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 he inquired, his voice rough in that hoarseness that much raw liquor puts into a man naturally pitched in a low key.

"They're inside there havin' an infare party. If you'll hit that bell—"

"Whose infare party?"

The man turned to Texas with such ferocity that it gave him the appearance of being the traveling opponent of infare parties, a sort of walking delegate for the suppression of infare parties, and the elimination of such light frivolity from the somber business of life.

"Not mine, sir," said Texas, resenting the man's front, and his air of accusation and blame.

"Whose in the hell, then?"

"Smith was her name. She's the lady that runs the ranch."

The stranger stepped back from the counter and looked into the dining-room. Mrs. Goodloe had reached the groom with the platter of fried chicken, to which he was helping himself with great elegance and liberality, spearing deep into the pieces with his fork, pushing them free from the tines with his handy thumb.

There the stranger stood a little while, harsh of outline, the dust of long roads on his red shirt, a big gun dangling at his side.

Mrs. Goodloe had assisted the bride to the deli-