I sit down on the other end of the truck. “Did Mrs. Bridger git settled all right?” I begun.
“Yas,” he answers; “I pulled the rags outen the windas, and put some panes of glass in––”
“Good fer you, Bergin! But, thunder! the idear of her thinkin’ she can raise chickens fer a livin’–’way out here. Why, a grasshopper ranch ain’t no place fer that little woman.” (And I watched sideways to see how he’d take it.)
“You’re right, Cupid,” he says. Then, after swallerin’ hard, “Did you happen t’ notice how soft and kinda pinky her hands is?”
Was that the sheriff talkin’? Wal, you could ’a’ knocked me down with a feather!
“Yas, Sheriff,” I answers, “I noticed her pretty particular. And it strikes me that we needn’t to worry–she won’t stay on that ranch long. Out here in Oklahomaw, any widda is in line fer another husband if she’ll take one. In Mrs. Bridger’s case, it won’t be just any ole hobo that comes along. She’ll be able to pick and choose from a grea-a-at, bi-i-ig bunch. I seen how the boys acted when she got offen that train t’-day–and I knowed then that it wouldn’t be no time till she’d marry.”
The sheriff is tall, as I said afore. Wal, a kinda shiver went up and down the hull length of him. Then, he sprung up, givin’ the truck a kick. “Marry! marry! marry!” he begun, grindin’ his teeth t’gether. “Cain’t you talk nothin’ else but marry?”
“No-o-ow, Bergin,” I says, “what diff’rence does it make t’ you? S’pose she marries, and s’pose she don’t. You don’t give a bean. Wal, I look at it diff’rent. I know that nice little kid of hern needs the keer of a father–yas, Bergin, the keer of a father.” And I looked him square in the eye.
“It’s just like Hairoil says,” he went on. “If Doc Simpson was t’ use a spy-glass on you, he’d find you plumb alive with bugs–marryin’ bugs. Yas, sir. With you, it’s a disease.”
“Wal,” I answers, “don’t git anxious that it’s ketchin’. You? Huh! If I had anythin’ agin the widda, I might be a-figgerin’ on how t’ hitch her up t’ you–you ole woman-hater!”