“Two bits!” yelled the marshal, glaring at him angrily:  “Two bits! Why, the look in this cayuse’s eyes is worth four!  Look at the spirit in them eyes, look at the intelligence!  The saddle alone is worth a clean forty dollars of any man’s money.  I am out here to sell this animal to the highest bidder; the sale’s begun, an’ I want bids, not jokes.  Now, who’ll start it off?” he demanded, glancing around; but no one had anything to say except the terse stranger, who appeared to be getting irritated.

“You’ve got a starter—­I’ve given you a bid.  I bid two bits—­t-w-o b-i-t-s, twenty-five cents.  Now go ahead with yore auction.”

The marshal thought he saw an attempt at humor, and since he was feeling quite happy, and since he knew that good humor is conducive to good bidding, he smiled, all the time, however, racking his memory for the name of the humorist.  So he accepted the bid:  “All right, this gentleman bids two bits.  Two bits I am bid—­two bits.  Twenty-five cents.  Who’ll make it twenty-five dollars?  Two bits—­who says twenty-five dollars?  Ah, did you say twenty-five dollars?” he snapped, leveling an accusing and threatening fore-finger at the man nearest him, who squirmed restlessly and glanced at the stranger. “Did you say twenty-five dollars?” he shouted.

The stranger came to the rescue.  “He did not.  He hasn’t opened his mouth.  But I said twenty-five cents,” quietly observed the humorist.

“Who’ll gimme thirty?  Who’ll gimme thirty dollars?  Did I hear thirty dollars?  Did I hear twenty-five dollars bid?  Who said thirty dollars?  Did you say twenty-five dollars?”

“How could he when he was talking politics to the man behind him?” asked the stranger.  “I said two bits,” he added complacently, as he watched the auctioneer closely.

“I want twenty-five dollars—­an’ you shut yore blasted mouth!” snapped the marshal at the persistent twenty-five-cent man.  He did not see the fire smouldering in the squinting eyes so alertly watching him.  “Twenty-five dollars—­not a cent less takes the cayuse.  Why, gentlemen, he’s worth twenty in cans!  Gimme twenty-five dollars, somebody. I bid twenty-five.  I want thirty.  I want thirty, gentlemen; you must gimme thirty. I bid twenty-five dollars—­who’s going to make it thirty?”

“Show us yore twenty-five an’ she’s yourn,” remarked the stranger, with exasperating assurance, while Fisher grew pale with excitement.  The stranger was standing clear of his horse now, and alert readiness was stamped all over him.  “You accepted my bid—­show yore twenty-five dollars or take my two bits.”

“You close that face of yourn!” exploded the marshal, angrily.  “I don’t mind a little fun, but you’ve got altogether too damned much to say.  You’ve queered the bidding, an’ now you shut up!”

“I said two bits an’ I mean just that.  You show yore twenty-five or gimme that cayuse on my bid,” retorted the stranger.