"Yes, I guess you are, all right," deliberated Tommy. "Marriage has always seemed to me like payin' taxes for somethin' you owned or goin' to jail for havin' too much fun; always like payin' for somethin'. But yourn ain't. Not much."
Bruce laughed. They talked in a desultory way until they had dressed. Then Bayard walked to the other side of the room where a sheet had been tacked and hung down over bulky objects. He pulled it aside and stood back that Tommy might see the clothing that hung against the wall.
"How's that for raiment?" he demanded.
Tommy approached and lifted the skirt of the black sack coat gingerly, critically. He turned it back, inspected the lining and then put his hand to his lips to signify shock.
"Oh, my gosh, Bruce! Silk linin'! You'll be curlin' your hair next!"
"Nothing too good for this fracus, Tommy. Best suit of clothes I could get made in Prescott. Those shoes—patent leather!" He picked up one and blew a fleck of dust from it carefully. "Cost th' price of a pair of boots an' don't look like they'd wear a mile." He reached into the pocket of the coat and drew out a small package, unrolling it to display a necktie. "Pearl gray, they call it, Tommy. An' swell as a city bartender's!" He waved it in triumph before the sparkling eyes of his pug-nosed friend.
"Gosh, Bruce, you're goin' to be done out like a buck peacock, clean from your toes up. You—
"Say, what are you goin' to wear on your head?"
Bayard's hand dropped to his side and a crestfallen look crossed his features.
"I'm a sheepherder, if I didn't forget," he muttered.