“Killock? No, Ma’am! There’s Parson Hedwith at Branch Coulie—Jerusha Juniper! I bet they ain’t even goin’ thar,” ejaculated Lance, with revived interest. “Hop erlong, Gaby! Push on, ladies. Ef yuh wanter see thet thar marriage, mebbe we kin make it, after all. I bet they air bound for Bill Whistler’s.”
“Who is he?” asked Tavia. “Somebody like the blacksmith at Gretna Green?”
“Never hearn tell of him, Ma’am; an’ a blacksmith ain’t qualified tuh marry in this state. But Bill Whistler is. He’s just been made a Justice of the Peace.”
“A ‘Squire’!” cried Tavia. “So’s my father.”
“Wal, then, Ma’am; you know he kin marry as slick as airy parson,” said Lance. “It’s for his house Colt and Molly air aimin’, I ’low.”
“Oh, Mr. Lance!” cried Dorothy Dale, enthusiastic herself now, “is Mr. Whistler’s house on this road?”
“It shore is.”
“Can’t we stop and see them married?”
“That’s what I was thinkin’ on,” declared the cowboy. “I was ’lowin’ to give the ponies a rest there, anyway. And we’ll need it ourselves.”
“Let’s hurry!” cried Tavia. “Maybe we can catch up with that girl.”