“No use frettin’ about it, anyhow,” said he, in his matter-of-fact way.  “And as to Tom Osby, fellers, I’ll bet a plug of tobacco that’s him pullin’ in at the head of town right now.”

“Just like I said,” exclaimed Doc Tomlinson.  “He’s good enough railroad for any one, and he’s safe!  I wonder what did he bring this time.”

What Tom Osby brought this time, besides sundry merchandise for Whiteman the Jew, was a parrot and a pair of twins.  Neither of these specialties had ever before been seen in Heart’s Desire.

“Twins!” exclaimed Dan Anderson, when the facts were divulged, “and a parrot!”

Tom Osby, after making known the full nature of his cargo, discharged divers boxes, bales, and other packages at the store of Whiteman the Jew.  The parrot was not disposed to wait for the close of these formalities.  From under the white cover of the wagon there came sounds of profane speech.  Tom Osby paused and filled his pipe.  “Him?” said he, jerking his head toward the cover, as he scratched a match on the side of the wagon seat.  “He’s a shore peach.  Talked to me all the way from Vegas down.”

“Quork!” said the parrot.  “Look out!  Look out!  Brrrrrrrr—­awk—­awk!  Quork!”

“I told you so,” said Tom.

“Oh, dang it, I’m tired!” continued the bird.

“This,” remarked Dan Anderson, “seems to be a cultivated gentleman.  But how about the twins?  Where are they?  And might we—­er—­ask whose are they?”

“Them?” said Tom.  “Why, they’re for Curly.  They’re asleep down under the seat here.  Now, between the parrot and them twins, my trip down ain’t been any lonesome to speak of.”

All eyes were turned on Curly, the newly wedded cow puncher, who blushed a bright brick red to the roots of his hair.  “Wh—­where did they come from?” stammered he.

“I presume, Curly,” said Dan Anderson, gravely, “like enough they came from somewhere over on the Brazos, your earlier home.  Why didn’t you tell us you were a married man?”

“I ain’t—­I never was!” cried Curly, hotly.  “I never did have no twins nowhere.  Where’d you git ’em, Tom?”

The freighter threw his leg across the seat.  “Oh, they’re yours all right, I reckon, Curly,” said he.  “Mother’s dead.  No relations.  They come from Kansas, where all the twins comes from.  I found ’em waitin’ up there in Vegas, billed through to you.  Both dead broke, both plumb happy, and airy one of ’em worth its weight in gold.  Its name is Susabella and Aryann, or somethin’ like that.  Shall I wake it up?  It’s both alike.”

“Now, why, my woman’s folks,” began Curly, “up there in Kansas—­I reckon maybe that’s how it happened!  She had a sister done married a Baptis’ preacher, onct.  Say, now, I bet a horse that’s right how this here happened.  Say, they was so pore they didn’t have enough to eat.”

“Letter come with ’em,” said Tom, taking out a handful of tobacco from his pocket with the missive.  “I reckon, that explains it, I wouldn’t take a thousand dollars for ’em if they was mine.  Here, you kids, get out of there and come and see the nice gentlemen.  Here they are, fellers.”