“If that’s so, what ’d he telegraph to me fer?”
“Don’t know. Buck up, anyhow. I’ll bet she’s gone ’way past the poll-tax age, and has got a face like a calf with a blab on its nose.”
“Cupid,” says the sheriff, standin’ up, “thank y’. I feel better. Was worried ’cause I’ve had bad luck lately, and bad luck most allus runs in threes. Last week, my dawg died–remember that one with a buck tooth? I was turrible fond of that dawg. And yesterday––”
He stopped then, and a new crop of drops come out on to his face. “Look!” he says, hoarse like, and pointed.
’Way off to the north was a little, dark, puffy cloud. It was a-travelin’ our direction. Number 201!
“Gosh!” says the sheriff, and sunk down on to the truck again.
I didn’t leave him. I recollected what happened that time he captured “Cud” and Andy Foster and brung ’em into town, his hat shot off and his left arm a-hangin’ floppy agin his laig. Y’ see, next day, a bunch of ladies–ole ladies, they was, too,–tried to find him and give him a vote of thanks. But when he seen ’em comin’, he swore in a deputy–quick–and vamosed. Day ’r two afterwards, here he come outen that cellar back of Dutchy’s thirst-parlour, his left arm in a red bandaner, a rockin’-chair and a pilla under his right one, and a lantern in his teeth!
But this time, he wasn’t a-goin’ to have no deputy. I made up my mind to stay right byside him till he’d did his duty. Yas, ma’am.
“Cupid,” he begun again, reachin’ fer my fist, “Cupid, when it comes to feemales––”
Too-oo-oot! too-oo-oot! Couldn’t make him hear, so I just slapped him on the shoulder. Then I hauled him up, and we went down the platform to where the crowd was.