Derf came through the fence and laid a detaining hand on Satan's mane, getting nipped at for his pains.
"You ain't got the time to go down to the store and buy, and git back home by night," he argued. "Better trade with me, Lance. I 120 brung up a wagon load of goods last time I was down. I aim to put in shelving and set up regular next month."
A quick change went over Lance's face.
"Have you got any women's slippers—that size?" the bridegroom asked eagerly, drawing Callista's shoe from his pocket.
Derf took the shoe in his hand and fingered it, bending so his countenance was concealed. Lance became aware of a heaving of the man's shoulders, a gurgling, choking sound that at length resolved itself into a fierily offensive chuckle.
"Buyin' shoes for her the fust day!" snickered Garrett Derf.
The young fellow bent from his saddle and swooped the bit of foot-gear out of the other's fingers—it looked so much as though he would clout Garrett Derf on the side of the head with it that the latter dodged hastily.
"Are you going to trade, or are you not?" he asked with blazing eyes. "I got something else to do besides stand here talking."
"I'll give you half," bantered Derf, still holding discreetly out of range, but wiping the tears of delicious mirth from the corners of his eyes.
"I'll take it," returned Lance sharply, thrusting forth his hand. "Have you got it with you?"