"You've been cut out all right," retorted Polly, glancing at his legs, "whatever it's for." Parenthesis was not abashed. "Yep, fer straddlin' a hoss," he proudly replied, as if that were the chief end of man. Polly, thus balked in her teasing, tried a new form of badinage. "Say, the boys are all braggin' on your bread-makin'. Won't you give me your receipt?" "Good cooks," said Parenthesis, "never give away their receipts. Brings bad luck to 'em next time." "Aw, come now, Parenthy, tell me, an' I'll let you make my weddin'-cake." "Will you? an' let me put in whatever I want fer jokes on the boys?" "Yep, everything goes." "Oh, I'll give 'em somethin' to dream on, you can bet yer sweet life! Soap fer Fresno's finger, clothes-pin fer Show Low's nose, bottle o' anty-fat fer Slim. It's a swop, Miss Polly!" "Well, out with yer great secret o' bread-makin'." "Well, Miss Polly, I take flour, an' water, an' sourin's, an' a pinch o' salt--" "Flour an' water, an' sourin's, an' a pinch o' salt," repeated Polly, totting the list off on her fingers. "Why, so do I, an' so does every one. It must lie in the workin'. How long do you work the dough, Parenthesis?" "It must lie in the workin'," repeated Parenthesis solemnly. "Why, I work it, an' work it--" he continued, with exasperating slowness. "How long do you work it?" asked Polly impatiently. "Till my han's look purty clean like!" said Parenthesis, holding up his floury paws. "Then you've got a day's work still before you!" snapped Polly, huffed at seeing herself the victim of a chaffing that she herself had begun. "I won't bother you any longer. So long!" Parenthesis, however, desired to continue the conversation. "When is this yere hitch between you and Bud comin' off?" he asked. Polly drew herself up proudly, and, speaking assumed haughtiness, replied: "We're figurin' on sendin' out the cards next month." The cowboy's eyes twinkled. "Well, I'm a-goin' to give up cigaroot-smokin'." "What for?" asked Polly, in surprise. "Goin' in trainin' to kiss the bride." "That's nice!" said Polly, beaming. "Yep, have to take up chawin', like Bud Lane." Polly was saved from having to answer by Sage-brush galloping up to the wagon. "Put on your gun!" he shouted to Parenthesis. Asking no questions, the cow-puncher obeyed his foreman. Trouble was brewing, that he could plainly see. All he had to do was to obey orders, and shoot when any one tried to point a gun at him. Turning to Polly, he cried: "Where's Mrs. Payson?" "She came over with me, but stopped to look over the tally for those cows that are goin' with the drive." More to himself than to Parenthesis or Polly, Sage-brush said: "I wish she'd stayed at the ranch. This range is no place for women now. Buck McKee and his outfit has tanked up with Gila whisky, an' they're just pawin' for trouble." "What's come over people lately?" asked Polly.