"Brave!" Mrs. Fleetwood laughed rather contemptuously, for a bride. "Please
to understand, Manley, that I'm not frightened in the least. It's you and
that horrid cowboy--_I_ don't see why we need run away, like criminals.
Those men don't intend to _murder_ us, do they?" Her mood softened a
little, and she squeezed his arm between her hands. "You dear old silly,
I'm not blaming _you_. With your head in such a state, you can't think
things out properly, and you let that cowboy influence you against your
better judgment. You're afraid I might be annoyed--but, really, Manley,
this silly idea of running away annoys me much more than all the noise
those fellows could possibly make. Indeed, I don't think I would mind--it
would give me a glimpse of the real West; and, perhaps, if they grew
too boisterous, and I spoke to them and asked them not to be quite so
rough--and, really, they only mean it as a sort of welcome, in their crude
way. We could invite some of the nicest in to have cake and coffee--or
maybe we might get some ice cream somewhere--and it might turn out a very
pleasant little affair. I don't mind meeting them, Manley. The worst of
them can't be as bad as that--but, of course, if he's your friend, I
suppose I oughtn't to speak too freely my opinion of him!"

Fleetwood held her closely, patted her cheek absently, and tried to think
of some effective argument.

"They'll be drunk, sweetheart," he told her, after a silence.

"I don't think so," she returned firmly. "I have been watching the street
all the evening. I saw any number of men passing back and forth, and I
didn't see one who staggered. And they were all very quiet, considering
their rough ways, which one must expect. Why, Manley, you always wrote
about these Western men being such fine fellows, and so generous and