Tumbling River Range

It was a big night at the Flying H. One of the stalls in the stable was piled full of a miscellaneous collection of empty five-gallon cans, cow-bells, shotguns; in fact, every kind of a noise-maker common to the cattle country was ready for the final words of the minister. For this was to be the biggest shivaree ever pulled off on the Tumbling River range.

Inside the living-room was the assembled company, sitting stiffly around the room, more than conscious of the fact that they were all dressed up. Old gray-bearded cattlemen, munching away at their tobacco; old ladies, dressed in all the finery at their limited command; cowboys, uncomfortable in celluloid collars and store clothes; old Uncle Hozie, red of face, grinning at everybody and swearing under his breath at Aunt Emma, who had shamed him into wearing an old Prince Albert coat which had fitted him fifty pounds ago.

“Look like you was the groom, Hozie,” chuckled one of the old cattlemen. “Gosh, yo’re shore dudded-up!”

“Glad I ain’t,” said Uncle Hozie quickly. “All them wimmin upstairs, blubberin’ over the bride. Haw, haw, haw, haw! She’d ort to have on a swimmin’ suit. Haw, haw, haw, haw!”

He winked one eye expressively and jerked his head towards the kitchen. His actions were full of meaning.

Curt Bellew got to his feet, stretched his six-foot frame, smoothed his beard and tramped down heavily on one foot.