no eye for the groom.

"Did he miss you?" she said.

"No," said Farallone, "he hit me--Nicodemus hit me."

"Where?" said the bride.

"In the arm."

Indeed, the left sleeve of Farallone's shirt was glittering with blood.

"I will bandage it for you," she said, "if you will tell me how."

Farallone ripped open the sleeve of his shirt.

"What shall I bandage it with?" asked the bride.

"Anything," said Farallone.

The bride turned her back on us, stooped, and we heard a sound of
tearing. When she had bandaged Farallone's wound (it was in the flesh
and the bullet had been extracted by its own impetus) she looked him
gravely in the face.

"What's the use of goading him?" she said gently.

"Look," said Farallone.

The groom was reaching for the fallen revolver.

"Drop it," bellowed Farallone.

The groom's hand, which had been on the point of grasping the revolver's
stock, jerked away. The bride walked to the revolver and picked it up.
She handed it to Farallone.

"Now," she said, "that all the power is with you, you will not go on
abusing it."

"_You_ carry it," said Farallone, "and any time _you_ think I ought to
be shot, why, you just shoot me. I won't say a word."

"Do you mean it?" said the bride.

"I cross my heart," said Farallone.

"I sha'n't forget," said the bride. She took the revolver and dropped it
into the pocket of her jacket.

"Vamoose!" said Farallone. And we resumed our march.

III

The line between the desert and the blossoming hills was as distinctly
drawn as that between a lake and its shore. The sage-brush, closer
massed than any through which we had yet passed, seemed to have gathered
itself for a serried assault upon the lovely verdure beyond. Outposts of
the sage-brush, its unsung heroes, perhaps, showed here and there among
ferns and wild roses--leafless, gaunt, and dead; one knotted specimen
even had planted its banner of desolation in the shade of a wild lilac
and there died. A twittering of birds gladdened our dusty ears, and from
afar there came a splashing of water. Our feet, burned by the desert
sands, torn by yucca and cactus, trod now upon a cool and delicious
moss, above which nodded the delicate blossoms of the shooting-star,
swung at the ends of strong and delicate stems. In the shadows the
chocolate lilies and trilliums dully glinted, and flag flowers trooped
in the sunlight. The resinous paradisiacal smell of tarweed and
bay-tree refreshed us, and the won