“Her name’s Macie,” goes on the parson.
“Macie–Macie Sewell–Macie.” I said it over to myself two ’r three times. I’d never liked the name Sewell afore. But now, somehow, along with Her name, it sounded awful fine. “Macie–Macie Sewell.”
“Cupid, I wisht you’d walk home with me,” says the parson. “I want t’ ast you about somethin’.”
“Tickled t’ death.”
Whilst he locked up, I waited outside. “M’ son,” I says to myself, “nothin’ could be foolisher than fer you to git you’ eye fixed on a belongin’ of ole man Sewell’s. Just paste that in you’ sunbonnet.”
Wal, I rid Shank’s mare over t’ Hairoil’s. Whilst we was goin’, the parson opened up on the subject of Dutchy and that nasty, mean purp of hisn. And I ketched on, pretty soon, to just what he was a-drivin’ at. I fell right in with him. I’d never liked Dutchy such a turrible lot anyhow,–and I did want t’ be a friend to the parson. So fer a hour after we hit the shack, you might ’a’ heerd me a-talkin’ (if you’d been outside) and him a-laughin’ ev’ry minute ’r so like he’d split his sides.
Monday was quiet. I spent the day at Silverstein’s Gen’ral Merchandise Store, which is next the post-office. (Y’ see, She might come in fer the Bar Y mail.) The parson got off a long letter to a feller at Williams. And Dutchy was awful busy–fixin’ up a fine shootin’-gallery at the back of his “Life Savin’ Station.”
Tuesday, somethin’ happened at the parson’s. Right off after the five-eight train come in from the south, Hairoil druv down to the deepot and got a big, square box and rushed home with it. When he come into the thirst-parlour about sun-set, the boys ast him what the parson was gittin’. He just wunk.
“I bet I knows,” says Dutchy. “De preacher mans buys some viskey, alretty.”
Hairoil snickered. “Wal,” he says, “what I carried over was nailed up good and tight, all right, all right.”