White as that paper, he was, and nervous, and so all-fired shaky and caved-in that they couldn’t be no question what was the matter. The sheriff was scairt.
First off, I wasn’t hardly able to believe what I seen with my own eyes. Next, I begun to think ’round fer the cause why. Didn’t have to think much. Knowed they wasn’t a pinch of ’fraid-cat in Bergin–no crazy-drunk greaser ’r no passel of bad men, red ’r white, could put him in a sweat, no, sir-ree. They was just one thing on earth could stampede the sheriff. I kinda tip-toed over to him. “Bergin,” I says, “who is she?”
He looked up–slow. He’s a six-footer, and about as heavy-set as the bouncer over to the eatin’-house. Wal, I’m another if ev’ry square inch of him wasn’t tremblin’, and his teeth was chatterin’ so hard I looked to see ’em fall out–that’s straight. Them big, blue eyes of hisn was sunk ’way back in his haid, too, and the rest of his face looked like it ’d got in the way of the hose. “Cupid,” he whispered, “you’ve struck it! Here–read this.”
It was a telegram. Say, you know I ain’t got no use fer telegrams. The blamed things allus give y’ a dickens of a start, and, nine times outen ten, they’ve got somethin’ to say that no man wants to hear. But I opened it up.
“sheriff george bergin,” it read,–all little letters, y’ savvy. (Say! what’s the matter that they cain’t send no capitals over the wire?) “briggs city oklahomaw meet mrs bridger number 201 friday phillips.”
“Aw,” I says, “Mrs. Bridger. Wal, Sheriff, who’s this Mrs. Bridger?”
Pore Bergin just wagged his haid. “You’ll have to give me a goose-aig on that one,” he answers.
“Wal, who’s Phillips, then?” I continued.
“The Sante Fee deepot-master at Chicago.”
“Which means you needn’t to worry. Mrs. Bridger is likely comin’ on to boss the gals at the eatin’-house.”