“No, ma’am,” I says; “we’re slender in books, I reckon. But out in Oklahomaw we come in all styles.”
“Wal,” she goes on, “they’s something else I want to ast. Now, you ain’t a-goin’ to shoot ’round here, are y’? Would you just as lief put you’ pistols away whilst you’re in my house?”
I got serious then. “Ma’am,” I says, “sorry I cain’t oblige y’. But the boys tole me a gun is plumb needful in Noo York. When it comes to killin’ and robbin’, the West has got to back outen the lead.”
You oughta saw her face!
But I didn’t want to look fer no other room, so I pretended t’ knuckle. “I promise not to blow out the gas with my forty-five,” I says, “and I won’t rope no trolley cars–if you’ll please tell me where folks go in this town when they want t’ ride a hoss?”
“Why, in Central Park,” she answers, “on the bridle path.”
“Thank y’, ma’am,” I says, and lit out.
A-course, ’most any person ’d wonder what I’d ast the boardin’-house lady that fer. Wal, I ast it ’cause I knowed Macie Sewell good enough to lay my money on one thing: She was too all-fired gone on hosses to stay offen a saddle more’n twenty-four hours at a stretch.
I passed a right peaceful afternoon, a-settin’ at the bottom of a statue of a man ridin’ a big bronc, with a tall lady runnin’ ahaid and wavin’ a feather. It was at the beginnin’ of the park, and I expected t’ see Mace come lopin’ by any minute. Sev’ral gals did show up, and one ’r two of ’em rid off on bob-tailed hosses, follered by gezabas in white pants and doctor’s hats. Heerd afterwards they was grooms, and bein’ the gals’ broncs was bob-tailed, they had to go ’long to keep off the flies.
But Mace, she didn’t show up. Next day, I waited same way. Day after, ditto. Seemed t’ me ev’ry blamed man, woman and child in the hull city passed me but her. And I didn’t know a one of ’em. A Chink come by oncet, and when I seen his pig-tail swingin’, I felt like I wanted to shake his fist. About that time I begun to git worried, too. “If she ain’t ridin’,” I says to myself, “how ’m I ever goin’ to locate her?”