When the train slowed down, the first thing I seen was the conductor with a kid in his arms,–a cute kid, about four, I reckon,–a boy. Then the cars stopped, and I seen a woman standin’ just behind them. Next, they was all out on to the platform, and the woman was holdin’ the kid by one hand.
The woman was cute, too. Mebbe thirty, mebbe less, light-complected, yalla-haired, kinda plump, and about so high. Not pretty like Mace ’r Carlota Arnaz, but mighty good t’ look at. Blabbed calf? Say! this was awful!
“Ber-r-gin!” hollers the corn-doc.
“Bergin,” I repeats, encouragin’. (Hope I never see a man look worse. He was all blue and green!)
Bergin, he just kinda staggered up. He’d had one look, y’ savvy. Wal, he didn’t look no more. Pulled off his Stetson, though. Then he smoothed the cow-lick over his one eye, and sorta studied the kid.
“Sheriff,” goes on the corn-doc, “here’s a lady that has been consigned to you’ care. Good-bye, ma’am, it’s been a pleasure to look out fer you. Good-bye, little feller,” (this to the kid). “Aw-aw-awl abroad!”
As Number 201 pulled out, you can bet you’ little Cupid helt on to that sheriff! “Bergin,” I says, under my breath, “fer heaven’s sake, remember you’ oath of office! And, boys,” (they was about a dozen cow-punchers behind us, a-smilin’ at Mrs. Bridger so hard that they plumb laid they faces open) “you’ll have us all shoved on to the tracks in a minute!”
It was the kid that helped out. He’d been lookin’ up at Bergin ever since he hit the station. Now, all to oncet, he reached towards the sheriff with both his little hands–as friendly as if he’d knowed him all his life.
Y’ know, Bergin’s heart ’s as big as a’ ox. He’s tender and awful kind, and kids like him straight off. He likes kids. So, ’fore you could say Jack Robinson, that Bridger young un was histed up. I nodded to his maw, and the four of us went into the eatin’-house, where we all had some dinner t’gether. Leastways, me and the kid and Mrs. Bridger et. The sheriff, he just sit, not sayin’ a word, but pullin’ at that cow-lick of hisn and orderin’ things fer the baby. And whilst we grubbed, Mrs. Bridger tole us about herself, and how she ’d happened to come out Oklahomaw way.
Seems she ’d been livin’ in Buffalo, where her husband was the boss of a lumber-yard. Wal, when the kid was three years old, Bridger up and died, not leavin’ much in the way of cash fer the widda. Then she had to begin plannin’ how to git along, a-course. Chicken-ranchin’ got into her haid. Somebody said Oklahomaw was a good place. She got the name of a land-owner in Briggs City and writ him. He tole her he had a nice forty acres fer sale–hunderd down, the balance later on. She bit–and here she was.