Holy looked down at the tattered glove that dangled in dingy strings from the offending hand, then he pulled it off in sections. "I hope some one will shoot the top of my head off if I ever wear them damned things again. Not on your life—even if the Boss was to get married every day in the year for the rest of his life!"
He jerked off the other glove, wadded them together in a compact ball, and deftly tossed it out the open window.
The wedding party adjourned to a feast spread in the dining room of the Willcox Hotel, where toasts were given and merriment continued unabated till the west-bound 'Flyer' stopped at the signal, and Traynor and his bride left for a couple of weeks in California, leaving Jamie with Mrs. Green.
Powell boarded the train at the same time, as he had to go to Tucson on business connected with his intention to bid for the Hot Springs Ranch.
Bonfires had been lighted near the track, and the boys fired a salute to the Boss and his bride. The coloured porter darted back to the platform of the train, and looked at the men with wild eyes.
"You ain't got no call to be scairt," reassured Bronco, "We're jest seein' a bridal couple off, that's all."
Then the whites of the porter's eyes disappeared entirely, and in the black face shone a row of gleaming teeth.
The tail-light of the train disappeared in the distance, the bonfires died away, and the boys of the Diamond H. feeling they had done things up 'good and proper,' sought their beds in the hotel.
"Gosh! I'm glad the Boss ain't a Mormon!" sighed Bronco, as he dropped to sleep. The only response to his remark was a chorus of snores in which he soon joined.
Out in the dusty road was a tiny ball that had once been a pair of white kid gloves.