There’s Old Testament standing in the middle of the room, with his eyes rolled toward the rafters, while in front of him stands Susie Abernathy and Muley Bowles. Muley’s vest is stretched to the bursting point, and you could light a match on Susie’s freckles. To one side stands Zeb Abernathy, and on the other stands Weinie Lopp, all dressed up in a celluloid collar, and no place to put his hands. We hears Old Testament finish up his prayer, and as Muley folds Susie to his bosom we troops inside. Muley sees us over Susie’s shoulder, and breaks the clinch. Zeb grins out through his whiskers and Weinie Lopp turns up the collar of his coat. Everything is still for a few seconds, and then Old Testament smiles at me over his specs: “My son,” says he, “it’s fortunate that I came with you. I had considered taking a trip over into the Bitter Roots, and Mister Lopp would have missed me.” “Exactly,” says I, having the understanding of a fish. “All very true. Was Weinie on your trail?” “Uh-huh,” gurgles Weinie,“I—I was after a preacher for Muley.” “They—they just got married,” chuckles Zeb. “Just now.” “Well,” says Chuck, foolish-like, “who gets the first kiss from the bride—after you, Muley?” “Muley, you’re a hero!” gasps Telescope. “Any man is a hero who will sacrifice a hundred thousand dollars at the throne of love. Everybody take off your hats to Muley Bowles.” Everybody’s got their hats off so we don’t respond. “What did you mean by that, Telescope?” gasps Zeb. “Do—do you mean that he—he’ll lose all that money ’cause he married Susie?” “You said it, Zeb,” grins Telescope. “Ain’t you proud of him? What a nephew-in-law!” and then he turns to Muley: “Muley, old-timer, I didn’t think you had it in you, but you never can tell which way a dill pickle will squirt. How does it seem to lose a hundred thousand dollars?” “Well,” grins Muley, putting one arm around the shrinking bride. “I ain’t lying to you when I says I don’t know how it feels. You see, Telescope, the name of Allender don’t cover no branch of my family-tree, and I never had any Aunt Agnes.” There’s a painful silence for a minute, and then comes a flutter of feathers, and in waddles Alfred. He ain’t got no tail-feathers left, and the rest of his carcass is pretty well plucked. He looks us over, wild-eyed, ruffles up his remaining foliage, croaks: “Har, har, har! Who’s crazy?” Zeb looks wide-eyed at the bird for a moment, and then sneaks past it and out on the steps: “I’m going away,” says he in a low, hoarse voice. “Going away before that bird answers its own questions.” “Tally three more,” states Telescope, and him and Chuck and the old man sneaks out. “Make it five,” says I, and me and Weinie goes out, too. [Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the September 3, 1918 issue of Adventure magazine.]