Part 2

“Please,” mumbles th’ party of th’ missin’ teeth. “Things are bad enough without repeatin’ your former exclamations.”

“Preacher,” wonders Sig out loud. “Another preacher in th’ country? We done got one in Piperock now, Art. One with all his teeth, too.”

“Uh-huh,” agreed Art. “But he’s uh Baptist. This’n is uh Presbyterian. Miss Beebee’s uh Presbyterian, and she insists on her own tribe fer th’ marriage _wau-wau_. _Sabe?_”

“When is this event due to happen?” grins Sig.

“Tonight,” states Art. “And I’ll bet Buck Masterson is runnin’ rings around himself right now. We’re due.”

“Buck Masterson?” mumbles Sig. “I don’t see----”

“Nobody does either,” chuckles Art. “Ain’t he gittin’ uh prize package?”

Sig grunts and wonders if some of th’ buck-shot didn’t go deeper than just through th’ skin. He feels dazed like. Art Miller is fumblin’ inside his shirt and finally produces a wrinkled envelope.

“I jist happened to remember it, Sig. I sees Ren Merton yesterday in Curlew and he sends you this. Wrote it too late to mail. Li’l surprise.”

He finished with a wink at th’ preacher person, who is huntin’ around inside th’ wrecked stage fer his teeth.

Sig opened th’ envelope and read th’ followin’ aloud:

“Deer Sigismund:

Me and Rosalind were married here today and send you our best wishes. I hated to double-cross you but I told her about our plans and she said that heroes were born and not made and that I’d be one if I saved her from a certain bow-legged person we both know. I asks your pardon and wishes to state that I wouldn’t have done it if I had of been sober. You can have that new quirt which is hangin’ over my bunk. You know how a feller loses his head when he’s spifflikated.

Yours respy Renley St. Clair Merton & wife.

P.S. The preacher what tied the not is in the stage and can tell you all about it. I hope you don’t kill him during the rescue ’cause he never asked fer a cent.”

“You--you performed a marriage in Curlew last night?” asked Sig, and th’ preacher nods.

“Yeth thir,” he states, with his tongue explorin’ where his teeth used to bed down. “But I never wath paid a thent.”

Sig fumbled around in his pocket for a moment and then hauled out a small roll of bills.

“Here’s uh ten spot with my compliments, old-timer.”

“Wath he a friend of yours?” asks th’ preacher.

“Well,” says Sig, feelin’ of th’ two envelopes in his chaps pocket, “he don’t think so, but he don’t know it all. If uh man would ask me I’d say, yes.”

Sig recovers his horse and pulls out fer Piperock, after promisin’ Art that he’ll send help out to them. Buck is standin’ in front of th’ saloon and as Sig rides up he yells--

“Seen anythin’ of th’ stage, Sig?”

Sig tells him about th’ smash-up and then goes in and drapes himself over th’ bar. Ricky Henderson is there and they crooks elbows numerous.

“Where’s Ren?” asks Ricky. “I ain’t seen him since Saturday. Him and that Rosalind person is thicker than axle grease in January. Been out ridin’ every day last week. I thought you had aspirations thataway, Sig.’”

“Not me, Ricky. Yore uncle Siggie knows when he’s safe. I’m goin’ over to congratulate th’ bride, and then I’m goin’ to come back and fill my hide with some more absent-minded juice. So long.”

He ambles across th’ street to th’ restaurant and finds Miss Matilda tellin’ th’ Chink what to have fer supper.

“Howdy,” says Sig. “I reckon I can congratulate you on yore marriage to Buck.”

Matilda blushes through her whiskers and smooths her skirt.

“Thanks, Sigismund. I had hopes that you and Rosalind could stand up with us, but she’s in Curlew and won’t be back. I’ll have to git Miss Harris. Would you like to stand up with her?”

“Ma’am,” says Sig, “while I admires such functions uh heap, I’d uh lot rather jist sit on th’ bench and watch ’em. Rosalind is uh real nice girl, I reckon, but her and me ain’t----”

Miss Beebee pats Sig on th’ shoulder in uh motherly way.

“Rosalind is uh nice girl but she’s got uh temper that would, when it busts, make uh stick of dynamite sound like th’ scratchin’ of uh sulfur match. She told me that she liked yore looks th’ first time she ever seen yuh, Sigismund, but it’s money she wants--not love.”

“She’s done married Ren,” states Sig sarcastically.

“Already? My, my, she shore didn’t take any chances. I’ll tell you uh secret Ricky Henderson told.”

Sig looked foolishly at her and scratched his head.

“Ricky did, eh? Jist about how much did that _hombre_ e-lucidate?”

“He came in here the other day after Renley had gone, and he told us all about Renley being the real owner of the Triangle cattle and also havin’ uh big interest in th’ Seven A. Oh, he told us all about Renley. Ricky had been drinkin’, I think.”

“So Rosalind----”

“Jist a moment, Sigismund. I want to make a little confession. Her name is not Rosalind, but Matilda. We traded names when we came up here because mine fits her better than her own. Of course all our friends outside of Piperock know that my name is Rosalind. Of course when she found out all about Renley----”

“Yes’m,” agreed Sig. “She marries him fer his money. Honest, ma’am, I feels fer both of them.”

Sig walks back across th’ street in uh dazed sort-a way and leans against th’ bar.

“Rosalind, eh?” he snorts to himself. “Well, don’t that beat four of uh kind. Renley is th’ owner of th’-- Gosh! There’s goin’ to be uh noise like uh ton of dynamite in that li’l ol’ honeymoon. Huh! That Elberton person must shore be uh collector uh knick-knacks and--I wonder if he was drunk, too?”

Buck Masterson walks in from th’ front and ranges alongside of Sig.

“I’ve sent fer th’ preacher,” he states.

But Sig jist grunts. He’s tryin’ to visualize th’ face on Jack Elberton, which would want to come clear to Piperock to kiss Miss Beebee.

“Did you know her name was Rosalind?” asks Sig.

“Shee,” says Buck, and then he gits confidential and talks in uh low tone. “Dog-gone th’ luck, Sig, I shore wish it was all over. It’s got me so danged jumpy that I flinches at everything. I wish--huh--I wish--say, Sig, uh feller hadn’t ought to drink whisky a-tall. He hadn’t ought to take even one li’l friendly drink. I’ll----”

“Say,” snorts Sig, “You don’t mean to tell me that you was full when you----”

“Fuller’n uh shepherd,” states Buck solemnly. “By cripes, I was so full that I’d have proposed to uh--say, where yuh goin’?”

“Me?” asks Sig, turnin’ around in th’ doorway, and holdin’ up his right hand. “I’m goin’ out to meet that preacher person and I’m--goin’--to--sign--th’ pledge! _Sabe?_ Self-preservation is th’ first law of nature, and I’d rather be preserved than pickled. It’s safer.”

The End

[Transcriber’s Note: This article appeared in the February 1917 issue of Adventure Magazine.]