somewhere across the vast horizon, as the dust upon him showed.
His boots were white with it. His overalls were gray with it. The
weather-beaten bloom of his face shone through it duskily, as the
ripe peaches look upon their trees in a dry season. But no
dinginess of travel or shabbiness of attire could tarnish the
splendor that radiated from his youth and strength. The old man
upon whose temper his remarks were doing such deadly work was
combed and curried to a finish, a bridegroom swept and garnished;
but alas for age! Had I been the bride, I should have taken the
giant, dust and all. He had by no means done with the old man.

"Why, yu've hung weddin' gyarments on every limb!" he now
drawled, with admiration. "Who is the lucky lady this trip?"

The old man seemed to vibrate. "Tell you there ain't been no
other! Call me a Mormon, would you?"

"Why, that--"

"Call me a Mormon? Then name some of my wives. Name two. Name
one. Dare you!"

"--that Laramie wido' promised you--'

"Shucks!"

"--only her docter suddenly ordered Southern climate and--"

"Shucks! You're a false alarm."