Bob clung to the seat and braced himself. He knew that all June could do was to steady the team enough to keep the horses in the road. Every moment he expected a smash, but it did not come. The colts reached the foot of Twelve-Mile safely and swept up the slope beyond. The driver took a new grip on the lines and put her weight on them. It was a long hill. By the time they reached the top the colts were under control and ready to behave for the rest of the day. The sparkling eyes of June met those of Bob. "Great, ain't it?" He nodded, but it had not been fun for him. He had been distinctly frightened. He felt for June the reluctant admiration gameness compels from those who are constitutionally timid. What manner of girl was this who could shave disaster in such a reckless fashion and actually enjoy it? At the edge of the town they exchanged seats at June's suggestion and Bob drove in. It was mid-afternoon by the sun as he tied the horses to the rack in front of the larger of the two general stores. "You stay here," the boy advised. "I'll get things fixed, then come back an' let you know." He had only a hazy idea of the business details of getting married, but he knew a justice of the peace could tell him. He wandered down the street in search of one. Half a dozen cowpunchers bent on sport drifted in his direction. One of them was riding down the dusty road. To the horn of his saddle a rope was tied. The other end of it was attached to a green hide of a steer dragging after him. The punchers made a half-circle round Bob. One grinned and made comment. "Here's one looks ripe, fellows. Jes' a-honin' for a ride, looks like." "Betcha he don't last ten jumps," another said. Before Bob could offer any resistance or make any protest he had been jubilantly seized and dumped down on the hide. "Let 'er go," some one shouted. The horse, at the touch of the spur, jumped to a gallop. Bob felt a sudden sick sense of helplessness. The earth was cut out from under him. He crouched low and tried to cling to the slippery hide as it bounced forward. Each leap of the bronco upset him. Within three seconds he had ridden on his head, his back, and his stomach. Wildly he clawed at the rope as he rolled over. With a yell the rider swung a corner. Bob went off the hide at a tangent, rolling over and over in the yellow four-inch-deep dust. He got up, dizzy and perplexed. His best suit looked as though it had been through a long and severe war. A boyish puncher came up and grinned at him in the friendliest way. "Hello, fellow! Have a good ride?" Bob smiled through the dust he had accumulated. "It didn't last long." "Most generally it don't. Come in to Dolan's an' have a drink." He mentioned his name. It was Dud Hollister. "Can't." Bob followed an impulse. "Say, how do you get married?" he asked, lowering his voice. "I don't," Dud answered promptly. "Not so long as I'm in my right mind."