Quick as thought, Rattlesnake was on his feet. In a moment his hand as though by instinct slipped to the butt of his Colt’s. Sharp as was his work, Mr. Masterson’s was even brisker. With the first shadow of resistance, he sent a bullet into Rattlesnake’s leg—the other leg. The shock sent the unlucky Rattlesnake spinning like a top. He fell at full length, and before he might pull himself together Mr. Masterson had him disarmed. “What for a racket is this?” demanded Rattlesnake fiercely, when he had collected his wits and his breath. “What’s the meanin’ of this yere bluff?” “Speaking unofficially,” returned Mr. Masterson, “it means that you’re about to become a married man. If you think Dodge will sit idly by while you break the heart of that child Calamity, you’re off.” “Calamity!” exclaimed Rattlesnake, in a maze of astonishment. “Which I was jest tryin’ to figger out a way to squar’ myse’f with that angel when you plugged me! If you’d said ‘Calamity!’ instead of ‘Kelly’ it wouldn’t have called for a gun play. I’d have followed you back to town on all fours, like a collie dog.” “Why didn’t you report, then, when I sent for you? What did you mean by sending in that infernal hieroglyphic?” “Me an’ Cimarron was simply holdin’ out for guarantees,” groaned Rattlesnake. “You and Cimarron!” cried Mr. Masterson indignantly. From over a knoll a clatter was heard, and Cimarron Bill came rattling into camp with the buckboard. This may or may not have had to do with Mr. Masterson’s failure to finish his last remark. Possibly that adage, which tells of how soon things mend when least is said, occurred to him as a reason for holding his peace. The perforated Rattlesnake was comfortably mowed away in a Wright House bed, his beloved Calamity bending over him. When the first joy of their meeting had been given time to wear itself away, the lady was called into the hall by Mr. Masterson. Mr. Short was with him. “I don’t want to be understood, Calamity,” said Mr. Masterson, “as trying to crowd your hand, but the preacher will be here at 7 P. M., at which hour you and Rattlesnake are to become man and wife. That bullet is, I confess, an unusual feature in a honeymoon; but for all that the wedding must take place, per schedule, as I’ve got to get this thing off my mind.” “As for that bullet in Rattlesnake,” added Mr. Short, “it’s a distinct advantage. It’ll make him softer an’ more sentimental. Which a gent gets sentimental in direct proportion as you shoot him up. I’ve known two bullets, properly planted, to set a party to writin’ poetry.” “Do I onderstand, Bat,” asked Mr. Kelly, as following the wedding they were wending to the Alhambra with a plan to drink good fortune to the happy pair; “do I onderstand that you used my name in gunnin’ for this bridegroom?”