She didn’t act like she’d heerd me. She was watchin’ the sandpile.
“One ’r two has got the pip,” I repeats.
“What?–how’s that?” she ast.
“Don’t worry about you’ boy,” I says. “Bergin’ll look after him. Y’ know, Bergin is one of the whitest gents in Oklahomaw.”
“I ain’t a-worryin’,” answers the widda. “I know Mister Bergin is a fine man.” And she kept on lookin’ out.
“In this wild country,” I begun, voice ’way down to my spurs, “–this wild country, full of rattlesnakes and Injuns and tramps, ev’ry ranch needs a good man ’round it.”
She turned like lightnin’. “What you mean?” she ast, kinda short. (Reckon she thought I was tryin’ t’ spark her.)
“A man like Bergin,” I continues.
“Aw,” she says, plumb relieved.
And I left things that-a-way–t’ sprout.