About this time, as addin’ itse’f to the gen’ral jolt given the Wolfville nerve by them Christmas questions put aforesaid by little Enright Peets, news comes floatin’ over from Red Dog of a awful spree that low-flung outfit enjoys. It’s a Six Shooter Weddin’; so deenominated because Pete Bland, the outlaw for whom the party is made, an’ his wife, The Duchess, has been married six years an’ ain’t done nothin’ but fight. Wherefore, on the sixth anniversary of their nuptials, Red Dog resolves on a Six Shooter Weddin’; an’ tharupon descends on those two wedded warriors, Pete an’ The Duchess, in a body, packin’ fiddles, nose-paint, an’ the complete regalia of a frantic shindig. An’ you hear me, gents, them Red Dog tarrapins shore throws themse’fs loose! You-all could hear their happy howls in Wolfville. As a reason for the outburst, an’ one consistent with its name, the guests endows Pete an’ The Duchess each with belts an’ a brace of guns. “To the end,” says the Red Dog cha’rman when he makes the presentation speech, “that, as between Pete an’ The Duchess, we as a commoonity promotes a even break, and clothes both parties in interest with equal powers to preserve the peace.” As I observes, it’s the story of these proud doin’s on the locoed part of our rival, that ondoubted goes some distance to decide us Wolves of Wolfville on pullin’ off a Christmas warjig for little Enright Peets. We ain’t goin’ to be outdone none in this business of being fervid. It’s mebby a month prior to Christmas when we resolves on this yere racket, an’ so we has ample time to prepare. Almost every afternoon an’ evenin’ over our Valley Tan, we discusses an’ does our wisest to evolve a programme. It’s then we begins to grasp the wisdom of Dave’s observations touchin’ how onfeasible it is to go talkin’ of Christmas in southern Arizona. “Nacherally,” remarks Enright, as we sits about the Red Light, turnin’ the game in our minds, “nacherally, we ups an’ gives little Enright Peets presents. Which brings us within ropin’ distance of the inquiry, ‘Whatever will we give him?’” “We-all can’t give him fish-lines, an’ sech,” says Doc Peets, takin’ up Enright’s argument, “for thar ain’t no fish. Skates is likewise barred, thar bein’ no ice; an’ sleds an’ mittens an’ worsted comforters an’ fur caps fails us for causes sim’lar. Little Enright Peets is too young to smoke; Tucson Jennie won’t let him drink licker; thar, with one word, is them two important sources closed ag’in us. Gents, Pm inclined to string my bets with Dave; I offers two for one as we sets yere, that this framin’ up a Christmas play in Arizona as a problem ain’t no slouch.” “Thar’s picture books,” says Faro Nell. “Shore!” assents Cherokee Hall, where he’s planted back of his faro box. “An’ painted blocks!” “Good!” says Cherokee. “An’ candy!” “Nell’s right!” an’ Cherokee coincides plumb through, “Books, blocks, an’ candy, is what I calls startin’ on velvet.”