Now, it was the ole man’s turn t’ walk the floor. “Noo York!” he begun, his eyes dartin’ fire. “Did y’ ever hear such a blamed fool proposition! Doc Simpson is responsible fer that.”
“It’s been goin’ on fer quite a spell,” I says. “But I didn’t know how far till just afore you come in. Simpson, a-course, is the man.”
That second, clickety–clickety–clickety–click!–a hoss was a-passin’ the house on the dead run. We both looked. It was that bald-faced bronc of Macie’s, makin’ fer the gate like a streak of lightnin’. And the little gal was in the saddle.
“She’s goin’, boss,” I says. (The bald-face was haided towards Briggs.)
“Let her go,” says Sewell. “Let her ride off her mad.”
“Boss,” I says, “I’m t’ blame fer this kick-up. Yas, I am.”
And I begun t’ walk the floor.
“Wal, no use bellyachin’ about it,” he answers. “But you’re allus a-stickin’ in that lip of yourn. And–you’ll recall what I oncet said concernin’ the feller that sticks in his lip.” (I could see it made him feel better t’ think he had the bulge on me.)
“She won’t come back,” I goes on. (I felt pretty bad, I can tell y’.) “No, boss, she won’t. I know that gal better’n you do. She’s gone t’ Briggs, and she’ll stay.”
“She’ll be back in a’ hour. Rose cain’t keep her, and––”