"Doggone," said Anderson, chuckling aloud, "that was an awful good joke on 'Rast, wasn't it?"
The stablemen stood around and looked at him with jaws that were drooping helplessly. The air seemed laden with a sombre uncertainty that had not yet succeeded in penetrating the nature of Marshal Crow.
"Is it from her?" finally asked Ike Smith hoarsely, his lips trembling.
"From what her?"
"Rosalie."
"Thunder, no! It's from my lawyers in Chicago."
"Ain't you—ain't you heerd about it?" half groaned Ike, moving away as if he expected something calamitous.
"What the dickens are you fellers drivin' at?" demanded Anderson. The remainder of his posse deserted the red-hot stove and drew near with the instinctive feeling that something dreadful had happened.