“Which it’s a cinch you’ll wish yuh was,” remarked Ellis, without looking up.
“And I’m there with the goods when it comes to country property,” said Shooting-star, looking at us both kinda anxious. I seen him out uh the tail uh my eye.
“And you’re shore affectionate and honorable,” put in Ellis, sarcastic. Ellis hadn’t forgot the slur on his cake. “And you’re some sober—by spells.”
Shooting-star rose up and looked fighty. “There’s times, young feller, when punching would do yuh good,” he snarls, malignant.
“Yes, sir, punching would do yuh good; and if yuh don’t calm down and have some manners about yuh, it’s apt to happen. If you can lay your finger on a time when I was too full to walk straight, I’d sure admire to have yuh. She says sober, which means walking straight and being able to find the door. She don’t say I’ve got to be a darned pro’bitionist, does she? Hey? And I guess I could be some affectionate—if I had any call to be. And I ain’t no trifler. If I answered her ad I’d mean business. And I ain’t a widower. She’s bright, and lovin’, and sensible—and them brands sure look good to me. I’d sure love to have somebody in the house with sense!”
“Well,” grins Ellis, “go after it, old-timer. But while Bud and me mayn’t have much sense, yuh want to bear in mind that we’re sure bright and loving.”
“Loving!” snorts Shooting-star, and went to spelling out the ad again in a whisper.
Next morning Shooting-star saddled up and rode off to Bent Willow mysterious. He wasn’t gone long, and he didn’t bring nothing back—not even a jag; so Ellis and me frames it up between us that he’s up and wrote to that bright, loving, sensible young lady that’s hankering for a loving husband. Still, we don’t know nothing for sure, because Shooting-star gets plumb silent on the subject, and all the hints we throw out don’t bring results of any kind.
Ellis and me kinda worried over it, only we wouldn’t let on. But one thing looked bad, and that was, Shooting-star would set by the hour humped up in front uh the fireplace, reading over that advertisement, and kinda dreaming and letting his pipe go cold. And then he’d come alive and cast his eyes around that big razzle-dazzle room, and at the ten-by-twelve foot picture uh George Washington—only it looked like a Cree squaw with her hair braided down her back—on the wall, and he’d rub his knees and nod his head, like somebody had just passed out a bunch uh hot air about his good taste in fixing up a house. It all looked plumb dubious to Ellis and me.
Next deal Ellis brought out a letter for Shooting-star, and showed me where it was postmarked “Plumville, Illinois,” and was in a woman’s handwriting. “It’s from her, all right,” he says. “L. A.—Lonesome Ann. Shall I ditch it, for the good of old Shooting-star’s soul, Bud, or shall I hand it over and let ’er slide?”