“I won’t fergit y’, Alec.”
I turned my haid away. Off west they was just a little melon-rind of moon in the sky. As I looked, it begun to dance, kinda, and change shape. “I’ll allus be waitin’,” I says, after a little, “–if it’s five years, ’r fifty, ’r the end of my life.”
“They won’t never be no other man, Alec. Just you––”
“Macie!”
That second, we both heerd hollerin’ acrosst the street. Then here come Hairoil, runnin’, and carryin’ a gun.
“Cupid,” he says, pantin’, “take this.” (He shoved the gun into my hand.) “Miss Macie, git outen the way. It’s Hank!”
Quick as I could, I moved to one side, so’s she wouldn’t be in range.
“Ye-e-e-oop!”
As Hank rounded the corner, he was staggerin’ some, and wavin’ his shootin’-iron. “I’m a Texas bad man,” he yelps; “I’m as ba-a-ad as they make ’em, and tough as bull beef.” Then, he went tearin’ back’ards and for’ards like he’d pull up the station platform. “Hey!” he goes on. “I’ve put a lot of fellers t’ sleep with they boots on! Come ahaid if you want t’ git planted in my private graveyard!”
Next, and whilst Mace was standin’ not ten feet back of him, he seen me. He spit on his pistol hand, and started my way.