That medicine show follered the dawg fight. It hit Briggs City towards sundown one day, in a prairie-schooner drawed by two big, white mules, and druv up to the eatin’-house. Out got a smooth-faced, middle-aged feller in a linen duster and half a’ acre of hat–kinda part judge, part scout, y’ savvy; out got two youngish fellers in fancy vests and grey dicers; next, a’ Injun in a blanket, and a lady in a yalla-striped shirtwaist. Wal, sir, it was just like they’d struck that town to start things a-movin’ fer me!
The show hired the hall over Silverstein’s store. Then one of them fancy vests walked up and down Front Street, givin’ out hand-bills. The other sent word to all the ranches clost by, and the Injun went ’round to them scattered houses over where the parson and Doc Trowbridge lives.
Them hand-bills read somethin’ like this: The Renowned Blackfoot Medicine Company Gives Its First Performance T’Night! Grand Open-Air Band Concert. Come One, Come All. Free! Free! Free! 3–The Marvellous Murrays–3. To-Ko, the Human Snake, The World Has Not His Equal. Miss Vera de Mille In Bewitchin’ Song and Dance. Amuricaw’s Greatest Nigger Impersynater. The Fav’rite Banjoist of the Sunny South. Injun Shadda Pictures,–and a hull lot more I cain’t just recall.
When I seen that such a big bunch was a-goin’ to preform, I walked over and peeked into that schooner. I figgered, y’ savvy, that they was some more people in it that hadn’t come out yet. But they wasn’t–only boxes and boxes of bottles.
Right after supper, that medicine outfit played in front of Silverstein’s. The judge-lookin’ feller beat the drum, the Injun blowed a big brass dinguss, the gal a clari’net, and the other two fellers some shiny instruments curlier’n a pig’s tail. But it was bully, that’s all I got to say, and drawed like a mustard plaster. ’Cause whilst in Oklahomaw a Injun show don’t count fer much, bein’ that we got more’n our fill of reds, all the same, with music throwed in, Briggs City was there. And Silverstein’s hall was just jampacked.
The front seats was took up by the town kids, a-course. Then come the women and gals,–a sprinklin’ of men amongst ’em; behind them, the cow-punchers. And in the back end of the place a dozen ’r so of niggers and cholos. Whilst all was a-waitin’ fer the show to begin, the punchers done a lot of laughin’ and cat-callin’ to each other, and made some consider’ble noise. I was along with the rest, only up in one of the side windas, settin’ on the sill and swingin’ my hoofs.
When the show opened, they was first a fine piece–a march, I reckon–by the band. All the time, more people was a-comin’ in. ’Mongst ’em was Doc Trowbridge and Rose, and Up-State–he was that pore lunger that was here from the East, y’ savvy. Next, right after them three, that Doc Simpson I was so all-fired stuck on. And, along with him, a gal.
Wal, who do you think it was! I knowed to oncet. They wasn’t no mistakin’ that slim, little figger and that pert little haid. It was Her!
“Cupid,” whispered Hairoil Johnson (he was settin’ byside me), “it looks to me like you didn’t much discourage that Noo York doc who owns what’s left of a toot buggy. Failin’ to git the oldest gal out at the Bar Y, why, now he’s a-sailin’ ’round with the youngest one.”
I didn’t say nothin’. I was a-watchin’ where she was. I wanted t’ ketch sight of her face.