Loco or Love

by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “A Prevaricated Parade,” “Dough or Dynamite,” etc.
“If you’d ’a’ cooked them two eggs at the same time, ‘Magpie,’ mine wouldn’t ’a’ rolled off on the floor and busted,” says I, sad-like, looking at the remains.
Magpie Simpkins rises his full height, which is some elevation, and glares at me.
“Ike Harper,” says he, “tend to your own cooking. A person what is as ungrateful as you are can’t partake of my cooking, neither will I break bread with such as he.”
I got my boots on, cooks me some bacon, and eats as far from that hombre as the room allows. A house divided can’t ring with harmony, and love has put a breach as wide as the Grand Cañon between me and Magpie. The little feller with the bow and arrer has rasped us raw.
Magpie is the sheriff of our county, and I’m his deputy. Me and that scantling-shaped hombre have been pardners ever since gold was discovered on bedrock, and this is the first rift in our lute. Of course there has been discords, but this is the first time that the strings have all been busted!
Love cometh at strange times. Me and Magpie have been over in the Medicine Hills, sort of looking for an alleged rustler, and are coming out, when we sees a nester’s cabin with smoke coming out of the stovepipe. It’s an old place, and ain’t been occupied for some time, so we decides to investigate.
We’re a heap hungry, and when we gets in shooting range we smells fried onions and coffee. There’s an aroma of biscuits on the air, too, which don’t hurt our noses none.
We pilgrims into the yard, and as we slips off our broncs the door opens, and we sees our heart’s desire. She’s a cute little filly. She’s slender, got a lot of eighteen-carat hair, and blue eyes as big as the end of a shotgun shell.
She’s got a bowl full of dough in her hands, and she stares at us like we’re curiosities. Sudden-like she smiles.
“I’m Sheriff Simpkins,” states Magpie, removing his hat.