I explained that my friend Lin had lately married an eating-house lady precipitately and against my advice.

“I suppose he knew his business,” observed Ogden.

“That’s what he said to me at the time.  But you ought to see her—­and know him.”

Ogden was going to.  Husband and wife were coming our way.  Husband nodded to me his familiar offish nod, which concealed his satisfaction at meeting with an old friend.  Wife did not look at me at all.  But I looked at her, and I instantly knew that Lin—­the fool!—­had confided to her my disapproval of their marriage.  The most delicate specialty upon earth is your standing with your old friend’s new wife.

“Good-day, Mr. McLean,” said the Governor to the cow-puncher on his horse.

“How’re are yu’, doctor,” said Lin.  During his early days in Wyoming the Governor, when as yet a private citizen, had set Mr. McLean’s broken leg at Drybone.  “Let me make yu’ known to Mrs. McLean,” pursued the husband.

The lady, at a loss how convention prescribes the greeting of a bride to a Governor, gave a waddle on the pony’s back, then sat up stiff, gazed haughtily at the air, and did not speak or show any more sign than a cow would under like circumstances.  So the Governor marched cheerfully at her, extending his hand, and when she slightly moved out toward him her big, dumb, red fist, he took it and shook it, and made her a series of compliments, she maintaining always the scrupulous reserve of the cow.

“I say,” Ogden whispered to me while Barker was pumping the hand of the flesh image, “I’m glad I came.”  The appearance of the puncher-bridegroom also interested Ogden, and he looked hard at Lin’s leather chaps and cartridge-belt and so forth.  Lin stared at the New-Yorker, and his high white collar and good scarf.  He had seen such things quite often, of course, but they always filled him with the same distrust of the man that wore them.

“Well,” said he, “I guess we’ll be pulling for a hotel.  Any show in town?  Circus come yet?”

“No,” said I.  “Are you going to make a long stay?”

The cow-puncher glanced at the image, his bride of three weeks.  “Till we’re tired of it, I guess,” said he, with hesitation.  It was the first time that I had ever seen my gay friend look timidly at any one, and I felt a rising hate for the ruby-checked, large-eyed eating-house lady, the biscuit-shooter whose influence was dimming this jaunty, irrepressible spirit.  I looked at her.  Her bulky bloom had ensnared him, and now she was going to tame and spoil him.  The Governor was looking at her too, thoughtfully.

“Say, Lin,” I said, “if you stay here long enough you’ll see a big show.”  And his eye livened into something of its native jocularity as I told him of the rain-maker.

“Shucks!” said he, springing from his horse impetuously, and hugely entertained at our venture.  “Three hundred and fifty dollars?  Let me come in”; and before I could tell him that we had all the money raised, he was hauling out a wadded lump of bills.