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Page 38
"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.
It was the first time they had ever laid hands on the Marquis during
their somewhat rude sports.
"What are you up to?" he asked, indignantly, with flashing eyes.
"Go easy, Marquis," whispered Rube Fellows, one of the boys that held
him. "It's all in fun. Take it good-natured and they'll let you off
light. They're only goin' to stretch you over the log and tan you eight
or ten times with the leggin's. 'Twon't hurt much."
The Marquis, with an exclamation of anger, his white teeth gleaming,
suddenly exhibited a surprising strength. He wrenched with his arms so
violently that the four men were swayed and dragged many yards from the
log. A cry of anger escaped him, and then Miss Sally, his eyes cleared
of the tobacco, saw, and he immediately mixed with the struggling group.
But at that moment a loud "Hallo!" rang in their ears, and a buckboard
drawn by a team of galloping mustangs spun into the campfire's circle of
light. Every man turned to look, and what they saw drove from their
minds all thoughts of carrying out Phonograph Davis's rather time-worn
contribution to the evening's amusement. Bigger game than the Marquis
was at hand, and his captors released him and stood staring at the
approaching victim.
The buckboard and team belonged to Sam Holly, a cattleman from the Big
Muddy. Sam was driving, and with him was a stout, smooth-faced man,
wearing a frock coat and a high silk hat. That was the county judge, Mr.
Dave Hackett, candidate for reelection. Sam was escorting him about the
county, among the camps, to shake up the sovereign voters.
The men got out, hitched the team to a mesquite, and walked toward the
fire.
Instantly every man in camp, except the Marquis, Miss Sally, and Pink
Saunders, who had to play host, uttered a frightful yell of assumed
terror and fled on all sides into the darkness.
"Heavens alive!" exclaimed Hackett, "are we as ugly as that? How do you
do, Mr. Saunders? Glad to see you again. What are you doing to my hat,
Holly?"
"I was afraid of this hat," said Sam Holly, meditatively. He had taken
the hat from Hackett's head and was holding it in his hand, looking
dubiously around at the shadows beyond the firelight where now absolute
stillness reigned. "What do you think, Saunders?"
Pink grinned.
"Better elevate it some," he said, in the tone of one giving
disinterested advice. "The light ain't none too good. I wouldn't want it
on my head."
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