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"It's a gallopin' shame," said Dry-Creek, with a sniffle. "It ain't human. I've noticed the varmint a-palaverin' round her frequent. And him a Marquis! Ain't that a title, Phony?" "It's somethin' like a king," the Brushy Creek Kid hastened to explain, "only lower in the deck. Guess it comes in between the Jack and the ten-spot."
"It's the chief of the hairy tribe," said Phonograph Davis. "But it's stone dead, now, boys." "Don't you believe it," demurred Dry-Creek. "It's only 'possumin'. It's the dreaded Highgollacum fantod from the forest. There's only one way to destroy its life." He led forward Old Taller, the 240-pound cow-puncher.
But when a Marquis monkeys with the innocent affections of a cook-lady, may I inquire what the case seems to call for?" "The leathers," shouted Dry-Creek Smithers. "You hearn 'er, Charity!" was the Kid's form of corroboration. "We've got your company," assented the cow-punchers, in chorus. Before the Marquis realized their intention, two of them seized him by each arm and led him up to the log.
The Marquis arose presently and went to a tree near by to examine some strips of rawhide he was seasoning for making a lariat. Just as he left a little puff of wind blew some scraps of tobacco from a cigarette that Dry-Creek Smithers was rolling, into Miss Sally's eyes.
"You, Dry-Creek and Jimmy, and Ben and Taller hump yourselves to the wildwood and rustle flowers for the blow-out mesquite'll do and get that Spanish dagger blossom at the corner of the horse corral for the bride to pack. You, Limpy, get out that red and yaller blanket of your'n for Miss Sally's skyirt. Marquis, you'll do 'thout fixin'; nobody don't ever look at the groom."
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