"Whiskey-and-sodas. See how fast one of you can chase over to the
club and get 'em. And next time I want a drink don't make me wake the
entire garrison."

As the soldiers retreated Ranson discovered Miss Cahill's white face
beyond them. He ran and held the door open by a few inches.

"It's all right," he whispered, reassuringly. "He's nearly persuaded.
Wait just a minute longer and he'll be giving us his blessing."

"But the pistol-shot?" she asked.

"I was just calling the guard. The electric bell's broken, and your
father wanted a drink. That's a good sign, isn't it? Shows he's
friendly, What kind did you say you wanted, Mr. Cahill--Scotch was
it, or rye?" Ranson glanced back at the sombre, silent figure of
Cahill, and then again opened the door sufficiently for him to stick
out his head. "Sergeant," he called, "make them both Scotch--long
ones."

He shut the door and turned upon the post-trader. "Now, then, father-
in-law," he said, briskly, "you've got to cut and run, and you've got
to run quick. We'll tell 'em you're going to Fort Worth to buy the
engagement ring, because I can't, being under arrest. But you go to
Duncan City instead, and from there take the cars, to--"

"Run away!" Cahill repeated, dazedly. "But you'll be court-
martialled."

"There won't be any court-martial!"