.

“You, Dry-Creek and Jimmy, and Ben and Taller—­hump yourselves to the wildwood and rustle flowers for the blow-out—­mesquite’ll do—­and get that Spanish dagger blossom at the corner of the horse corral for the bride to pack.  You, Limpy, get out that red and yaller blanket of your’n for Miss Sally’s skyirt.  Marquis, you’ll do ‘thout fixin’; nobody don’t ever look at the groom.”

During their absurd preparation, the two principals were left alone for a few moments in the tent.  The Marquis suddenly showed wild perturbation.

“This foolishness must not go on,” he said, turning to Miss Sally a face white in the light of the lantern, hanging to the ridge-pole.

“Why not?” said the cook, with an amused smile.  “It’s fun for the boys; and they’ve always let you off pretty light in their frolics.  I don’t mind it.”

“But you don’t understand,” persisted the Marquis, pleadingly.  “That man is county judge, and his acts are binding.  I can’t—­oh, you don’t know—­”

The cook stepped forward and took the Marquis’s hands.

“Sally Bascom,” he said, “I KNOW!”

“You know!” faltered the Marquis, trembling.  “And you—­want to—­”

“More than I ever wanted anything.  Will you—­here come the boys!”

The cow-punchers crowded in, laden with armfuls of decorations.

“Perfifious coyote!” said Phonograph, sternly, addressing the Marquis.  “Air you willing to patch up the damage you’ve did this ere slab-sided but trustin’ bunch o’ calico by single-footin’ easy to the altar, or will we have to rope ye, and drag you thar?”

The Marquis pushed back his hat, and leaned jauntily against some high-piled sacks of beans.  His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were shining.

“Go on with the rat killin’,” said he.

A little while after a procession approached the tree under which Hackett, Holly, and Saunders were sitting smoking.

Limpy Walker was in the lead, extracting a doleful tune from his concertina.  Next came the bride and groom.  The cook wore the gorgeous Navajo blanket tied around his waist and carried in one band the waxen-white Spanish dagger blossom as large as a peck-measure and weighing fifteen pounds.  His hat was ornamented with mesquite branches and yellow ratama blooms.  A resurrected mosquito bar served as a veil.  After them stumbled Phonograph Davis, in the character of the bride’s father, weeping into a saddle blanket with sobs that could be heard a mile away.  The cow-punchers followed by twos, loudly commenting upon the bride’s appearance, in a supposed imitation of the audiences at fashionable weddings.