“We—huh—have!” snapped Art, and then to Sig: “What do yuh mean by stampedin’ my outfit thataway, eh? Comin’ along a-shootin’ like uh crazy half-breed!”

“Art,” says Sig, “I shore begs yore pardon if I done wrong, but I’d almost swear that I hears somebody yell ‘Hands up!’ at you, when you pulls out of th’ ford, and I comes to yore rescue. Dog-gone it all, that’s allus th’ way. When yuh tries to do uh feller uh favor he don’t appreciate it.”

Sig looks sorry fer himself and rolls uh smoke.

“Yore hearin’ is fine,” states Art, after thinkin’ fer uh minute. “Jist as we pulls out of th’ ford, that rattle-headed, Roman-nosed, off leader uh mine leans back and lets th’ pinto wheeler into th’ stretchers. What I yells was—I begs yore pardon, preacher, did you speak?”

“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:

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