CHAPTER VI.
I ask Beryl King to Dance.
If I were just yarning for the fun there is in it, I should say that I was back in King's Highway, helping Beryl King gather posies and brush up her repartee, the very next morning--or the second, at the very latest.

As a matter of fact, though, I steered clear of that pass, and behaved myself and stuck to work for six long weeks; that isn't saying I never thought about her, though.
On the very last day of June, as nearly as I could estimate, Frosty rode into Kenmore for something, and came back with that in his eyes that boded mischief; his words, however, were innocent enough for the most straight-laced.
"There's things doing in Kenmore," he remarked to a lot of us.

"Old King has a party of aristocrats out from New York, visiting--Terence Weaver, half-owner in the mines, and some women; they're fixing to celebrate the Fourth with a dance.

The women, it seems, are crazy to see a real Montana dance, and watch the cowboys _chasse_ around the room in their chaps and spurs and big hats, and with two or three six-guns festooned around their middles, the way you see them in pictures.

They think, as near as I could find out, that cowboys always go to dances in full war-paint like that--and they'll be disappointed if said cowboys don't punctuate the performance by shooting out the lights, every so often." He looked across at me, and then is when I observed the mischief brewing in his eyes.
"We'll have to take it in," I said promptly.