“Have another aig, Renley?” mimicked Sig. “Them cakes is all cold. Let me git yuh some hot ones, Renley. Take all th’ cream yuh can use, there’s a-plenty. Have some more nice maple sirup, Renley.”
“Sig!” Ren snapped his cinch hook and walked over to th’ door.
“When it comes to bowels of compassion, you don’t show uh gut. If you was uh real friend you’d be figgerin’ some way to save me, instead of passin’ out low comedy.”
“She ain’t much to look at,” agreed Sig, as he swung into th’ saddle, “but many uh kind word is often hidden by sparse whiskers.”
“——!” snorts Ren. “There’s Matilda, of th’ angel face, wavin’ at me to come back. I wonder what she wants?”
“She probably wants to know whether you prefers uh Methodist or uh Baptist preacher. Tell her yore folks raised yuh in th’ Mormon faith, Ren, and you can’t consider no other. That’ll delay proceedin’s until she can send to Utah and——”
But Ren was on his way out of town, and Sig followed suit.
Well, they goes back to th’ Seven A and goes to work again. Th’ boss, Old Man Padden, sends Sig with uh couple of other punchers to ride th’ breaks of th’ Shell River after strays, and he keeps Ren at home where there ain’t nothin’ to do but water some stock and go to town after th’ mail. Sig is away fer ten days, and when he returns he’s plumb lonesome fer company—Rosalind’s especially.
Ren is sittin’ on th’ corral fence braidin’ uh quirt when Sig rides in.
“How’s Old Man Merton’s boy Renley?” greets Sig, yankin’ his saddle off and hazin’ his bronc into th’ pasture. “How’s everything?”