In the little church after the hastily summoned witnesses had departed, the Reverend Len Christie stood holding a hand of each. "Never in my life have I performed a clerical office that gave me so much genuine happiness and satisfaction," he announced.
"Me, neither," assented Vil Holland, heartily, and, then—"Hold on, Len. You're too blame young an' good lookin' for such tricks—an' besides, I've never kissed her, myself, yet——!"
"Where will it be now?" asked Holland, when they found themselves once more upon the street.
"Home—dear," whispered his wife. "You know we've got to get that cabin up before snow flies—our cabin, Vil—with the porch that will look out over the snows of the changing lights."
"If the whole town didn't have their heads out the window, watchin' us I'd kiss you right here," he answered, and strode off to lead her horse up beside his own.
Swinging her into the saddle, he was about to mount Lightning, when she leaned over and raised the brown leather jug on its thong. "Why, it's empty!" she exclaimed.
"So it is," agreed Holland, with mock concern.
"Really, Vil, I don't care—so much. If it don't hurt men any more than it has hurt you, I won't quarrel with it. I'll wait while you get it filled."
"Maybe I'd better," he said, and swinging it from the saddle horn, crossed the street and entered the general store. A few minutes later he returned and swung the jug into place.
"Why! Do they sell whisky at the store? I thought you got that at a saloon."