But Phonograph Davis, his appetite for fun not yet appeased, had something more up his sleeve.
“Pardner,” he said, addressing Hackett with grave severity, “many a camp would be down on you for turnin’ loose a pernicious varmint like that in it; but, bein’ as we all escaped without loss of life, we’ll overlook it. You can play square with us if you’ll do it.”
“How’s that?” asked Hackett suspiciously.
“You’re authorized to perform the sacred rights and lefts of mattermony, air you not?”
“Well, yes,” replied Hackett. “A marriage ceremony conducted by me would be legal.”
“A wrong air to be righted in this here camp,” said Phonograph, virtuously. “A a-ristocrat have slighted a ’umble but beautchoos female wat’s pinin’ for his affections. It’s the jooty of the camp to drag forth the haughty descendant of a hundred—or maybe a hundred and twenty-five—earls, even so at the p’int of a lariat, and jine him to the weepin’ lady. Fellows! roundup Miss Sally and the Marquis; there’s goin’ to be a weddin’.”
This whim of Phonograph’s was received with whoops of appreciation. The cow-punchers started to apprehend the principals of the proposed ceremony.
“Kindly prompt me,” said Hackett, wiping his forehead, though the night was cool, “how far this thing is to be carried. And might I expect any further portions of my raiment to be mistaken for wild animals and killed?”
“The boys are livelier than usual to-night,” said Saunders. “The ones they are talking about marrying are two of the boys—a herd rider and the cook. It’s another joke. You and Sam will have to sleep here to-night anyway; p’rhaps you’d better see ’em through with it. Maybe they’ll quiet down after that.”
The matchmakers found Miss Sally seated on the tongue of the grub wagon, calmly smoking his pipe. The Marquis was leaning idly against one of the trees under which the supply tent was pitched.