It was no use attempting sympathy. When Arizona spoke of himself, when he chose to confide his life’s troubles to any one, he had a way of stating simple facts merely as facts; he spoke of them because it suited his pessimistic mood.
“Yup. The first was kind o’ fady, anyways—sort o’ limp in the backbone. Guess I’d got fixed wi’ her ’fore I knew a heap. Must ’a’ bin. Yup, she wus fancy in her notions. Hated sharin’ a pannikin o’ tea wi’ a friend; guess I see her scrape out a fry-pan oncet. I ’lows she had cranks. Guess she hadn’t a pile o’ brain, neither. She never could locate a hog from a sow, an’ as fer stridin’ a hoss, hell itself couldn’t ’a’ per-suaded her. She’d a notion fer settin’ sideways, an’ allus got muleish when you guessed she wus wrong. Yup, she wus red-hot on the mission sociables an’ eatin’ off’n chiny, an’ wa’n’t satisfied wi’ noospaper on the table; an’ took the notion she’d got pimples, an’ worried hell out o’ her old man till he bo’t a razor an’ turned his features into a patch o’ fall ploughin’, an’ kind o’ bulldozed her mother into lashin’ her stummick wi’ some noofangled fixin’ as wouldn’t meet round her nowheres noways. An’ she wus kind o’ finnicky wi’ her own feedin’, too. Guess some wall-eyed cuss had took her into Sacramento an’ give her a feed at one of them Dago joints, wher’ they disguise most everythin’ wi’ langwidge, an’ ile, an’ garlic, till you hate yourself. Wal, she died. Mebbe she’s got all them things handy now. But I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ mean about her; she jest had her notions. Guess it come from her mother. I ’lows she wus kind o’ struck on fool things an’ fixin’s. Can’t blame her noways. Guess I wus mostly sudden them days. Luv ut fust sight is a real good thing when it comes to savin’ labor, but like all labor-savin’ fixin’s, it’s liable to git rattled some, an’ then ther’ ain’t no calc’latin’ what’s goin’ to bust.”
Arizona’s manner was very hopeless, but presently he cheered up visibly and renewed his wad of chewing.
“T’other wus kind o’ slower in comin’ along,” he went on, in his reflective drawl. “But when it got around it wus good an’ strong, sure. Y’ see, ther’ wus a deal ’tween us like to make us friendly. She made hash fer the round-up, which I ’lows, when the lady’s young, she’s most gener’ly an objec’ of ’fection fer the boys. Guess she wus most every kind of a gal, wi’ her ha’r the color of a field of wheat ready fer the binder, an’ her figger as del’cate as one o’ them crazy egg-bilers, an’ her pretty face all sparklin’ wi’ smiles an’ hoss-soap, an’ her eye! Gee! but she had an eye. Guess she would ’a’ made a prairie-rose hate itself. But that wus ’fore we hooked up in a team. I ’lows marryin’s a mighty bad finish to courtin’.”
“You were married?”
“Am.”
A silence fell. The horses ambled on in the fresh noonday air. Arizona’s look was forbidding. Suddenly he turned and gazed fiercely into his friend’s face.
“Yes, sirree. An’ it’s my ’pinion, in spite of wot some folks sez, gettin’ married’s most like makin’ butter. Courtin’s the cream, good an’ thick an’ juicy, an’ you ken lay it on thick, an’ you kind o’ wonder how them buzzocky old cows got the savee to perduce sech a daisy liquid. But after the turnin’-point, which is marryin’, it’s diff’rent some. ’Tain’t cream no longer. It’s butter, an’ you need to use it sort o’ mean. That’s how I found, I guess.”
“I suppose you settled down, and things went all right, though?” suggested Tresler.
“Wal, maybe that’s so. Guess if anythin’ wus wrong it wus me. Yer see, ther’ ain’t a heap o’ fellers rightly understands females. I’m most gener’ly patient. Knowin’ their weakness, I sez, ‘Arizona, you’re mud when wimmin gits around. You bein’ married, it’s your dooty to boost the gal along.’ So I jest let her set around an’ shovel orders as though I wus the hired man. Say, guess you never had a gal shovelin’ orders. It’s real sweet to hear ’em, an’ I figger they knows their bizness mostly. It makes you feel as though you’d ha’f a dozen hands an’ they wus all gropin’ to git to work. That’s how I felt, anyways. Every mornin’ she’d per-suade me gentle out o’ bed ’fore daylight, an’ I’d feel like a hog fer sleepin’ late. Then she’d shovel the orders hansum, in a voice that ’ud shame molasses. It wus allus ‘dear’ or ‘darlin’.’ Fust haul water, then buck wood, light the stove, feed the hogs an’ chick’ns, dung out the ol’ cow, fill the lamp, rub down the mare, pick up the kitchen, set the clothes bilin’, cook the vittles, an’ do a bit o’ washin’ while she turned over fer five minits. Then she’d git around, mostly ’bout noon, wi’ her shower o’ ha’r trailin’ like a rain o’ gold-dust, an’ a natty sort o’ silk fixin’ which she called a ‘dressin’-gown,’ an’ she’d sot right down an’ eat the vittles, tellin’ me o’ things she wanted done as she’d fergot. Ther’ wus the hen-roost wanted limin’, she was sure the chick’ns had the bugs, an’ the ol’ mare’s harness wanted fixin’, so she could drive into town; an’ the buckboard wanted washin’, an’ the wheels greasin’. An’ the seat wus kind o’ hard an’ wanted packin’ wi’ a pillar. Then ther’ wus the p’tater patch wanted hoein’, an’ the cabb’ges. An’ the hay-mower wus to be got ready fer hayin’. She mostly drove that herself, an’ I ’lows I wus glad.”