“The bliggers!” he says, turrible scairt-like.
“That’s what I think. But all you need is that Root-ee they sell over yonder.”
He perked up. “Shore of it?” he ast.
“Buy a bottle and try. And leave off drinkin’ anythin’ else whilst you’re takin’ the stuff, so’s it can have a fair chanst. In a week, you’ll be a new man.”
“I’ll do it,” he says, makin’ fer that prairie-schooner.
I calls after him: “And say, Buckshot, ev’ry two dollars you spend with them people, you git the right to put in ten votes fer the prettiest gal. Now, most of us is votin’ fer ole man Sewell’s youngest daughter.” Then, like I was tryin’ hard to recollect, “I think her name is Macie.”
“All right, Cupid. So long.”
Seen Sewell a little bit later. And braced right up to him. ’Cause fer two reasons: First, I wanted him t’ do some buyin’ fer his gal; then, I wanted t’ find out if he didn’t need another puncher out at the Bar Y. (Ketch on t’ my little game?)
The ole man was pretty short, and wouldn’t do a livin’ lick about them votes. Said he knowed his gal, Mace, was the prettiest gal in Oklahomaw, and it didn’t need no passel of breeds ’r quacks to cut her out of the bunch of heifers and give her the brand.
Then, I says, “S’pose you ain’t lookin’ fer no extra punchers out at the Bar Y? I’m thinkin’ some of quittin’ where I am.” (’Twixt you and me and the gate-post, I knowed from Hairoil that the Sewell outfit was shy two men–just when men was wanted bad.)