A bronze ibis arose from the tules at the water's edge, and flapped slowly westward, its pointed wings and hanging feet dripping with the gold of the sunset. Parker laid down his gun.
"What did you want to shoot at that thing fer?" asked Idy. "They ain't fit to eat."
"The wings is pretty. I thought you might like another feather in your cap."
The girl gave him a look of radiant contempt, and he spoke again hurriedly, anxious to prevent a relapse in the conversation.
"You was sayin' somethin' to-day about signin' the pledge, Idy: I've been layin' off to sign the pledge this good while. The next time there's a meetin' of the W. X. Y. Z. women, you fetch on one o' their pledges, an' I'll put my fist to it."
"W. C. T. U.," corrected Idy, with emphasis.
"All right; W. C. T. me, if that suits you any better. It's a long time since I learned my letters, an' I get 'em mixed. But I've made up my mind on the teetotal business, and don't ye forget it."
"There ain't any danger of me forgettin' it," said the young woman significantly. "What ye goin' to do about that other business?" she added, turning her wide eyes upon him abruptly—"about gettin' even with that cheatin' Barden?"
They had driven into the purple shadow of the mountains, and Parker seemed to have left his enthusiasm behind him with the sunlight.
"I don't know," he said gloomily. "Do ye want me to kill 'im?"