“Pardner,” I says, “don’t talk about it no more. You make me plumb nervous, like crumbs in the bed.”
And so he shut up.
But now when I recall that conversation of ourn, and think back on what begun t’ happen right afterwards, it seemed blamed funny that I didn’t suspicion somethin’ was wrong. The parson was mixed up in it, y’ savvy, and the sheriff, and Billy Trowbridge–all them three I’d helped out in one way ’r another. And Hairoil was in it, too–and he’d said oncet that he was a-goin’ t’ marry me off. So why didn’t I ketch on! Wal, I shore was a yap!
Next day, Hairoil didn’t even speak of Mace. I thought he’d clean fergot about her. He was all excited over somethin’ else–the ’lection of a sheriff. And ’fore he got done tellin’ me about it, I was some excited, too–fer all I was half sick account of my own troubles.
The ’lection of a sheriff, y’ savvy, means a’ awful lot to a passel of cow-punchers. We don’t much keer who’s President of the United States. (We been plumb covered with proud flesh these six years, though, ’cause Roos’velt, he’s a puncher.) We don’t much keer, neither, who’s Gov’ner of Oklahomaw. But you can bet you’ bottom dollar it makes a heap of diff’rence who’s our sheriff. If you git a friend in office, you can breathe easy when you have a little disagreement; if you don’t, why, you git ’lected–t’ the calaboose!
Now, what Hairoil come and rep’esented to me was this: That Hank Shackleton, editor of The Briggs City Eye-Opener, ’d been lickerin’ up somethin’ turrible the last twenty-four hours.
“Hank?” I says to Hairoil, plumb surprised. “Why, I didn’t know he ever took more ’n a glass.”
“A glass!” repeats Hairoil disgusted. “He ain’t used no glass this time; he used a funnel. And you oughta see his paper that come out this mornin’. It’s full on the one side, where a story’s allus printed, but the opp’site page looks like somethin’ ’d hit it–O. K. far’s advertisements go, but the news is as skurse as hen’s teeth, and not a word about Bergin.”
“You don’t say! But–what does that matter, Hairoil?”
“What does that matter! Why, if Hank gits it into his haid to keep on tankin’ that-a-way (till he plumb spills over, by jingo!) the Eye-Opener won’t show up again fer a month of Sundays. Now, we need it, account of this ’lection, and the way Hank is actin’ has come home to roost with ev’ry one of us. You been worried, Cupid, and you ain’t noticed how this sheriff sittywaytion is. The Goldstone Tarantula is behind the Republican candidate, Walker––”