Miss Sally and the Marquis were seated upon a log, discussing the relative merits of the lengthened or shortened stirrup in long-distance riding.  The Marquis arose presently and went to a tree near by to examine some strips of rawhide he was seasoning for making a lariat.  Just as he left a little puff of wind blew some scraps of tobacco from a cigarette that Dry-Creek Smithers was rolling, into Miss Sally’s eyes.  While the cook was rubbing at them, with tears flowing, “Phonograph” Davis—­so called on account of his strident voice—­arose and began a speech.

“Fellers and citizens!  I desire to perpound a interrogatory.  What is the most grievous spectacle what the human mind can contemplate?”

A volley of answers responded to his question.

“A busted flush!”

“A Maverick when you ain’t got your branding iron!”

“Yourself!”

“The hole in the end of some other feller’s gun!”

“Shet up, you ignoramuses,” said old Taller, the fat cow-puncher.  “Phony knows what it is.  He’s waitin’ for to tell us.”

“No, fellers and citizens,” continued Phonograph.  “Them spectacles you’ve e-numerated air shore grievious, and way up yonder close to the so-lution, but they ain’t it.  The most grievious spectacle air that”—­he pointed to Miss Sally, who was still rubbing his streaming eyes—­“a trustin’ and a in-veegled female a-weepin’ tears on account of her heart bein’ busted by a false deceiver.  Air we men or air we catamounts to gaze upon the blightin’ of our Miss Sally’s affections by a a-risto-crat, which has come among us with his superior beauty and his glitterin’ title to give the weeps to the lovely critter we air bound to pertect?  Air we goin’ to act like men, or air we goin’ to keep on eaten’ soggy chuck from her cryin’ so plentiful over the bread-pan?”

“It’s a gallopin’ shame,” said Dry-Creek, with a sniffle.  “It ain’t human.  I’ve noticed the varmint a-palaverin’ round her frequent.  And him a Marquis!  Ain’t that a title, Phony?”

“It’s somethin’ like a king,” the Brushy Creek Kid hastened to explain, “only lower in the deck.  Guess it comes in between the Jack and the ten-spot.”

“Don’t miscontruct me,” went on Phonograph, “as undervaluatin’ the a-ristocrats.  Some of ’em air proper people and can travel right along with the Watson boys.  I’ve herded some with ’em myself.  I’ve viewed the elephant with the Mayor of Fort Worth, and I’ve listened to the owl with the gen’ral passenger agent of the Katy, and they can keep up with the percession from where you laid the chunk.  But when a Marquis monkeys with the innocent affections of a cook-lady, may I inquire what the case seems to call for?”

“The leathers,” shouted Dry-Creek Smithers.

“You hearn ’er, Charity!” was the Kid’s form of corroboration.

“We’ve got your company,” assented the cow-punchers, in chorus.

Before the Marquis realized their intention, two of them seized him by each arm and led him up to the log.  Phonograph Davis, self-appointed to carry out the sentence, stood ready, with a pair of stout leather leggings in his hands.