At the end of that time it was worth it.

Had you lived anywhere within fifty miles of Sundown Ranch you would have heard of it.  It possessed a quantity of jet-black hair, a pair of extremely frank, deep-brown eyes and a laugh that rippled across the prairie like the sound of a hidden brook.  The name of it was Rosita McMullen; and she was the daughter of old man McMullen of the Sundown Sheep Ranch.

There came riding on red roan steeds—­or, to be more explicit, on a paint and a flea-bitten sorrel—­two wooers.  One was Madison Lane, and the other was the Frio Kid.  But at that time they did not call him the Frio Kid, for he had not earned the honours of special nomenclature.  His name was simply Johnny McRoy.

It must not be supposed that these two were the sum of the agreeable Rosita’s admirers.  The bronchos of a dozen others champed their bits at the long hitching rack of the Sundown Ranch.  Many were the sheeps’-eyes that were cast in those savannas that did not belong to the flocks of Dan McMullen.  But of all the cavaliers, Madison Lane and Johnny McRoy galloped far ahead, wherefore they are to be chronicled.

Madison Lane, a young cattleman from the Nueces country, won the race.  He and Rosita were married one Christmas day.  Armed, hilarious, vociferous, magnanimous, the cowmen and the sheepmen, laying aside their hereditary hatred, joined forces to celebrate the occasion.

Sundown Ranch was sonorous with the cracking of jokes and sixshooters, the shine of buckles and bright eyes, the outspoken congratulations of the herders of kine.

But while the wedding feast was at its liveliest there descended upon it Johnny McRoy, bitten by jealousy, like one possessed.

“I’ll give you a Christmas present,” he yelled, shrilly, at the door, with his .45 in his hand.  Even then he had some reputation as an offhand shot.

His first bullet cut a neat underbit in Madison Lane’s right ear.  The barrel of his gun moved an inch.  The next shot would have been the bride’s had not Carson, a sheepman, possessed a mind with triggers somewhat well oiled and in repair.  The guns of the wedding party had been hung, in their belts, upon nails in the wall when they sat at table, as a concession to good taste.  But Carson, with great promptness, hurled his plate of roast venison and frijoles at McRoy, spoiling his aim.  The second bullet, then, only shattered the white petals of a Spanish dagger flower suspended two feet above Rosita’s head.

The guests spurned their chairs and jumped for their weapons.  It was considered an improper act to shoot the bride and groom at a wedding.  In about six seconds there were twenty or so bullets due to be whizzing in the direction of Mr. McRoy.

“I’ll shoot better next time,” yelled Johnny; “and there’ll be a next time.”  He backed rapidly out the door.

Carson, the sheepman, spurred on to attempt further exploits by the success of his plate-throwing, was first to reach the door.  McRoy’s bullet from the darkness laid him low.