The ranch-house of Uncle Hozie Wheeler’s Flying H outfit was ablaze with light. Two lanterns were suspended on the wide veranda which almost encircled the rambling old house; lanterns were hanging from the corral fence, where already many saddle-horses and buggy teams were tied. Lanterns hung within the big stable and there was a lantern suspended to the crosstree of the big estate. It was a big night at the Flying H. One of the stalls in the stable was piled full of a miscellaneous collection of empty five-gallon cans, cow-bells, shotguns; in fact, every kind of a noise-maker common to the cattle country was ready for the final words of the minister. For this was to be the biggest shivaree…
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