“Friends and neighbors,” he said, “shall we drink to the prosperity of the Lazy S, the health and happiness of its master and its mistress?”
The health was drunk with cheers and noisy congratulations. Conversation began again, but Langford still stood.
“Friends and neighbors,” he said again. His voice was grave. “Let us drink to one—not with us to-night—a brave man—” in spite of himself his voice broke—“let us drink to the memory of Jim Munson.”
Silently all rose, and drank. They were rough men and women, most of them, but they were a people who held personal bravery among the virtues. Many stood with dimmed eyes, picturing that final scene on the island in which a brave man’s life had closed. Few there would soon forget Jim Munson, cow-puncher of the Three Bars.
There was yet another toast Langford was to propose to-night. Now was the opportune time. Jim would have wished it so. It was fitting that this toast follow Jim’s—it was Jim who had made it possible that it be given. He turned to Mary and touched her lightly on the shoulder.
“Will you come, Mary?” he said.
She went with him, wonderingly. He led her to the centre of the room. His arm fell gently over her shoulders. Her cheeks flushed with the sudden knowledge of what was coming, but she looked at him with perfect trust and unquestioning love.
“Friends and neighbors,” his voice rang out so that all might hear, “I ask you to drink to the health and happiness of the future mistress of the Three Bars!”
THE END