“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.  “Plain ‘Shorty’ of the Bar X—­er—­a miserable, crawlin’ worm for disturbin’ of you.”  He rolled his eyes helplessly at Bailey, while he sopped with his crumpled sombrero at the glistening perspiration.

“Why didn’t ye tell me?” he whispered ferociously at the host, and the volume of his query carried to Joy, hiding out in the night.

“Mr. Shorty,” said the sheriff gravely; “let me introduce my wife, Mrs. Turney.”

The bride smiled sweetly at the tremulous little man, who broke and fled to a high bench in the darkest corner, where he dangled his short legs in a silent ecstasy of bashfulness.