“But supposing we are busy when it takes place,” said Mouse, “then what?”

“But we won’t be,” answered Miller.  “It isn’t every day that we have a chance at a wedding in our little family, and when we get the word, this outfit quits then and there.  Ordinary callings in life, like cattle matters, must go to the rear until important things are attended to.  Every man is expected to don his best togs, and dance to the centre on the word.  If it takes a week to turn the trick properly, good enough.  Jack and his bride must have a blow-out right.  This outfit must do themselves proud.  It will be our night to howl, and every man will be a wooly wolf.”

We loaded the beeves out the next day, going back after two trains of “Turkey Track” cattle.  While we were getting these out, Miller cut out two strays and a cow or two, and sent them to the horse pasture at the home camp.  It was getting late in the fall, and we figured that a few more shipments would end it.  Miller told the owners to load out what they wanted while the weather was fit, as our saddle horses were getting worn out fast.  As we were loading out the last shipment of mixed cattle of our own, the letter came to Miller.  Jack would return with his bride on a date only two days off, and the festivities were set for one day later.  We pulled into headquarters that night, the first time in six weeks, and turned everything loose.  The next morning we overhauled our Sunday bests, and worried around trying to pick out something for a wedding present.

Miller gave the happy pair a little “Flower Pot” cow, which he had rustled in the Cheyenne country on the round-up a few years before.  Edwards presented him with a log chain that a bone-picker had lost in our pasture.  Mouse gave Jack a four-tined fork which the hay outfit had forgotten when they left.  Coon Floyd’s compliments went with five cow-bells, which we always thought he rustled from a boomer’s wagon that broke down over on the Reno trail.  It bothered some of us to rustle something for a present, for you know we couldn’t buy anything.  We managed to get some deer’s antlers, a gray wolf’s skin for the bride’s tootsies, and several colored sheepskins, which we had bought from a Mexican horse herd going up the trail that spring.  We killed a nice fat little beef, the evening before we started, hanging it out over night to harden.  None of the boys knew the brand; in fact, it’s bad taste to remember the brand on anything you’ve beefed.  No one troubles himself to notice it carefully.  That night a messenger brought a letter to Miller, ordering him to ship out the remnant of “Diamond Tail” cattle as soon as possible.  They belonged to a northwest Texas outfit, and we were maturing them.  The messenger stayed all night, and in the morning asked, “Shall I order cars for you?”

“No, I have a few other things to attend to first,” answered Miller.