By nightfall the Benton ranch gleamed on the dark prairie like a constellation.  Lights burned at every window; a broad beam issued from the door and threw a welcoming beacon across the darkness and silence of the night.  The scraping of fiddles mingled with the rhythmic scuffle of feet and the singsong of the words that the dancers sung as they whirled through the figures of the quadrille and lancers.  About the walls of the room where the dancing was in progress stood a fringe of gallants, their heads newly oiled, and proclaiming the fact in a bewildering variety of strong perfumes.  Red silk neckerchiefs knotted with elaborate carelessness displayed to advantage bronzed throats; new overalls, and of the shaggiest species, amply testified to the social importance of the Benton dance.

As yet the dancing was but intermittent and was engaged in chiefly by the mothers with large progeny, who felt that after the arrival of a greater number of guests, and among them the unmarried girls, their opportunities might not be as plentiful as at present.  One or two cow-punchers, in an excess of civility at the presence of the fair, had insisted on giving up their six-shooters, mumbling something about “there being ladies present and a man being hasty at times.”  In the “bunk-room,” which did duty as a gentleman’s cloak-room, things were really warming up.  There was much drinking of healths, as the brothers Benton had thoughtfully provided the wherewithal, and that in excellent quality.

Costigan was there, and Texas Tyler, who had ridden sixty miles to “swing a petticoat,” or, if there were not enough to go round, to dance with a handkerchief tied to some fellow’s sleeve.  By “swinging a petticoat” it was perfectly understood among all his friends that he meant a chance to dance with Judith Rodney.  Year in and year out Texas never failed to present himself at the post-office on mail-days, if his work took him within a radius of fifty miles of the Daxes.  No dance where the possibility of seeing Judith was even remote was too long a ride for him to undertake, even when it took him across the dreariest wastes of the desert.  Texas had been devoted to Judith since she had left the convent, and sometimes, perhaps twice a year, she told him that she valued his friendship.  On all other occasions she rejected his suit as if his continual pressing of it were something in the nature of an affront.  Yet Texas persevered.

“Well, here’s lukin’ at you, since in the way of a frind there’s nothing better to look at!” and Costigan drained a tin cup at Texas Tyler.

“Your very good health,” said Texas, who was somewhat embarrassed by what was regarded as Costigan’s “floweriness.”

“Begorra, is that Hinderson or the ghost av the b’y?” Costigan’s roving eye was arrested by the foreman of the “XXX,” who stood drinking with two or three men of his outfit.  He was pale and ill-looking.  He drank several times in succession, as if he needed the stimulant, and without the formality of drinking to any one.  The two or three “XXX” men who were with him seemed to be equally in need of restoratives.