“Do we have to have witnesses?” asked Bob helplessly. Getting married was a more formidable and formal affair than he had supposed.
“Sure. I’ll dig ’em up.”
The justice waddled to the door of the saloon adjoining and stuck his head inside. A row of cowpunchers were lined up in front of the bar.
“Y-you, Dud Hollister an’ Tom Reeves, I’m servin’ a subpoena on you lads as w-witnesses at a w-weddin’,” he said in the high wheeze that sounded so funny coming from his immense bulk.
“Whose wedding?” demanded Reeves, a lank youth with a brick-red face, the nose of which had been broken.
“N-none of yore darned business.”
“Do we get to kiss the bride?”
“You h-hotfoot it right to my office or I’ll throw you in the c-calaboose for c-contempt of court, Tom Reeves.”
The puncher turned to Hollister, grinning. “Come along, Dud. Might ’s well learn how it’s done, ol’ Sure-Shot.”
The range-riders jingled into the office at the heels of the justice. Blister inquired for the names of the principals and introduced the witnesses to them. The gayety and the audacity of the punchers had vanished. They ducked their heads and drew back a foot each in a scrape that was meant to be a bow. They were almost as embarrassed as June and Bob. Which is saying a good deal.