"Betcher life," swaggered the man with the hat, "N’York’s good enough for
me."

"But"—and the Texan smiled sweetly—"the man who sold you the hat ain’t out
here for his."

Judith hid her head and stamped letters. The boys were suspiciously quiet,
then some one began to chant:

"The devil examined the desert well,
And made up his mind ’twas too dry for hell;
He put up the prices his pockets to swell,
And called it a—heal-th resort."

The postmistress waited for the last note of the chorus to die away, and
read from a package she held in her hand—"’Mrs. Henry Lee, Deer Lodge,
Wyoming.’ Well, Henry, here’s a wedding-present, I guess. And my
congratulations, though you’ve hardly treated us well in never saying a
word."

The unfortunate Henry, who hadn’t even a sweetheart, and who was noted as
the shyest man in the "Goose Creek Outfit," had to submit to the mock
congratulations of every man in the room and promise to set up the drinks
later.

"I never felt we’d keep you long, son; them golden curls seldom gets a
chance to ripen singly."

"Shoshone squaw, did you say she was, Henry? They ain’t much for looks,
but there’s a heep of wear to ’em."