“And you can chalk down forty votes fer Miss Macie Sewell” (See p. 64)

ALEC LLOYD
COWPUNCHER

Originally published under the title of

CUPID: THE COWPUNCH

BY
ELEANOR GATES

AUTHOR OF
THE POOR LITTLE RICH GIRL,
THE PLOW WOMAN, Etc.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY
ALLEN TRUE

NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1907, by The McClure Company
Published, November, 1907

Copyright, 1905, 1906, 1907 by The Curtis Publishing Company
Copyright, 1906, 1907, by International Magazine Company

CHAPTER ONE
ROSE ANDREWS’S HAND AND DOCTOR BUGS’S GASOLINE BRONC

“Now, look a-here, Alec Lloyd,” broke in Hairoil Johnson, throwin’ up one hand like as if to defend hisself, and givin’ me a kinda scairt look, “you shut you’ bazoo right this minute–and git! Whenever you begin singin’ that song, I know you’re a-figgerin’ on how to marry somebody off to somebody else. And I just won’t have you around!”

We was a-settin’ t’gether on the track side of the deepot platform at Briggs City, him a-holdin’ down one end of a truck, and me the other. The mesquite lay in front of us, and it was all a sorta greenish brown account of the pretty fair rain we’d been havin’. They’s miles of it, y’ savvy, runnin’ so far out towards the west line of Oklahomaw that it plumb slices the sky. Through it, north and south, the telegraph poles go straddlin’–in the direction of Kansas City on the right hand, and off past Rogers’s Butte to Albuquerque on the left. Behind us was little ole Briggs, with its one street of square-front buildin’s facin’ the railroad, and a scatterin’ of shacks and dugouts and corrals and tin-can piles in behind.

Little ole Briggs! Sometimes, you bet you’ life, I been pretty down on my luck in Briggs, and sometimes I been turrible happy; also, I been just so-so. But, no matter how things pan out, darned if I cain’t allus say truthful that she just about suits me–that ornery, little, jerkwater town!

The particular day I’m a-speakin’ of was a jo-dandy–just cool enough to make you want t’ keep you’ back aimed right up at the sun, and without no more breeze than ’d help along a butterfly. Then, the air was all nice and perfumey, like them advertisin’ picture cards you git at a drugstore. So, bein’ as I was enjoyin’ myself, and a-studyin’ out somethin’ as I hummed that was mighty important, why, I didn’t want t’ mosey, no, ma’am.

But Hairoil was mad. I knowed it fer the reason that he’d called me Alec ’stead of Cupid. Y’ see, all the boys call me Cupid. And I ain’t ashamed of it, neither. Somebody’s got t’ help out when it’s a case of two lovin’ souls that’s bein’ kept apart.

“Now, pardner,” I answers him, as coaxin’ as I could, “don’t you go holler ’fore you’re hit. It happens that I ain’t a-figgerin’ on no hitch-up plans fer you.”

Hairoil, he stood up–quick, so that I come nigh fallin’ offen my end of the truck. “But you are fer some other pore cuss,” he says. “You as good as owned up.”

“Yas,” I answers, “I are. But the gent in question wouldn’t want you should worry about him. All that’s a-keepin’ him anxious is that mebbe he won’t git his gal.”

“Alec,” Hairoil goes on,–turrible solemn, he was–“I have decided that this town has had just about it’s fill of this Cupid business of yourn–and I’m a-goin’ t’ stop it.”

I snickered. “Y’ are?” I ast. “Wal, how?”

“By marryin’ you off. When you’re hitched up you’self, you won’t be so all-fired anxious t’ git other pore fellers into the traces.”

“That good news,” I says. “Who’s the for-tunate gal you’ve picked fer me?”

“Never you mind,” answers Hairoil. “She’s a new gal, and she’ll be along next week.”

“Is she pretty?”

“Is she pretty! Say! Pretty ain’t no name fer it! She’s got big grey eyes, with long, black, sassy winkers, and brown hair that’s all kinda curly over the ears. Then her cheeks is pink, and she’s got the cutest mouth a man ’most ever seen.”

Wal, a-course, I thought he was foolin’. (And mebbe he was–then.) A gal like that fer me!–a fine, pretty gal fer such a knock-kneed, slab-sided son-of-a-gun as me? I just couldn’t swaller that.

But, aw! if I only had ’a’ knowed how that idear of hisn was a-goin’ t’ grow!–that idear of him turnin’ Cupid fer me, y’ savvy. And if only I’d ’a’ knowed what a turrible bust-up he’d fin’lly be responsible fer ’twixt me and the same grey-eyed, sassy-winkered gal! If I had, it’s a cinch I’d ’a’ sit on him hard–right then and there.

I didn’t, though. I switched back on to what was a-puzzlin’ and a-worryin’ me. “Billy Trowbridge,” I begun, “has waited too long a’ready fer Rose Andrews. And if things don’t come to a haid right soon, he’ll lose her.”

Hairoil give a kinda jump. “The Widda Andrews,” he says, “–Zach Sewell’s gal? So you’re a-plannin’ t’ interfere in the doin’s of ole man Sewell’s fambly.”

“Yas.”

He reached fer my hand and squz it, and pretended t’ git mournful, like as if he wasn’t never goin’ t’ see me again. “My pore friend!” he says.

“Wal, what’s eatin’ you now?” I ast.

“Nothin’–only that pretty gal I tole you about, she’s––”

Then he stopped short.

“She’s what?”

He let go of my hand, shrug his shoulders, and started off. “Never mind,” he called back. “Let it drop. We’ll just see. Mebbe, after all, you’ll git the very lesson you oughta have. Ole man Sewell!” And, shakin’ his haid, he turned the corner of the deepot.

Wal, who was Sewell anyhow?–no better’n any other man. I’d knowed him since ’fore the Oklahomaw Rushes, and long ’fore he’s wired-up half this end of the Terrytory. And I’d knowed his oldest gal, Rose, since she was knee-high to a hop-toad. Daisy gal, she allus was, by thunder! And mighty sweet. Wal, when, after tyin’ up t’ that blamed fool Andrews, she’d got her matreemonal hobbles off in less’n six months–owin’ t’ Monkey Mike bein’ a little sooner in the trigger finger–why, d’you think I was a-goin’ to stand by and see a tin-horn proposition like that Noo York Simpson put a vent brand on her? Nixey!

It was ole man Sewell that bossed the first job and cut out Andrews fer Rose’s pardner. Sewell’s that breed, y’ know, hard-mouthed as a mule, and if he cain’t run things, why, he’ll take a duck-fit. But he shore put his foot in it that time. Andrews was as low-down and sneakin’ as a coyote, allus gittin’ other folks into a fuss if he could, but stayin’ outen range hisself. The little gal didn’t have no easy go with him–we all knowed that, and she wasn’t happy. Wal, Mike easied the sittywaytion. He took a gun with a’ extra long carry and put a lead pill where it’d do the most good; and the hull passel of us was plumb tickled, that’s all, just plumb tickled–even t’ the sheriff.

I said pill just now. Funny how I just fall into the habit of usin’ doctor words when I come to talk of this particular mix-up. That’s ’cause Simpson, the tin-horn gent I mentioned, is a doc. And so’s Billy Trowbridge–Billy Trowbridge is the best medicine-man we ever had in these parts, if he did git all his learnin’ right here from his paw. He ain’t got the spondulix, and so he ain’t what you’d call tony. But he’s got his doctor certificate, O. K., and when it comes t’ curin’, he can give cards and spades to any of you’ highfalutin’ college gezabas, and then beat ’em out by a mile. That’s straight!

Billy, he’d allus liked Rose. And Rose’d allus liked Billy. Wal, after Andrews’s s-a-d endin’, you bet I made up my mind that Billy’d be ole man Sewell’s next son-in-law. Billy was smart as the dickens, and young, and no drunk. He hadn’t never wore no hard hat, neither, ’r roached his mane pompydory, and he was one of the kind that takes a run at they fingernails oncet in a while. Now, mebbe a puncher ’r a red ain’t par-ticular about his hands; but a profeshnal gent’s got to be. And with a nice gal like Rose, it shore do stack up.

But it didn’t stand the chanst of a snow-man in Yuma when it come to ole man Sewell. Doc Simpson was new in town, and Sewell’d ast him out to supper at the Bar Y ranch-house two ’r three times. And he was clean stuck on him. To hear the ole man talk, Simpson was the cutest thing that’d ever come into the mesquite. And Billy? Wal, he was the bad man from Bodie.

Say! but all of us punchers was sore when we seen how Sewell was haided!–not just the ole man’s outfit at the Bar Y, y’ savvy, but the bunch of us at the Diamond O. None of us liked Simpson a little bit. He wore fine clothes, and a dicer, and when it come to soothin’ the ladies and holdin’ paws, he was there with both hoofs. Then, he had all kinds of fool jiggers fer his business, and one of them toot surreys that’s got ingine haidlights and two seats all stuffed with goose feathers and covered with leather–reg’lar Standard Sleeper.

It was that gasoline rig that done Billy damage, speakin’ financial. The minute folks knowed it was in Briggs City, why they got a misery somewheres about ’em quick–just to have it come and stand out in front, smellin’ as all-fired nasty as a’ Injun, but lookin’ turrible stylish. The men was bad enough about it, and when they had one of Doc Simpson’s drenches they haids was as big as Bill Williams’s Mountain. But the women! The hull cavvieyard of ’em, exceptin’ Rose, stampeded over to him. And Billy got such a snow-under that they had him a-diggin’ fer his grass.

I was plumb crazy about it. “Billy,” I says one day, when I met him a-comin’ from ’Pache Sam’s hogan on his bicycle; “Billy, you got to do somethin’.” (Course, I didn’t mention Rose.) “You goin’ to let any sawed-off, hammered-down runt like that Simpson drive you out? Why, it’s free grazin’ here!”

Billy, he smiled kinda wistful and begun to brush the alkali offen that ole Stetson of hisn, turnin’ it ’round and ’round like he was worried. “Aw, never mind, Cupid,” he says; “–just keep on you’ shirt.”

But pretty soon things got a darned sight worse, and I couldn’t hardly hole in. Not satisfied with havin’ the hull country on his trail account of that surrey, Simpson tried a new deal: He got to discoverin’ bugs!

He found out that Bill Rawson had malaria bugs, and the Kelly kid had diphtheria bugs, and Dutchy had typhoid bugs that didn’t do business owin’ to the alcohol in his system. (Too bad!) Why, it was astonishin’ how many kinds of newfangled critters we’d never heard of was a-livin’ in this Terrytory!

But all his bugs didn’t split no shakes with Rose. She was polite to Simpson, and friendly, but nothin’ worse. And it was plainer ’n the nose on you’ face that Billy was solid with her. But the ole man is the hull show in that fambly, y’ savvy; and all us fellers could do was to hope like sixty that nothin’ ’d happen to give Simpson a’ extra chanst. But, crimini! Somethin’ did happen: Rose’s baby got sick. Wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep, kinda whined all the time, like a sick purp, and begun to look peaked–pore little kid!

I was out at the Bar Y that same day, and when the news got over to the bunk-house, we was all turrible excited. “Which’ll the ole man send after,” we says, “–Simpson ’r Billy?”

It was that bug-doctor!

He come down the road two-forty, settin’ up as stiff as if he had a ramrod in his backbone. I just happened over towards the house as he turned in at the gate. He staked out his surrey clost to the porch and stepped down. My! such nice little button shoes!

“Aw, maw!” says Monkey Mike; “he’s too rich fer my blood!”

The ole man come out to say howdy. When Simpson seen him, he says, “Mister Sewell, they’s some hens ’round here, and I don’t want ’em to hop into my machine whilst I’m in the house.” Then, he looks at me. “Can you’ hired man keep ’em shooed?” he says.

Hired man! I took a jump his direction that come nigh to splittin’ my boots. “Back up, m’ son,” I says, reachin’ to my britches pocket. “I ain’t no hired man.”

Sewell, he puts in quick. “No, no, Doc,” he says; “this man’s one of the Diamond O cow-boys. Fer heaven’s sake, Cupid! You’re gittin’ to be as touchy as a cook!”

Simpson, he apologised, and I let her pass f er that time. But, a-course, far’s him and me was concerned–wal, just wait. As I say, he goes in,–the ole man follerin’–leavin’ that gasoline rig snortin’ and sullin’ and lookin’ as if it was just achin’ t’ take a run at the bunk-house and bust it wide open. I goes in, too,–just t’ see the fun.

There was that Simpson examinin’ the baby, and Rose standin’ by, lookin’ awful scairt. He had a rain-gauge in his hand, and was a-squintin’ at it important. “High temper’ture,” he says; “’way up to hunderd and four.” Then he jabbed a spoon jigger into her pore little mouth. Then he made X brands acrosst her soft little back with his fingers. Then he turned her plumb over and begun to tunk her like she was a melon. And when he’d knocked the wind outen her, he pro-duced a bicycle pump, stuck it agin her chest, and put his ear to the other end. “Lungs all right,” he says; “heart all right. Must be––” Course, you know–bugs!

“But–but, couldn’t it be teeth?” ast Rose.

Simpson grinned like she was a’ idjit, and he was sorry as the dickens fer her. “Aw, a baby ain’t all teeth,” he says.

Wal, he left some truck ’r other. Then he goes out, gits into his Pullman section, blows his punkin whistle and departs.

Next day, same thing. Temper’ture’s still up. Medicine cain’t be kept down. Case turrible puzzlin’. Makes all kinds of guesses. Leaves some hoss liniment. Toot! toot!

Day after, changes the program. Sticks a needle into the kid and gits first blood. Says somethin’ about “Modern scientific idears,” and tracks back t’ town.

Things run along that-a-way fer a week. Baby got sicker and sicker. Rose got whiter and whiter, and thinned till she was about as hefty as a shadda. Even the ole man begun t’ look kinda pale ’round the gills. But Simpson didn’t miss a trick. And he come t’ the ranch-house so darned many times that his buckboard plumb oiled down the pike.

“Rose,” I says oncet to her, when I stopped by, “cain’t we give Billy Trowbridge a chanst? That Simpson doc ain’t worth a hill of beans.”

Rose didn’t say nothin’. She just turned and lent over the kid. Gee whiz! I hate t’ see a woman cry!

’Way early, next day, the kid had a convul-sion, and ev’rybody was shore she was goin’ to kick the bucket. And whilst a bunch of us was a-hangin’ ’round the porch, pretty nigh luny about the pore little son-of-a-gun, Bill Rawson come–and he had a story that plumb took the last kink outen us.

I hunts up the boss. “Mister Sewell,” I says, by way of beginnin’, “I’m feard we’re goin’ to lose the baby. Simpson ain’t doin’ much, seems like. What y’ say if I ride in fer Doc Trowbridge?”

“Trowbridge?” he says disgusted. “No, ma’am! Simpson’ll be here in a jiffy!”

“I reckon Simpson’ll be late,” I says. “Bill Rawson seen him goin’ towards Goldstone just now in his thrashin’-machine with a feemale settin’ byside him. Bill says she was wearin’ one of them fancy collar-box hats, with a duck-wing hitched on to it, and her hair was all mussy over her eyes–like a cow with a board on its horns–and she had enough powder on her face t’ make a biscuit.”

The ole man begun t’ chaw and spit like a bob-cat. “I ain’t astin’ Bill’s advice,” he says. “When I want it, I’ll let him know. If Simpson’s busy over t’ Goldstone, we got to wait on him, that’s all. But Trowbridge? Not no-ways!”

I seen then that it was time somebody mixed in. I got onto my pinto bronc and loped fer town. But all the way I couldn’t think what t’ do. So I left Maud standin’ outside of Dutchy’s, and went over and sit down next Hairoil on the truck. And that’s where I was–a-hummin’ to myself and a-workin’ my haid–when he give me that rakin’ over about playin’ Cupid, and warned me agin monkeyin’ with ole man Sewell.

Wal, when Hairoil up and left me, I kept right on a-studyin’. I knowed, a-course, that I could go kick up a fuss when Simpson stopped by his office on his trip back from Goldstone. But that didn’t seem such a’ awful good plan. Also, I could––

Just then, I heerd my cow-pony kinda whinny. I glanced over towards her. She was standin’ right where I’d left her, lines on the ground, eyes peeled my way. And such a look as she was a-givin’ me!–like she knowed what I was a-worryin’ about and was surprised I was so blamed thick.

I jumped up and run over to her. “Maud,” I says, “you got more savvy ’n any horse I know, bar none. Danged if we don’t do it!”

First off, I sent word t’ Billy that he was to show up at the Sewell ranch-house about four o’clock. And when three come, me and Maud was on the Bar Y road where it goes acrosst that crick-bottom. She was moseyin’ along, savin’ herself, and I was settin’ sideways like a real lady so’s I could keep a’ eye towards town. Pretty soon, ’way back down the road, ’twixt the barb-wire fences, I seen a cloud of dust a-travellin’–a-travellin’ so fast they couldn’t be no mistake. And in about a minute, the signs was complete–I heerd a toot. I put my laig over then.

Here he come, that Simpson in his smelly Pullman, takin’ the grade like greased lightin’. “Now, Maud!” I whispers to the bronc. And, puttin’ my spurs into her, I begun t’ whip-saw from one fence to the other.

He slowed up and blowed his whistle.

I hoed her down harder’n ever.

“You’re a-skeerin’ my hoss,” I yells back.

“Pull t’ one side,” he answers. “I want to git by.”

But Maud wouldn’t pull. And everywheres Simpson was, she was just in front, actin’ as if she was scairt plumb outen her seven senses. The worse she acted, a-course, the madder I got! Fin’lly, just as Mister Doc was managin’ to pass, I got turrible mad, and, cussin’ blue blazes, I took out my forty-five and let her fly.

One of them hind tires popped like the evenin’ gun at Fort Wingate. Same minute, that hidebound rig-a-ma-jig took a shy and come nigh buttin’ her fool nose agin a fence-post. But Simpson, he geed her quick and started on. I put a hole in the other hind tire. She shied again–opp’site direction–snortin’ like she was wind-broke. He hawed her back. Then he went a-kitin’ on, leavin’ me a-eatin’ his dust.

But I wasn’t done with him, no, ma’am.

Right there the road make a kinda horse-shoe turn–like this, y’ savvy–to git ’round a fence corner. I’d cal’lated on that. I just give Maud a lick ’longside the haid, jumped her over the fence, quirted her a-flyin’ acrosst that bend, took the other fence, and landed about a hunderd feet in front of him.

When he seen me through his goggles, he come on full-steam. I set Maud a-runnin’ the same direction–and took up my little rope.

About two shakes of a lamb’s tail, and it happened. He got nose and nose with me. I throwed, ketchin’ him low–’round his chest and arms. Maud come short.

Say! talk about you’ flyin’-machines! Simpson let go his holt and took to the air, sailin’ up right easy fer a spell, flappin’ his wings all the time; then, doublin’ back somethin’ amazin’, and fin’lly comin’ down t’ light.

And that gasoline bronc of hisn–minute she got the bit, she acted plumb loco. She shassayed sideways fer a rod, buckin’ at ev’ry jump. Pretty soon, they was a turn, but she didn’t see it. She left the road and run agin the fence, cuttin’ the wires as clean in two as a pliers-man. Then, outen pure cussedness, seems like, she made towards a cottonwood, riz up on her hind laigs, clumb it a ways, knocked her wind out, pitched oncet ’r twicet, tumbled over on to her quarters, and begun t’ kick up her heels.

“He lay the kid lookin’ up and put his finger into her mouth”

I looked at Simpson. He’d been settin’ on the ground; but now he gits up, pullin’ at the rope gentle, like a lazy sucker. Say! but his face was ornamented!

I give him a nod. “Wal, Young-Man-That-Flies-Like-A-Bird?” I says, inquirin’.

He began to paw up the road like a mad bull. “I’ll make you pay fer this!” he bellered.

“You cain’t git blood outen a turnip,” I answers, sweet as sugar; and Maud backed a step ’r two, so’s the rope wouldn’t slack.

“How dast you do such a’ infameous thing!” he goes on.

“You gasoline gents got t’ have a lesson,” I answers; “you let the stuff go t’ you’ haids. Why, a hired man ain’t got a chanst fer his life when you happen t’ be travellin’.”

He begun t’ wiggle his arms. “You lemme go,” he says.

“Go where?” I ast.

“T’ my machine.”

I looked over at her. She was quiet now, but sweatin’ oil somethin’ awful. “How long’ll it take you t’ git her on to her laigs?” I ast.

“She’s ruined!” he says, like he was goin’ to bawl. “And I meant t’ go down to Goldstone t’night.”

“That duck-wing lady’ll have t’ wait fer the train,” I says. “But never mind. I’ll tell Rose Andrews you got the engagement.” Then Maud slacked the rope and I rode up t’ him, so’s to let him loose. “So long,” I says.

“I ain’t done with you!” he answers, gittin’ purple; “I ain’t done with you!”

“Wal, you know where I live,” I says, and loped off, hummin’ the tune the ole cow died on.

When I rid up to the Bar Y ranch-house, here was Billy, gittin’ offen that little bicycle of hisn.

“Cupid,” he says, and he was whiter’n chalk-rock, “is the baby worse? And Rose––”

I pulled him up on to the porch. “Now’s you’ chanst, Billy,” I answers. “Do you’ darnedest!”

Rose opened the door, and her face was as white as hisn. “Aw, Billy!” was all she says.

Then up come that ole fool paw of hern, totin’ the kid. “What’s this?” he ast, mad as a hornet. “And where’s Doc Simpson?”

It was me that spoke. “Doc Simpson’s had a turrible accident,” I answers. “His gasoline plug got to misbehavin’ down the road a piece, and plumb tore her insides out. He got awful shook up, and couldn’t come no further, so–knowin’ the baby was so sick–I went fer Bill.”

“Bill!” says the ole man, disgusted. “Thun-deration!”

But Billy had his tools out a’ready and was a-reachin’ fer the kid. Sewell let him have her–cussin’ like a mule-skinner.

“That’s right,” he says to Rose; “that’s right,–let him massacree her!”

Rose didn’t take no notice. “Aw, Billy!” she kept sayin’, and “Aw, baby!”

Billy got to doin’ things. He picked somethin’ shiny outen his kit and slipped it into a pocket. Next, he lay the kid lookin’ up and put his finger into her mouth.

“See here,” he says to me.

I peeked in where he pointed and seen a reg’lar little hawg-back of gum, red on the two slopes, but whitish in four spots along the ridge, like they’d been a snowfall. Billy grinned, took out that shiny instrument, and give each of them pore little gum buttes the double cross–zip-zip, zip-zip, zip-zip, zip-zip. And, jumpin’ buffaloes! out pops four of the prettiest teeth a man ever seen!

Bugs?–rats!

“Now, a little Bella Donnie,” says Bill, “and the baby’ll be O. K.”

“O. K.!” says Rose. “Aw, Billy!” And such a kissin’!–the baby, a-course.

Ole man Sewell stopped swearin’ a minute. “What’s the matter?” he ast.

“Teeth,” says Billy.

Think of that! Why, the trouble was so clost to Simpson that if it’d been a rattler, it’d ’a’ bit him!

“Teeth!” says the ole man, like he didn’t believe it.

“Come look,” says Billy.

Sewell, he walked over to the baby and stooped down. Then all of a suddent, I seen his jaw go open, and his eyes stick out so far you could ’a’ knocked ’em off with a stick. Then, he got red as a turkey gobbler–and let out a reg’lar war-whoop.

“Look at ’em!” he yelped. “Rose! Rose!–look at ’em! Four all to oncet!” And he give the doc such a wallop on the back that it come nigh to knockin’ him down.

“I know,” I says sarcastic, “but, shucks! a baby ain’t all teeth. This is a mighty puzzlin’ case, and Simpson––”

“Close you’ fly-trap,” says the ole man, “and look at them teeth! Four of a kind–can y’ beat it?”

“Wa-a-al,” I says, sniffin’, “they’s so, so, I reckon, but any kid––”

“Any kid!” yells the ole man, plumb aggervated. And he was just turnin’ round to give me one when–in limps Simpson!

“Mister Sewell,” he says, “I come to make a complaint”–he shook his fist at me–“agin this here ruffian. He––”

“Wow!” roars Sewell. “Don’t you trouble to make no complaints in this house. Here you been a-treatin’ this baby fer bugs when it was just teeth. Say! you ain’t got sense enough to come in when it rains!”

That plumb rattled Simpson. He was gittin’ a reception he didn’t reckon on. But he tried t’ keep up his game.

“This cow-boy here is responsible fer damages to my auto,” he says. “The dashboard’s smashed into matches, the tumblin’-rods is broke, the spark-condenser’s kaflummuxed, and the hull blamed business is skew-gee. This man was actin’ in you’ behalf, and if he don’t pay, I’ll sue you.”

“Sue?” says Sewell; “sue? You go guess again! You send in you’ bill, that’s what you do. You ain’t earned nothin’–but, by jingo, it’s worth money just to git shet of such a dog-goned shyster as you. Git.”

And with that, out goes Mister Bugs.

Then, grandpaw, he turns round to the baby again, plumb took up with them four new nippers. “Cluck, cluck,” he says like a chicken, and pokes the kid under the chin. Over one shoulder, he says to Billy, “And, Trowbridge, you can make out you’ bill, too.”

Billy didn’t answer nothin’. Just went over to a table, pulled out a piece of paper and a pencil, and begun t’ write. Pretty soon, he got up and come back.

“Here, Mister Sewell,” he says.

I was right byside the ole man, and–couldn’t help it–I stretched to read what Billy’d writ. And this was what it was:

“Mister Zach Sewell, debtor to W. A. Trowbridge, fer medical services–the hand of one Rose Andrews in marriage.”

Sewell, he read the paper over and over, turnin’ all kinds of colours. And Silly and me come blamed nigh chokin’ from holdin’ our breaths. Rose was lookin’ up at us, and at her paw, too, turrible anxious. As fer that kid, it was a-kickin’ its laigs into the air and gurglin’ like a bottle.

Fin’lly, the ole man handed the paper back. “Doc,” he says, “Rose is past twenty-one, and not a’ idjit. Also, the kid is hern. So, bein’ this bill reads the way it does, mebbe you’d better hand it t’ her. If she don’t think it’s too steep a figger––”

Billy took the paper and give it over to Rose. When she read it, her face got all blushy; and happy, too, I could see that.

“Rose!” says Billy, holdin’ out his two arms to her.

I took a squint through the winda at the scenery–and heerd a sound like a cow pullin’ its foot outen the mud.

“Rose,” goes on Billy, “I’ll be as good as I know how to you.”

When I turned round again, here was ole man Sewell standin’ in the middle of the floor, lookin’ back and forth from Rose and Billy to the kid–like it’d just struck him that he was goin’ t’ lose his gal and the baby and all them teeth. And if ever a man showed that he was helpless and jealous and plumb hurt, why, that was him. Next, here he was a-gazin’ at me with a queer shine in his eyes–almost savage. And say! it got me some nervous.

“Seems Mister Cupid Lloyd is a-runnin’ things ’round this here ranch-house,” he begun slow, like he was holdin’ in his mad.

I–wal, I just kinda stood there, and swallered oncet ’r twicet, and tried t’ grin. (Didn’t know nothin’ t’ say, y’ savvy, that’d be likely t’ hit him just right.)

“So Cupid’s gone and done it again!” he goes on. “How accommodatin’! Haw!” And he give one of them short, sarcastic laughs.

“Wal, just let me tell you,” he continues, steppin’ closter, “that I, fer one, ain’t got no use fer a feller that’s allus a-stickin’ in his lip.”

“Sewell,” I says, “no feller likes to–that’s a cinch. But oncet in a while it’s plumb needful.”

“It is, is it? And I s’pose this is one of them cases. Wal, Mister Cupid, all I can say is this: The feller that sticks in his lip allus gits into trouble.”

Sometimes, them words of hisn come back to me. Mebbe I’ll be feelin’ awful good-natured, and be a-laughin’ and talkin’. Of a suddent, up them words’ll pop, and the way he said ’em, and all. And even if it’s right warm weather, why, I shiver, yas, ma’am. The fetter that sticks in his lip allus gits into trouble–nothin’ was ever said truer’n that!

“And,” the ole man goes on again, a little bit hoarse by now, “I can feel you’ trouble a-comin’. So far, you been lucky. But it cain’t last–it cain’t last. You know what it says in the Bible? (Mebbe it ain’t in the Bible, but that don’t matter.) It says, ‘Give a fool a rope and he’ll hang hisself.’ And one of these times you’ll play Cupid just oncet too many. What’s more, the smarty that can allus bring other folks t’gether cain’t never manage t’ hitch hisself.”

I’d been keepin’ still ’cause I didn’t want they should be no hard feelin’s ’twixt us. But that last remark of hisn kinda got my dander up.

“Aw, I don’t know,” I answers; “when it comes my own time, I don’t figger t’ have much trouble.”

Wal, sir, the old man flew right up. His face got the colour of sand-paper, and he brung his two hands t’gether clinched, so’s I thought he’d plumb crack the bones. “Haw!” (That laugh again–bitter’n gall.) “Mister Cupid Lloyd, you just wait.” And out he goes.

“Cupid,” says Billy, “I’m turrible sorry. Seems, somehow, that you’ve got Sewell down on y’ account of me––”

“That’s all right, Doc,” I answers; “I don’t keer. It mocks nix oudt, as Dutchy ’d say.” And I shook hands with him and Rose, and kissed the baby.

It mocks nix oudt–that’s what I said. Wal, how was I t’ know then, that I’d made a’ enemy of the one man that, later on, I’d be willin’ t’ give my life t’ please, almost?–how was I t’ know?

CHAPTER TWO
A THIRST-PARLOUR MIX-UP GIVES ME A NEW DEAL

Ain’t it funny what little bits of things can sorta change a feller’s life all ’round ev’ry which direction–shuffle it up, you might say, and throw him out a brand new deal? Now, take my case: If a sassy greaser from the Lazy X ranch hadn’t ’a’ plugged Bud Hickok, Briggs City ’d never ’a’ got the parson; if the parson hadn’t ’a’ came, I’d never ’a’ gone to church; and mebbe if I hadn’t never ’a’ gone to church, it wouldn’t ’a’ made two cents diff’rence whether ole man Sewell was down on me ’r not–fer the reason that, likely, I’d never ’a’ met up with Her.

Now, I ain’t a-sayin’ I’m a’ almanac, ner one of them crazies that can study the trails in the middle of you’ hand and tell you that you’re a-goin’ to have ham and aigs fer breakfast. No, ma’am, I ain’t neither one. But, just the same, the very first time I clapped my lookers on the new parson, I knowed they was shore goin’ to be sev’ral things a-happenin’ ’fore long in that particular section of Oklahomaw.

As I said, Bud was responsible fer the parson comin’. Bud tied down his holster just oncet too many. The greaser called his bluff, and pumped lead into his system some. That called fer a funeral. Now, Mrs. Bud, she’s Kansas City when it comes to bein’ high-toned. And nothin’ would do but she must have a preacher. So the railroad agent got Williams, Arizonaw, on his click-machine, and we got the parson.

He was a new breed, that parson, a genuwine no-two-alike, come-one-in-a-box kind. He was big and young, with no hair on his face, and brownish eyes that ’peared to look plumb through y’ and out on the other side. Good-natured, y’ know, but actin’ as if he meant ev’ry word he said; foolin’ a little with y’, too, and friendly as the devil. And he didn’t wear parson duds–just a grey suit; not like us, y’ savvy–more like what the hotel clerk down to Albuquerque wears, ’r one of them city fellers that comes here to run a game.

Wal, the way he talked over pore Bud was a caution. Say! they was no “Yas, my brother,” ’r “No, my brother,” and no “Heaven’s will be done” outen him–nothin’ like it! And you’d never ’a’ smelt gun-play. Mrs. Bud ner the greaser that done the shootin’-up (he was at the buryin’) didn’t hear no word they could kick at, no, ma’am. The parson read somethin’ about the day you die bein’ a darned sight better ’n the day you was born. And his hull razoo was so plumb sensible that, ’fore he got done, the passel of us was all a-feelin’, somehow ’r other, that Bud Hickok had the drinks on us!

We planted Bud in city style. But the parson didn’t shassay back to Williams afterwards. We’d no more’n got our shaps on again, when Hairoil blowed in from the post-office up the street and let it out at the “Life Savin’ Station,” as Dutchy calls his thirst-parlour, that the parson was goin’ to squat in Briggs City fer a spell.

“Wal, of all the dog-goned propositions!” says Bill Rawson, mule-skinner over to the Little Rattlesnake Mine. “What’s he goin’ to do that fer, Hairoil?”

“Heerd we was goin’ to have a polo team,” answers Hairoil. “Reckon he’s kinda loco on polo. Anyhow, he’s took my shack.”

“Boys,” I tole the crowd that was wettin’ they whistles, “this preachin’ gent ain’t none of you’ ev’ry day, tenderfoot, hell-tooters. Polo, hey? He’s got savvy. Look a leedle oudt, as Dutchy, here, ’d put it. Strikes me this feller’ll hang on longer ’n any other parson that was ever in these parts ropin’ souls.”

Ole Dutch lay back his ears. “Better he do’n make no trubbles mit me,” he says.

Say! that was like tellin’ you’ fortune. The next day but one, right in front of the “Station,” trouble popped. This is how:

The parson ’d had all his truck sent over from Williams. In the pile they was one of them big, spotted dawgs–keerige dawgs, I think they call ’em. This particular dawg was so spotted you could ’a’ come blamed nigh playin’ checkers on him. Wal, Dutchy had a dawg, too. It wasn’t much of anythin’ fer fambly, I reckon,–just plain purp–but it shore had a fine set of nippers, and could jerk off the stearin’ gear of a cow quicker ’n greazed lightnin’. Wal, the parson come down to the post-office, drivin’ a two-wheel thing-um-a-jig, all yalla and black. ’Twixt the wheels was trottin’ his spotted dawg. A-course, the parson ’d no more’n stopped, when out comes that ornery purp of Dutchy’s. And such a set-to you never seen!

But it was all on one side, like a jug handle, and the keerige dawg got the heavy end. He yelped bloody murder and tried to skedaddle. The other just hung on, and bit sev’ral of them stylish spots clean offen him.

“Sir,” says the parson to Dutchy, when he seen the damage, “call off you’ beast.”

Dutchy, he just grinned. “Ock,” he says, “it mocks nix oudt if dey do sometinks. Here de street iss not brivate broperty.”

At that, the parson clumb down and drug his dawg loose. Then he looked up at the thirst-parlour. “What a name fer a saloon,” he says, “in a civilised country!”

A-course, us fellers enjoyed the fun, all right. And we fixed it up t’gether to kinda sic the Dutchman on. We seen that “Life Savin’ Station” stuck in the parson’s craw, and we made out to Dutch that like as not he ’d have to change his sign.

Dutch done a jig he was so mad. “Fer dat?” he ast, meanin’ the parson. “Nein! He iss not cross mit my sign. He vut like it, maype, if I gif him some viskey on tick. I bet you he trinks, I bet. Maype he trinks ret ink gocktails, like de Injuns; maype he trinks Florita Vater, oder golone. Ya! Ya! Vunce I seen a feller–I hat some snakes here in algohol–unt dat feller he trunk de algohol. Ya. Unt de minister iss just so bat as dat.”

Then, to show how he liked us, Dutchy set up the red-eye. And the next time the parson come along in his cart, they was a dawg fight in front of that saloon that was worth two-bits fer admission.

Don’t think the rest of us was agin the parson, though. We wasn’t. Fact it, we kinda liked him from the jump. We liked his riggin’, we liked the way he grabbed you’ paw, and he was no quitter when it come to a hoss. Say! but he could ride! One day when he racked into the post-office, his spur-chains a-rattlin’ like a puncher’s, and a quirt in his fist, one of the Bar Y boys rounded him up agin the meanest, low-down buckin’ proposition that ever wore the hide of a bronc. But the parson was game from his hay to his hoofs. He clumb into the saddle and stayed there, and went a-hikin’ off acrosst the prairie, independent as a pig on ice, just like he was a-straddlin’ some ole crow-bait!

So, when Sunday night come, and he preached in the school-house, he had quite a bunch of punchers corralled there to hear him. And I was one of ’em. (But, a-course, that first time, I didn’t have no idear it was a-goin’ to mean a turrible lot to me, that goin’ to church.) Wal, I’m blamed if the parson wasn’t wearin’ the same outfit as he did week days. We liked that. And he didn’t open up by tellin’ us that we was all branded and ear-marked a’ ready by the Ole Long-horn Gent. No, ma’am. He didn’t mention everlastin’ fire. And he didn’t ramp and pitch and claw his hair. Fact is, he didn’t hell-toot!

A-course, that spoiled the fun fer us. But he talked so straight, and kinda easy and honest, that he got us a-listenin’ to what he said.

Cain’t say we was stuck on his text, though. It run like this, that a smart man sees when a row’s a-comin’ and makes fer the tall cat-tails till the wind dies down. And he went on to say that a man oughta be humble, and that if a feller gives you a lick on the jaw, why, you oughta let him give you another to grow on. Think o’ that! It may be O. K. fer preachers, and fer women that ain’t strong enough t’ lam back. But fer me, nixey.

But that hand-out didn’t give the parson no black eye with us. We knowed it was his duty t’ talk that-a-way. And two ’r three of the boys got t’ proposin’ him fer the polo team real serious–pervided, a-course, that he’d stand fer a little cussin’ when the ’casion required. It was a cinch that he’d draw like wet rawhide.

Wal, the long and short of it is, he did. And Sunday nights, the Dutchman lost money. He begun t’ josh the boys about gittin’ churchy. It didn’t do no good,–the boys didn’t give a whoop fer his gass, and they liked the parson. All Dutchy could do was to sic his purp on to chawin’ spots offen that keerige dawg.

But pretty soon he got plumb tired of just dawg-fightin’. He prepared to turn hisself loose. And he advertised a free supper fer the very next Sunday night. When Sunday night come, they say he had a reg’lar Harvey layout. You buy a drink, and you git a stuffed pickle, ’r a patty de grass, ’r a wedge of pie druv into you’ face.

No go. The boys was on to Dutchy. They knowed he was the stingiest gezaba in these parts, and wouldn’t give away a nickel if he didn’t reckon on gittin’ six-bits back. So, more fer devilment ’n anythin’ else, the most of ’em fooled him some–just loped to the school-house.

The parson was plumb tickled.

But it didn’t last. The next Sunday, the “Life Savin’ Station” had Pete Gans up from Apache to deal a little faro. And as it rained hard enough t’ keep the women folks away, why, the parson preached to ole man Baker (he’s deef), the globe and the chart and the map of South Amuricaw. And almost ev’ry day of the next week, seems like, that purp of Dutchy’s everlastin’ly chawed the parson’s. The spotted dawg couldn’t go past the thirst-parlour, ’r anywheres else. The parson took to fastenin’ him up. Then Dutchy’d mosey over towards Hairoil’s shack. Out’d come Mister Spots. And one, two, three, the saloon dawg ’d sail into him.

Then a piece of news got ’round that must ’a’ made the parson madder ’n a wet hen. Dutchy cleaned the barrels outen his hind room and put up a notice that the next Sunday night he’d give a dance. To finish things, the dawgs had a worse fight’n ever Friday mornin’, and the parson’s lost two spots and a’ ear.

I seen a change in the parson that evenin’. When he come down to the post-office, them brown eyes of his’n was plumb black, and his face was redder’n Sam Barnes’s. “Things is goin’ to happen,” I says to myself, “’r I ain’t no judge of beef.”

Sunday night, you know, a-course, where the boys went. But I drawed lots with myself and moseyed over to the school-house to keep a bench warm. And here is when that new deal was laid out on the table fer you’ little friend Cupid!

I slid in and sit down clost to the door. Church wasn’t begun yet, and the dozen ’r so of women was a-waitin’ quieter’n mice, some of ’em readin’ a little, some of ’em leanin’ they haids on the desks, and some of ’em kinda peekin’ through they fingers t’ git the lay of the land. Wal, I stretched my neck,–and made out t’ count more’n fifty spit-balls on a life-size chalk drawin’ of the school-ma’am.

Next thing, the parson was in and a-pumpin’ away–all fours–at the organ, and the bunch of us was on our feet a-singin’––

We’d got about that far when I shut off, all of a suddent, and cocked my haid t’ listen. Whose voice was that?–as clear, by thunder! as the bugle up at the Reservation. Wal, sir, I just stood there, mouth wide open.

Then, I begun t’ look ’round. Couldn’t be the Kelly kid’s maw (I’d heerd her call the hawgs), ner the teacher, ner that tall lady next her, ner––

Spotted the right one! Up clost to the organ was a gal I’d never saw afore. So many was in the way that I wasn’t able t’ git more’n a squint at her back hair. But, say! it was mighty pretty hair–brown, and all sorta curly over the ears.

When the song was over, ole lady Baker sit down just in front of me; and as she’s some chunky, she cut off nearly the hull of my view. “But, Cupid,” I says to myself, “I’ll bet that wavy hair goes with a sweet face.”

Minute after, the parson begun t’ speak. Wal, soon as ever he got his first words out, I seen that the air was kinda blue and liftin’, like it is ’fore a thunder-shower. And his text? It was, “Lo, I am full of fury, I am weary with holdin’ it in.”

Say! that’s the kind of preachin’ a puncher likes!

After he was done, and we was all ready t’ go, I tried to get a better look at that gal. But the women folks was movin’ my direction, shakin’ hands and gabblin’ fast to make up fer lost time. Half a dozen of ’em got ’round me. And when I got shet of the bunch, she was just a-passin’ out at the far door. My! such a slim, little figger and such a pert, little haid!

I made fer the parson. “Excuse me,” I says to him, “but wasn’t you talkin’ to a young lady just now? and if it ain’t too gally, can I in-quire who she is?”

“Why, yas,” answers the parson, smilin’ and puttin’ one hand on my shoulder. (You know that cuss never oncet ast me if I was a Christian? Aw! I tell y’, he was a gent.) “That young lady is Billy Trowbridge’s sister-in-law.”

“Sister-in-law!” I repeats. (She was married, then. Gee! I hated t’ hear that! ’Cause, just havin’ helped Billy t’ git his wife, y’ savvy, why––) “But, parson, I didn’t know the Doc had a brother.” (I felt kinda down on Billy all to oncet.)

“He ain’t,” says the parson. “(Good-night, Mrs. Baker.) This young lady is Mrs. Trowbridge’s sister.”

“Mrs. Trowbridge’s sister?”

“Yas,–ole man Sewell’s youngest gal. She’s been up to St. Louis goin’ t’ school.” He turned out the bracket lamp.

Ole man Sewell’s youngest gal! Shore enough, they was another gal in that fambly. But she was just a kid when she was in Briggs the last time,–not more’n fourteen ’r fifteen, anyhow,–and I’d clean fergot about her.

“Her name’s Macie,” goes on the parson.

“Macie–Macie Sewell–Macie.” I said it over to myself two ’r three times. I’d never liked the name Sewell afore. But now, somehow, along with Her name, it sounded awful fine. “Macie–Macie Sewell.”

“Cupid, I wisht you’d walk home with me,” says the parson. “I want t’ ast you about somethin’.”

“Tickled t’ death.”

Whilst he locked up, I waited outside. “M’ son,” I says to myself, “nothin’ could be foolisher than fer you to git you’ eye fixed on a belongin’ of ole man Sewell’s. Just paste that in you’ sunbonnet.”

Wal, I rid Shank’s mare over t’ Hairoil’s. Whilst we was goin’, the parson opened up on the subject of Dutchy and that nasty, mean purp of hisn. And I ketched on, pretty soon, to just what he was a-drivin’ at. I fell right in with him. I’d never liked Dutchy such a turrible lot anyhow,–and I did want t’ be a friend to the parson. So fer a hour after we hit the shack, you might ’a’ heerd me a-talkin’ (if you’d been outside) and him a-laughin’ ev’ry minute ’r so like he’d split his sides.

Monday was quiet. I spent the day at Silverstein’s Gen’ral Merchandise Store, which is next the post-office. (Y’ see, She might come in fer the Bar Y mail.) The parson got off a long letter to a feller at Williams. And Dutchy was awful busy–fixin’ up a fine shootin’-gallery at the back of his “Life Savin’ Station.”

Tuesday, somethin’ happened at the parson’s. Right off after the five-eight train come in from the south, Hairoil druv down to the deepot and got a big, square box and rushed home with it. When he come into the thirst-parlour about sun-set, the boys ast him what the parson was gittin’. He just wunk.

“I bet I knows,” says Dutchy. “De preacher mans buys some viskey, alretty.”

Hairoil snickered. “Wal,” he says, “what I carried over was nailed up good and tight, all right, all right.”

Wal, say! that made the boys suspicious, and made ’em wonder if they wasn’t a darned good reason fer the parson not wearin’ duds like other religious gents, and fer his knowin’ how to ride so good. And they was sore–bein’ that they’d stood up so strong fer him, y’ savvy.

“A cow-punch,” says Monkey Mike, “’ll swaller almost any ole thing, long ’s it’s right out on the table. But he shore cain’t go a hippy-crit.”

“You blamed idjits!” chips in Buckshot Millikin, him that owns such a turrible big bunch of white-faces, and was run outen Arizonaw fer rustlin’ sheep, “what can y’ expect of a preacher, that comes from Williams?”

Dutchy seen how they all felt, and he was plumb happy. “Vot I tole y’?” he ast. But pretty soon he begun to laugh on the other side of his face. “If dat preacher goes to run a bar agin me,” he says, “py golly, I makes no more moneys!”

Fer a minute, he looked plumb scairt.

But the boys was plumb disgusted. “The parson’s been playin’ us fer suckers,” they says to each other; “he’s been a-soft-soapin’ us, a-flimflammin’ us. He thinks we’s as blind as day-ole kittens.” And the way that Tom-fool of a Hairoil hung ’round, lookin’ wise, got under they collar. After they’d booted him outen the shebang, they all sit down on the edge of the stoop, just sayin’ nothin’–but sawin’ wood.

I sit down, too.

We wasn’t there more’n ten minutes when one of the fellers jumped up. “There comes the parson now,” he says.

Shore enough. There come the parson in his fancy two-wheel Studebaker, lookin’ as perky as thunder. “Gall?” says Buckshot. “Wal, I should smile!” Under his cart, runnin’ ’twixt them yalla wheels, was his spotted dawg.

I hollered in to Dutchy. “Where’s you’ purp, Dutch?” I ast. “The parson’s haided this way.”

Dutchy was as tickled as a kid with a lookin’-glass and a hammer. He dropped his bar-towel and hawled out his purp.

“Vatch me!” he says.

The parson was a good bit closter by now, settin’ up straight as a telegraph pole, and a-hummin’ to hisself. He was wearin’ one of them caps with a cow-catcher ’hind and ’fore, knee britches, boots and a sweater.

“A svetter, mind y’!” says Dutchy.

“Be a Mother Hubbard next,” says Bill Rawson.

Somehow, though, as the parson come ’longside the post-office, most anybody wouldn’t ’a’ liked the way thinks looked. You could sorta smell somethin’ explodey. He was too all-fired songful to be natu’al. And his dawg! That speckled critter was as diff’rent from usual as the parson. His good ear was curled up way in, and he was kinda layin’ clost to the ground as he trotted along–layin’ so clost he was plumb bow-legged.

Wal, the parson pulled up. And he’d no more’n got offen his seat when, first rattle outen the box, them dawgs mixed.

Gee whillikens! such a mix! They wasn’t much of the reg’lar ki-yin’. Dutchy’s purp yelped some; but the parson’s? Not fer him! He just got a good holt–a shore enough diamond hitch–on that thirst-parlour dawg, and chawed. Say! And whilst he chawed, the dust riz up like they was one of them big sand-twisters goin’ through Briggs City. All of a suddent, how that spotted dawg could fight!

Dutchy didn’t know what ’d struck him. He runs out. “Come, hellup,” he yells to the parson.

The parson shook his head. “This street is not my private property,” he says.

Then Dutchy jumped in and begun t’ kick the parson’s dawg in the snoot. The parson walks up and stops Dutchy.

That made the Dutchman turrible mad. He didn’t have no gun on him, so out he jerks his pig-sticker.

What happened next made our eyes plumb stick out. That parson side-stepped, put out a hand and a foot, and with that highfalutin’ Jewie Jitsie you read about, tumbled corn-beef-and-cabbage on to his back. Then he straddled him and slapped his face.

“Lieber!” screeched Dutchy.

“Goin’ t’ have any more Sunday night dances?” ast the parson. (Bing, bang.)

“Nein! Nein!”

“Any more” (bing, bang) “free Sunday suppers?”

“Nein! Nein! Hellup!”

“Goin’ to change this” (biff, biff) “saloon’s name!”

“Ya! Ya! Gott!”

The parson got up. “Amen!” he says.

Then he runs into Silverstein’s, grabs a pail of water, comes out again, and throws it on to the dawgs.

The Dutchman’s purp was done fer a’ready. And the other one was tired enough to quit. So when the water splashed, Dutchy got his dawg by the tail and drug him into the thirst-parlour.

But that critter of the parson’s. Soon as the water touched him, them spots of hisn begun to run. Y’ see, he wasn’t the stylish keerige dawg at all! He was a jimber-jawed bull!

Wal, the next Sunday night, the school-house was chuck full. She wasn’t there–no, Monkey Mike tole me she was visitin’ down to Goldstone; but, a-course, all the rest of the women folks was. And about forty-’leven cow-punchers was on hand, and Buckshot, and Rawson and Dutchy,–yas, ma’am, Dutchy, we rounded him up. Do y’ think after such a come-off we was goin’ to let that limburger run any compytition place agin our parson?

And that night the parson stands up on the platform, his face as shiny as a milk-pan, and all smiles, and he looked over that cattle-town bunch and says, “I take fer my text this evenin’, ‘And the calf, and the young lion and the fatlin’ shall lie down in peace t’gether.’”

CHAPTER THREE
THE PRETTIEST GAL AND THE HOMELIEST MAN

I’m just square enough to own up it was one on me. But far’s that particular mix-up goes, I can afford to be honest, and let anybody snicker that wants to–seein’ the way the hull thing turned out. ’Cause how about Doc Simpson? Didn’t I git bulge Number Two on him? And how about the little gal? Didn’t it give me my first chanst? Course, it did! And now, sometimes, when I want to feel happier’n a frog in a puddle, just a-thinkin’ it all over, I lean back, shut my two eyes, and say, “Ladies and gents, this is where you git the Blackfoot Injun Root-ee, the Pain Balm, the Cough Balsam, the Magic Salve and the Worm Destroyer–the fi-i-ive remedies fer two dollars!”

That medicine show follered the dawg fight. It hit Briggs City towards sundown one day, in a prairie-schooner drawed by two big, white mules, and druv up to the eatin’-house. Out got a smooth-faced, middle-aged feller in a linen duster and half a’ acre of hat–kinda part judge, part scout, y’ savvy; out got two youngish fellers in fancy vests and grey dicers; next, a’ Injun in a blanket, and a lady in a yalla-striped shirtwaist. Wal, sir, it was just like they’d struck that town to start things a-movin’ fer me!

The show hired the hall over Silverstein’s store. Then one of them fancy vests walked up and down Front Street, givin’ out hand-bills. The other sent word to all the ranches clost by, and the Injun went ’round to them scattered houses over where the parson and Doc Trowbridge lives.

Them hand-bills read somethin’ like this: The Renowned Blackfoot Medicine Company Gives Its First Performance T’Night! Grand Open-Air Band Concert. Come One, Come All. Free! Free! Free! 3–The Marvellous Murrays–3. To-Ko, the Human Snake, The World Has Not His Equal. Miss Vera de Mille In Bewitchin’ Song and Dance. Amuricaw’s Greatest Nigger Impersynater. The Fav’rite Banjoist of the Sunny South. Injun Shadda Pictures,–and a hull lot more I cain’t just recall.

When I seen that such a big bunch was a-goin’ to preform, I walked over and peeked into that schooner. I figgered, y’ savvy, that they was some more people in it that hadn’t come out yet. But they wasn’t–only boxes and boxes of bottles.

Right after supper, that medicine outfit played in front of Silverstein’s. The judge-lookin’ feller beat the drum, the Injun blowed a big brass dinguss, the gal a clari’net, and the other two fellers some shiny instruments curlier’n a pig’s tail. But it was bully, that’s all I got to say, and drawed like a mustard plaster. ’Cause whilst in Oklahomaw a Injun show don’t count fer much, bein’ that we got more’n our fill of reds, all the same, with music throwed in, Briggs City was there. And Silverstein’s hall was just jampacked.

The front seats was took up by the town kids, a-course. Then come the women and gals,–a sprinklin’ of men amongst ’em; behind them, the cow-punchers. And in the back end of the place a dozen ’r so of niggers and cholos. Whilst all was a-waitin’ fer the show to begin, the punchers done a lot of laughin’ and cat-callin’ to each other, and made some consider’ble noise. I was along with the rest, only up in one of the side windas, settin’ on the sill and swingin’ my hoofs.

When the show opened, they was first a fine piece–a march, I reckon–by the band. All the time, more people was a-comin’ in. ’Mongst ’em was Doc Trowbridge and Rose, and Up-State–he was that pore lunger that was here from the East, y’ savvy. Next, right after them three, that Doc Simpson I was so all-fired stuck on. And, along with him, a gal.

Wal, who do you think it was! I knowed to oncet. They wasn’t no mistakin’ that slim, little figger and that pert little haid. It was Her!

“Cupid,” whispered Hairoil Johnson (he was settin’ byside me), “it looks to me like you didn’t much discourage that Noo York doc who owns what’s left of a toot buggy. Failin’ to git the oldest gal out at the Bar Y, why, now he’s a-sailin’ ’round with the youngest one.”

I didn’t say nothin’. I was a-watchin’ where she was. I wanted t’ ketch sight of her face.

“I devilled ole man Sewell about kickin’ him out and then takin’ him back,” goes on Hairoil. “And Sewell said he was a punk doctor, but awful good comp’ny. Huh! Comp’ny ain’t what that dude’s after. He’s after a big ranch and a graded herd. It’s a blamed pity you didn’t git him sent up t’ Kansas City fer repairs.”

The band was a-playin’, but I didn’t pay much attention to it. I kept a-watchin’ that slim, little figger a-settin’ next Simpson–a-watchin’ till I plumb fergot where I was, almost. “Macie,–Macie Sewell.”

Just then, I’m another if she didn’t look round! And square at me! She wasn’t smilin’, just sober, and sorta inquirin’. Her eyes looked dark, and big. She had a square little chin, like the gals you see drawed in pictures, and some soft, white, lacey stuff was a-restin’ agin her neck. They was two ’r three good-lookin’ gals at the eatin’-house them days, and Carlota Arnaz was awful pretty, too. But none of ’em couldn’t hole a candle t’ this one. Took in her cute little face whilst she looked straight back at me. Say! them eyes of hern come nigh pullin’ me plumb outen that winda!

Then the Judge walked out onto the platform, and she faced for’ards again. “Ladies and gents,” says the ole feller, talkin’ like his mouth was full of mush, “we have come to give you’ enterprisin’ little city a free show. A free show, ladies and gents,–it ain’t a-goin’ to cost you a nickel to come here and enjoy you’self ev’ry night. More’n that, we plan to stay as long as you want us to. And we plan to give you the very best talent in this hull United States.”

All this time, the fancy-vest fellers was layin’ a carpet and fixin’ a box and a table on the stage. The Judge, he turned and waved his hand. “Our first number,” he says, “will be the Murrays in they marvellous act.”

Wal, them fancy-vests and the lady was the Marvellous Murrays. And they was all in pink circus-clothes. “Two brothers and a sister, I guess,” says Hairoil. I should hope so! ’Cause the way they jerked each other ’round was enough t’ bring on a fight if they hadn’t ’a’ been relations. All three of ’em could walk on they hands nigh as good as on they feet, and turn somersets quicker’n lightnin’. And when the somersettin’ and leap-froggin’ come to oncet, it was grand! First the big feller’d git down; then, the other’d step onto his back. And as the big one bucked, his brother’d fly up,–all in a ball, kinda–spin ’round two ’r three times, and light right side up. And then they stood on each other’s faces like they’d plumb flat ’em out!

When they was done, they all come to the edge of the platform, the lady kissin’ her hand. All the punchers kissed back!

Wal, ev’rybody laughed then, and clapped, and the Judge brought on the Injun. That Injun was smart, all right. Wiggled his fingers behind a sheet and made ’em look like animals, and like people that was walkin’ and bowin’ and doin’ jigs. I wondered if Macie Sewell liked it. Guess she did! She was a-smilin’ and leanin’ for’ards to whisper to Billy and Rose. But not much to Simpson, I thought. Say! I was glad of that. Wasn’t none of my business, a-course. Course, it wasn’t. But, just the same, whenever I seen him put his haid clost to hern, it shore got under my skin.

The Judge was out again. “Miss Vera de Mille,” he says, “will sing ‘Wait Till the Sun Shines, Maggie.’” Wal, if I hadn’t ’a’ had reasons fer stayin’, I wouldn’t ’a’ waited a minute–reg’lar cow-bellerin’ in place of a voice, y’ savvy. What’s more, she was only that Marvellous Murray woman in diff’rent clothes! (No wonder they wasn’t no more people in that outfit!) But I didn’t keer about the show. I just never took my eyes offen––

She looked my way again!

Say! I was roped–right ’round my shoulders, like I’d roped Simpson! And I was plumb helpless. That look of hern was a lasso, pullin’ me to her, steady and shore. “Macie–Macie Sewell,” I whispered to myself, and I reckon my lips moved.

“You blamed idjit!” says Hairoil, out loud almost, “what’s the matter with you? You’ll have me outen this winda in a minute!”

The Judge was bowin’ some more. “We have now come to the middle of our program,” he says. “But ’fore I begin announcin’ the last half, which is our best, I want to tell you all a story.

“Ladies and gents, I come t’ Briggs to bring you a message–a message which I feel bound to deliver. And I’ve gone through a turrible lot to be able to stand here to-night and say to you what I’m a-goin’ to say.

“Listen! Years ago, a little boy, about so high, with his father and mother and ’leven sisters and brothers, started to cross the Plains with a’ ox-team. They reached the Blackfoot country safe. But there, ladies and gents, a turrible thing happened to ’em. One day, more’n four hunderd Injuns surrounded they wagon and showed fight. They fit ’em back, ladies and gents,–the father and the mother and the children, killin’ a good many bucks and woundin’ more. But the Injuns was too many fer that pore fambly. And in a’ hour, the reds had captured one little boy–whilst the father and mother and the ’leven sisters and brothers was no more!” (The Judge, he sniffled a little bit.)

“The little boy was carried to a big Injun camp,” he goes on. “And it was here, ladies and gents,–it was here he seen won-derful things. He seen them Injuns that was wounded put some salve on they wounds and be healed; he seen others, that was plumb tuckered with fightin’, drink a blackish medicine and git up like new men. Natu’lly, he wondered what was in that salve, and what was in that medicine. Wal, he made friends with a nice Injun boy. He ast him questions about that salve and that medicine. He learnt what plants was dug to make both of ’em. Then, one dark night, he crawled outen his wigwam on his hands and knees. Behind him come his little Injun friend. They went slow and soft to where was the pony herd. They caught up two fast ponies, and clumb onto ’em, dug in they spurs, and started eastwards as fast as they could go. The white boy’s heart was filled with joy, ladies and gents. He had a secret in his bosom that meant health to ev’ry man, woman and child of his own race. As he galloped along, he says to hisself, ‘I'll spend my life givin’ this priceless secret to the world!’

“Wal, ladies and gents, that’s what he begun to do–straight off. And t’-night, my dear friends, that boy is in Briggs City!” (A-course, ev’rybody begun to look ’round fer him.) “Prob-’bly,” goes on the Judge, “they’s more’n a hunderd people in this town that’ll thank Providence he come: They’s little children that won’t be orphans; they’s wives that won’t be widdas. Fer he is anxious to tell ’em of a remedy that will cure a-a-all the ills of the body. And, ladies and gents, I–am–that–boy!”

That got the punchers so excited and so tickled, that they hollered and stamped and banged and done about twenty dollars’ worth of damage to the hall.

“My friends,” goes on the Judge, “I have prepared, aided by my dear Injun comrade here, the sev’ral kinds of medicines discovered by the Blackfeet.” The fancy-vests, rigged out like Irishmen, was fixin’ a table and puttin’ bottles on to it. “I have these wonderful medicines with me, and I sell ’em at a figger that leaves only profit enough fer the five of us to live on. I do more’n that. Ev’rywheres I go, I present, as a soovneer of my visit, a handsome, solid-gold watch and chain.”

Out come that singin’ lady, hoidin’ the watch and chain in front of her so’s the crowd could see. My! what a lot of whisperin’!

“This elegant gift,” continues the Judge, “is awarded by means of a votin’ contest. And it goes to the prettiest gal.”

More whisperin’, and I sees a brakeman git up and go over to talk to another railroad feller. Wal, I didn’t have to be tole who was the prettiest gal!

“Ladies and gents,”–the Judge again–“in this contest, ev’rybody is allowed to vote. All a person has to do is to take two dollars’ worth of my medicine. Each two-dollar buy gives you ten votes fer the prettiest gal; and just to add a little fun to the contest, it also gives you ten votes fer the homeliest man. If you buy these medicines, you’ll never want to buy no others. Here’s where you git the Blackfoot Injun Rootee, my friends, the Pain Balm, the Cough Balsam, the Magic Salve, and the Worm Destroyer–the fi-i-ive remedies fer two dollars!”

Then he drawed a good, long breath and begun again, tellin’ us just what the diff’rent medicines was good fer. When he was done, he says,–playin’ patty-cake with them fat hands of hisn–“Now, who’ll be the first to buy, and name a choice fer the prettiest gal?”

Up jumps that brakeman, “Gimme two dollars’ worth of you’ dope,” he says, “and drop ten votes in the box fer Miss Mollie Brown.”

(Eatin’-house waitress, y’ savvy.)

“And the ugliest man?” ast the Judge, whilst one of the fancy vests took in the cash and handed over the medicine.

“Monkey Mike,” answers the brakeman. And then the boys began t’ josh Mike.

“I’m a sucker, too,” hollers the other railroad feller. “Here’s ten more votes fer Miss Brown.”

Just then, in she come,–pompydore stickin’ up like a hay-stack. The railroad bunch, they give a cheer. Huh!

I got outen that winda and onto my feet. “Judge,” I calls, puttin’ up one hand to show him who was a-talkin’, “here’s eight dollars fer you’ rat-pizen. And you can chalk down forty votes fer Miss Macie Sewell.”

Say! cain’t you hear them Bar Y punchers?–“Yip! yip! yip! yip! yip! yip! ye-e-e!” A-course all the other punchers, they hollered, too. And whilst we was yellin’, that tenderfoot from Noo York was a-jabberin’ to Macie, mad like, and scowlin’ over my way. And she? Wal, she was laughin’, and blushin’, and shakin’ that pretty haid of hern–at me!

I was so excited I didn’t know whether I was a-foot ’r a-hoss-back. But I knowed enough to buy, all right. Wal, that medicine went like hotcakes! I blowed myself, and Hairoil blowed his-self, and the Bar Y boys cleaned they pockets till the bottles was piled up knee-high byside the benches. And whilst we shelled out, the Judge kept on a-goin’ like he’d been wound up–“Here’s another feller that wants Root-ee! and here’s another over on this side! And, lady, it’ll be good fer you, too, yas, ma’am. The Blackfoot Injun Rootee, my friends, the Pain Balm, the Cough Balsam, the Magic Salve, and the Worm Destroyer,–the fi-i-ive remedies fer two dollars!”

When I come to, a little bit later on, the hall was just about empty, and Hairoil was pullin’ me by the arm to git me to move. I looked ’round fer Macie Sewell. She was gone, and so was the Doc and Billy Trowbridge and Rose and Up-State. Outside, right under my window, I ketched sight of a white dress a-goin’ past. It was her. “Macie,” I whispers to myself; “Macie Sewell.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I was upset kinda, and just crazy with thinkin’ how I’d help her to win out. And I made up my mind t’ this: If more votes come in fer Mollie Brown than they did fer the gal that oughta have ’em, why, I’d just shove a gun under that Judge’s nose and tell him to “count ’em over and count ’em right.” ’Cause, I figgered, no eatin’-house gal with a face like a flat-car was a-goin’ to be elected the prettiest gal of Briggs. Not if I seen myself, no, ma’am. ’Specially not whilst Sewell’s little gal was in the country. Anybody could pick her fer the winner if they had on blinders. “Cupid,” I says, “you hump you’self!”

Next day, the Judge, he give consultin’s in the eatin’-house sample-room. I went over and had a talk with him, tellin’ him just how I wanted that votin’ contest to go. He said he wisht me luck, but that if the railroad boys felt they needed his medicine, he didn’t believe he had no right to keep ’em from buyin’. And, a-course, when a feller made a buy, he wanted t’ vote like he pleased. Said the best thing was t’ git holt of folks that ’d met Miss Sewell and liked her, ’r wanted t’ work fer her ole man, ’r ’d just as lief do me a good turn.

I hunted up Billy. “Doc,” I says, “I hope Briggs ain’t a-goin’ to name that Brown waitress fer its best sample. Now––”

“Aw, wal,” says Billy, “think how it ’d tickle her!”

“Tickle some other gal just as much,” I says.

“And the prettiest gal ought to be choosed. Now, it could be fixed–easy.”

“Who do you think it oughta be?” ast Billy.

“Strikes me you’ wife’s little sister is the pick.”

“Cupid,” says Billy, lookin’ anxious like, “don’t you git you’self too much interested in Macie Sewell. You know how the ole man feels towards you. And what can I do? He ain’t any too friendly with me yet? So be keerful.”

“Now, Doc,” I goes on, “don’t you go to worryin’ about me. Just you help by prescribin’ that medicine.”

“To folks that don’t need none?” ast Billy. “Aw, I don’t like to.” (Billy’s awful white, Billy is.) “It won’t do ’em no good.”

“Wal,” I says, “it won’t do ’em no harm.”

Billy said he’d see.

“You could let it out that somebody in town’s been cured by the stuff,” I suggests.

“Only make them railroad fellers buy more.”

“That’s so. Wal, I guess the best thing fer me to do is to hunt up people with a misery and tell ’em they’d better buy–and vote my way.”

Billy throwed back his haid and haw-hawed.

“You’re a dickens of a feller!” he says. “When you want to have you’ own way, I never seen any-body that could think up more gol-darned things.”

“And,” I continues, “if that Root-ee just had a lot of forty-rod mixed in it, it ’d be easier’n all git out to talk fellers into takin’ it. If they’d try one bottle, they’d shore take another.”

“Now, Cupid,” says Billy, like he was goin’ to scolt me.

“’R if ole man Baker ’d take the stuff and git his hearin’ back.”

“No show. Nothin’ but sproutin’ a new ear’d help Baker.”

Next person I seen was that Doc Simpson. He was a-settin’ on Silverstein’s porch, teeterin’ hisself in a chair. “Billy,” I says, “I’m goin’ over to put that critter up to buyin’. He’s got money and he cain’t do better’n spend it.”

Wal, a-course, Simpson was turrible uppy when I first spoke to him. Said he didn’t want nothin’ t’ say to me–not a word. (He had sev’ral risin’s on his face yet.)

“Wal, Doc,” I says, “I know you think I didn’t treat you square, but–has you city fellers any idear how mad you make us folks in the country when you go a-shootin’ ’round in them gasoline rigs of yourn? Why, I think if you’ll give this question some little study, you’ll see it has got two sides.”

“Yas,” says the Doc, “it has. But that ain’t why you treated me like you did. No, I ain’t green enough to think that.”

“You ain’t green at all,” I says. “And I’m shore sorry you feel the way you do. ’Cause I hoped mebbe you’d fergit our little trouble and bury the hatchet–long as we’re both workin’ fer the same thing.”

“What thing, I’d like t’ know?”

“Why, gittin’ Miss Macie Sewell elected the prettiest gal.”

Fer a bit he didn’t say nothin’. Then he made some remark about a gal’s name bein’ “handed ’round town,” and that a votin’ contest was “vulgar.”

Wal, he put it so slick that I didn’t just git the hang of what he was drivin’ at. Just the same, I felt he was layin’ it on to me, somehow. And if I’d ’a’ been shore of it, I’d ’a’ put some more risin’s on to his face.

Wisht now I had–on gen’ral principles. ’Cause, thinkin’ back, I know just what he done. If he didn’t, why was him and that Root-ee Judge talkin’ t’gether so long at the door of Silverstein’s Hall–talkin’ like they was thick, and laughin’, and ev’ry oncet in a while lookin’ over at me?

I drummed up a lot of votes that afternoon. Got holt of Buckshot Milliken, who wasn’t feelin’ more’n ordinary good. Ast him how he was. He put his hand to his belt, screwed up his mug, and said he felt plumb et up inside.

“Buckshot,” I says, “anybody else ’d give you that ole sickenin’ story about it bein’ the nose-paint you swallered last night. Reckon you’ wife’s tole you that a’ready.”

“That’s what she has,” growls Buckshot.

“Wal, I knowed it! But is she right? Now, I think, Buckshot,–I think you’ve got the bliggers.” (Made it up on the spot.)

“The bliggers!” he says, turrible scairt-like.

“That’s what I think. But all you need is that Root-ee they sell over yonder.”

He perked up. “Shore of it?” he ast.

“Buy a bottle and try. And leave off drinkin’ anythin’ else whilst you’re takin’ the stuff, so’s it can have a fair chanst. In a week, you’ll be a new man.”

“I’ll do it,” he says, makin’ fer that prairie-schooner.

I calls after him: “And say, Buckshot, ev’ry two dollars you spend with them people, you git the right to put in ten votes fer the prettiest gal. Now, most of us is votin’ fer ole man Sewell’s youngest daughter.” Then, like I was tryin’ hard to recollect, “I think her name is Macie.”

“All right, Cupid. So long.”

Seen Sewell a little bit later. And braced right up to him. ’Cause fer two reasons: First, I wanted him t’ do some buyin’ fer his gal; then, I wanted t’ find out if he didn’t need another puncher out at the Bar Y. (Ketch on t’ my little game?)

The ole man was pretty short, and wouldn’t do a livin’ lick about them votes. Said he knowed his gal, Mace, was the prettiest gal in Oklahomaw, and it didn’t need no passel of breeds ’r quacks to cut her out of the bunch of heifers and give her the brand.

Then, I says, “S’pose you ain’t lookin’ fer no extra punchers out at the Bar Y? I’m thinkin’ some of quittin’ where I am.” (’Twixt you and me and the gate-post, I knowed from Hairoil that the Sewell outfit was shy two men–just when men was wanted bad.)

Fer a minute, Sewell didn’t answer anothin’. (Stiff-necked, y’ savvy,–see a feller dead first ’fore he’d give in a’ inch.) Pretty soon, he looked up, kinda sheepish. “I could use another puncher,” he says, “t’ ride line. Forty suit y’?”

“Shore, boss. Be out the first. So long.”

I was goin’ to the Bar Y, where she was! Wal, mebbe I wasn’t happy! And mebbe I wasn’t set worse’n ever on havin’ the little gal win in that contest! ’Fore night, I rounded up as many as five people that had a bony fido grunt comin’, and was glad to hear the grand things Doc Trowbridge said about Root-ee!

When the show started up in the hall after supper, and I slid in to take my seat in the winda, a lot of people,–women and kids and men–kinda turned round towards me and whispered and grinned. “They know I’m fer Macie Sewell,” I says to myself, “but that don’t bother me none.”

That Blackfoot Injun (he was turned into To-Ko, the Human Snake) was a-throwin’ squaw-hitches with hisself. The Judge come to the edge of the platform and pointed over his shoulder to him. “Do you think he could do that if he didn’t rub his hinges with Pain Balm?” he says. “Wal, he couldn’t. Pain Balm makes a man as limber as a willa. Ladies and gents, it’s wonderful what that remedy can do! It’ll prolong you’ life, make you healthy, wealthy, happy, and wise. Here you get the Blackfoot Injun Root-ee, the Pain Balm, the Cough Balsam, the Magic Salve, and the Worm Destroyer,–the fi-i-ive remedies fer two dollars!”

Say! it made my jaw plumb tired t’ listen to him.

“Hairoil,” I says to Johnson, “they got the names of the prettiest gals up on the blackboard, but where’s the names of the homeliest men?”

Hairoil snickered a little. Then he pulled his face straight and said that, bein’ as Monkey Mike ’d kicked up a turrible fuss about the votes that was cast fer him, why, the Judge had decided to keep the homeliest-man contest a secret.

Wal, I didn’t keer. Was only a-botherin’ my, haid over the way the prettiest gal countin’ ’d come out. I got holt of Dutchy, who ’d come in from his thirst-parlour to look on a minute. “Buyin’, Dutchy?” I ast.

“Nix.”

“But I reckon you need Root-ee, all the same. Do you ever feel kinda full and stuffy after meals?”

“Yaw.”

“Now, don’t that show! Dutchy, I’m sorry, but it’s a cinch you got the bliggers!”

Wal, he bit.

The station-agent was standin’ right next me. “Cupid,” he whispers, “I hear you got a candi-date in fer the prettiest gal. What you say about runnin’ as the homeliest man?”

“No,” I answers, quick, “I don’t hanker fer the honour. (That ’d hurt me with her, y’ savvy.) Then, I begun chinnin’ with Sparks, that owns the corral.

“Great stuff, that Root-ee,” I says. “Reckon the redskins knowed a heap more about curin’ than anybody’s ever give ’em credit fer. Tried the medicine yet, Sparks?”

Sparks said no, he didn’t think he needed it.

“Wal, a man never knows,” I goes on. “Now, mebbe, of a mornin’, when you wake up, you feel tired and sorta stretchy; wisht you could just roll over and take another snooze.”

“Bet I do!”

“That ain’t right, Sparks.” And I turned in and give him that bliggers talk.

But he hung off till I tole him about the scheme of the railroad bunch. Seems that Sparks had a grudge agin the eatin’-house ’cause it wouldn’t give him train-men’s rates fer grub. So he fell right into line.

Macie Sewell didn’t come to the show that night, so I didn’t stay long. Over to the bunk-house, I got a piece of paper and some ink and (ain’t ashamed of it, neither,) writ down her name. Under it, I put mine. Then, after crossin’ out all the letters that was alike, and countin’ “Friendship, love, indiff’rence, hate, courtship, marriage,” it looked like this:

By jingo, I reckon it stood just about that way!

Next mornin’, whilst I was standin’ outside the post-office, she come ridin’ up! Say, all to oncet my heart got to goin’ somethin’ turrible–I was feard she’d hear it, no josh. My hands felt weak, too, so’s I could hardly pull off my Stetson; and my ears got red; and my tongue thick, like the time I got offen the trail in Arizonaw and din’t have no water fer two ’r three days.

She seen me, and smiled, sorta bashful.

“Miss Sewell,” I says, “can I ast fer you’ mail? Then you won’t have to git down.”

“Yas, thank y’.”

When I give it to her, I got my sand back a little. “I hope,” I says, “that you didn’t mind my puttin’ you’ name up in that votin’ contest. Did y’?”

“Why,–why, no.”

“I’m awful glad. And I’m a-comin’ out to the Bar Y the first to ride line.”

“Are y’?” Them pink cheeks of hern got pinker’n ever, and when she loped off, she smiled back at me!

Say! I never was so happy in all my life! I went to work gittin’ votes fer her, feelin’ like ev’rybody was my friend–even ole Skinflint Curry, that I’d had words with oncet. That railroad bunch was a-workin’, too, and a-talkin’ up Mollie Brown. And I heerd that they planned to hole back a lot of votes till Macie Sewell’s count was all in, and then spring ’em to elect the other gal. That got me worried some.

About six o’clock, one of them fancy vests went ’round town, hollerin’ it out that the show ’d give its last performance that night. “What’s you sweat?” I ast him. Nothin’, he says, only the Judge reckoned about all the folks that intended to buy Root-ee had bought a’ready.

Wal, the show got a turrible big crowd–hall chuch full. And I tell y’ things was livelier’n they was at the dawg fight. The Mollie Brown crowd was rushin’ ’round and lookin’ corkin’ shore, and the punchers holdin’ up people as they come in, and the Marvellous Murray’s doin’ anty-I-overs with theyselves plumb acrosst the stage.

All the time, the Judge was exercisin’ that jaw of hisn. “Ladies and gents,” he says, (banjo goin’ ev’ry minute) “here’s where you git cured whilst you stand–like buffalo grass. Don’t you be scairt that you’ll buy me out–I got more down cellar in a teacup!”

Then she come in, and I wouldn’t ’a’ pulled outen that place fer a new dollar. She looked so cool and pretty, that little haid up, and a wisp of hair blowin’ agin her one cheek ’cause they was a breeze from the windas. Simpson was with her. What did I keer! She wasn’t noticin’ him much. Wal, I just never looked anywheres else but at her. Aw, I hoped that pretty soon she’d look round at me!

She did!–straighter’n a string. And the hull room got as misty and full of roarin’ as if a Santa Fee ingine was in there, a-leakin’ steam. I tried t’ smile at her. But my face seemed hard, like a piece of leather. I couldn’t smile.

Then, my eyes cleared. And I seen she was sad, like as if somethin’ was botherin’ her mind. “She thinks she’s a-goin’ t’ git beat,” I says to myself. “But she ain’t.” And I reached down to see if my pop-gun was all right.

She turned back towards the stage. The Murray woman ’d just finished one of them songs of hern, and the Judge was talkin’ again. “Ladies and gents,” he says, “we shall not drag out our program too long. Fer the reason that I know just what you-all want to hear most. And that is, the result of the contest.”

That railroad gang begun t’ holler.

Don’t know why,–wasn’t no reason fer it, but my heart went plumb down into my boots. “Aw, little Macie!” I says to myself; “aw, little Macie!” Say! I come mighty nigh prayin’ over it!

“The count fer the prettiest gal,” goes on the Judge, “is complete. Miss de Mille, kindly bring for’ard the watch. I shall have to ast some gent to escort the fortunate young lady to the platform.” (I seen a brakeman start over to Mollie Brown.)

“I don’t intend”–the Judge again–“to keep you in suspenders no longer. And I reckon you’ll all be glad to know” (here he give a bow) “that the winner is–Miss Macie Sewell.”

Wal, us punchers let out a yell that plumb cracked the ceiling. “Wow! wow! wow! Macie Sewell!” And we whistled, and kicked the floor, and banged the benches, and whooped.

Doctor Bugs got to his feet, puttin’ his stylish hat and gloves on his chair, and crookin’ a’ elbow. Wal, I reckon this part wasn’t vulgar!

Then, she stood up, took holt of his arm, and stepped out into the aisle. She was smilin’ a little, but kinda sober yet, I thought. She went towards the Judge slow, and up the steps. He helt out his hand. “With the compliments of the company,” he says. She took the watch. Then she turned.

Another cheer–a whopper.

She stood there, lookin’ like a’ angel, ’r a bird, ’r a little bobbin’ rose.

“Thank y’, boys,” she says; “thank y’.”

If I’d ’a’ knowed what was a-goin’ to happen next, I’d ’a’ slid out then. But, a-course, I didn’t.

“My friends,” says the Judge, “I will now read the vote for the homeliest man. Monkey Mike received the large count of twenty. But it stands nineteen hunderd and sixty fer–Cupid Lloyd.”

All of a suddent two ’r three fellers had holt of me. And they was a big yell went up–“Cupid! Cupid! The homeliest man! Whee!” The next second, I was goin’ for’ards, but shovin’ back. I hated to have her see me made a fool of. I seen red, I was so mad. I could ’a’ kilt. But she was lookin’ at me, and I was as helpless as a little cat. I put down my haid, and was just kinda dragged up the aisle and onto the platform.

She went down the steps to her seat then. But she didn’t stop. She bent over, picked up her jacket, whispered somethin’ to Rose and, with that Simpson trailin’, went to the back of the hall. There she stopped, kinda half turned, and waited.

I wisht fer a knot-hole that I could crawl through. I wisht a crack in the floor ’d open and let me slip down, no matter if I tumbled into a barrel of molasses below in Silverstein’s. I wisht I was dead, and I wisht the hull blamed bunch of punchers was–Wal, I felt something turrible.

“Cupid!” “You blamed fool!” “Look at him, boys!” “Take his picture!” “Say! he’s a beauty!” Then they hollered like they’d bust they sides, and stomped.

I laughed, a-course,–sickish, though.

The Judge, I reckon, felt kinda ’shamed of hisself. ’Cause I’d helped to sell a heap of medicine, and he knowed it. “That’s all right, Lloyd,” he says; “they ain’t no present fer you. You can vamose–back stairway.”

“Whee-oop!” goes the boys.

I seen her start down then. Billy and his wife got up, too. So did the crowd, still a-laughin’ and a-hootin’.

I kinda backed a bit. When I reached the stairs, I went slower, feelin’ my way. Minute and I come out onto Silverstein’s hind porch. Nobody was there, so I went over to the edge and lent agin a’ upright.

Right back of Silverstein’s they’s a line of hitchin’-posts. Two hosses was fastened there when I come, but it was so dark, and I felt so kinda bad, that I didn’t notice the broncs partic-ular. Till, ’round the corner, towards ’em, come that Simpson. Next, walkin’ slow and lookin’ down–Macie.

But she got onto her hoss quick, and without no help. All the time, Bugsey was a-fussin’ with his mustang. But the critter was nervous, and wasn’t no easy job. Macie waited. She was nighest to me, and right in line with the light from a winda. I could see her face plain. But I couldn’t tell how she was feelin’,–put out, ’r quiet, ’r just kinda tired.

Simpson got into the saddle then, his hoss rearin’ and runnin’. He could steer a gasoline wagon, but he couldn’t handle a cayuse. He turned to holler: “Comin’, Miss Sewell?”

She said she was, but she started awful slow, and kinda peered back, and up to the hall. At the same time, she must ’a’ saw that they was a man on the back porch, ’cause she pulled in a little, lookin’ hard.

I felt that rope a-drawin’ me then. I couldn’t ’a’ kept myself from goin’ to her. I started down. “Miss Macie!” I says; “Miss Macie!”

“Why,–why, Mister Lloyd!” She wheeled her hoss. “Is that you?”

I went acrosst the yard to where she was. “Yas,–it’s me,” I says.

She lent down towards me a little. “You been awful good to me,” she says. “I know. It was you got all them votes. Hairoil said so.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“And–and”–I heerd her breath ’way deep, kinda like a sob–“you ain’t the homeliest man! you ain’t! Aw, it was mean of ’em! And it hurt––”

“No, it didn’t–please, I don’t mind.”

“It hurt–me.”

That put the cheek of ten men into me. I Straightened up, and I lifted my chin. “Why, Gawd bless you, little gal!” I says. “It’s all right.”

Her one hand was a-restin’ on the pommel. I reached up–only a stay-chain could a’ helt me back then–and took it into both of mine. Say! did you ever holt a little, flutterin’ bird ’twixt you’ two palms?

“Macie,” I says, “Macie Sewell.” And I pressed her hand agin my face.

She lent towards me again. It wasn’t more’n a soft breath, and I could hardly hear. But nobody but me and that little ole bronc of hern’ll ever know what it was she said.

CHAPTER FOUR
CONCERIN’ THE SHERIFF AND ANOTHER LITTLE WIDDA

Aw! them first days out at the Bar Y ranch-house!–them first days! Nobody could ’a’ been happier’n I was then.

I hit the ranch on a Friday, about six in the evenin’, it was, I reckon,–in time fer supper, anyhow. The punchers et in a room acrosst the kitchen from where the fambly et. And I recollect that sometimes durin’ that meal, as the Chink come outen the kitchen, totin’ grub to us, I just could ketch sight of Macie’s haid in the far room, bobbin’ over her plate. And ev’ry time I’d see her, I’d git so blamed flustered that my knife ’d miss my mouth and jab me in the jaw, ’r else I’d spill somethin’ ’r other on to Monkey Mike.

And after supper, when the sun was down, and they was just a kinda half-light on the mesquite, and the ole man was on the east porch, smokin’, and the boys was all lined up along the front of the bunk-house, clean outen sight of the far side of the yard, why, I just sorta wandered over to the calf-corral, then ’round by the barn and the Chink’s shack, and landed up out to the west, where they’s a row of cottonwoods by the new irrigatin’ ditch. Beyond, acrosst about a hunderd mile of brown plain, here was the moon a-risin’, bigger’n a dish-pan, and a cold white. I stood agin a tree and watched it crawl through the clouds. The frogs was a-watchin’, too, I reckon, fer they begun to holler like the dickens, some bass and some squeaky. And then, from the other side of the ranch-house, struck up a mouth-organ:

A wait–ten seconds ’r so (it seemed longer); then, the same part of the song, over again, and––

Outen the side door of the porch next me come a slim, little figger in white. It stepped down where some sun-flowers was a-growin’ agin the wall. Say! it was just sunflower high! Then it come acrosst the alfalfa–like a butterfly. And then––

“Don’t you want a shawl ’round you’ shoulders, honey? It’s some chilly.”

“No.” (Did you ever see a gal that’d own up she needed a wrap?)

“Wal, you got to have somethin’ ’round you.” And so I helt her clost, and put my hand under her chin t’ tip it so’s I could see her face.

“You mustn’t, Alec!” (She was allus shy about bein’ kissed.)

“I tole Mike to give me ten minutes’ lee-way ’fore he played that tune. But he must ’a’ waited a hull hour.” And then, with the mouth-organ goin’ at the bunk-house (t’ keep the ole man listenin’, y’ savvy, and make him fergit t’ look fer Mace), we rambled north byside the ditch, holdin’ each other’s hand as we walked, like two kids. And the ole moon, it smiled down on us, awful friendly like, and we smiled back at the moon.

Wal, when we figgered that Mike ’d blowed hisself plumb outen breath, we started home again. And under the cottonwoods, the little gal reached up her two arms t’ me; and they wasn’t nothin’ but love in them sweet, grey eyes.

“You ain’t never liked nobody else, honey?”

“No–just you, Alec!–dear Alec!”

“Same here, Macie,–and this is fer keeps.”

Wal, ’most ev’ry night it was just like that. And the follerin’ day, mebbe I wouldn’t know whether I was a-straddle of a hoss, drivin’ steers, ’r a-straddle of a steer, drivin’ hosses. And it’s a blamed good thing my bronc savvied how t’ tend to business without me doin’ much!

Then, mebbe, I’d be ridin’ line. Maud ’d go weavin’ away up the long fence that leads towards Kansas, and at sundown we’d reach the first line-shack. And there, with the little bronc a-pickin’, and my coffee a-coolin’ byside me on a bench, I’d sit out under the sky and watch the moon–alone. Mebbe, when I got home, it ’d be ole man Sewell’s lodge-night, so he’d start fer town ’long about seven o’clock, and Mace and me ’d have the porch to ourselves–the side-porch, where the sun-flowers growed. But the next night, we’d meet by the ditch again, and the next, and the next. Aw! them first happy days at the ole Bar Y!

And I reckon it was just ’cause we was so turrible happy that we got interested in Bergin’s case–Mace and me both. (Next t’ Hairoil, Bergin’s my best friend, y’ savvy.) Figgerin’ on how t’ fix things up fer him–speakin’ matreemonal–brung us two closter t’gether, and showed me what a dandy little pardner she was a-goin’ t’ make.

But I want t’ say right here that we wasn’t re-sponsible fer the way that case of hisn turned out–and neither was no other livin’ soul. No, ma’am. The hull happenstance was the kind that a feller cain’t explain.

It begun when I’d been out at the Sewell ranch about two weeks. (I disremember the exac’ day, but that don’t matter.) I’d rid in town fer somethin’, and was a-crossin’ by the deepot t’ git it, when I ketched sight of Bergin a-settin’ on the end of a truck,–all by hisself. Now, that was funny, ’cause they wasn’t a man in Briggs City but liked George Bergin and would ’a’ hoofed it a mile to talk to him. “What’s skew-gee?” I says to myself, and looked at him clost; then,–“Cæsar Augustus Philabustus Hennery Jinks!” I kinda gasped, and brung up so suddent that I bit my cigareet clean in two and come nigh turnin’ a somerset over back’ards.

White as that paper, he was, and nervous, and so all-fired shaky and caved-in that they couldn’t be no question what was the matter. The sheriff was scairt.

First off, I wasn’t hardly able to believe what I seen with my own eyes. Next, I begun to think ’round fer the cause why. Didn’t have to think much. Knowed they wasn’t a pinch of ’fraid-cat in Bergin–no crazy-drunk greaser ’r no passel of bad men, red ’r white, could put him in a sweat, no, sir-ree. They was just one thing on earth could stampede the sheriff. I kinda tip-toed over to him. “Bergin,” I says, “who is she?”

He looked up–slow. He’s a six-footer, and about as heavy-set as the bouncer over to the eatin’-house. Wal, I’m another if ev’ry square inch of him wasn’t tremblin’, and his teeth was chatterin’ so hard I looked to see ’em fall out–that’s straight. Them big, blue eyes of hisn was sunk ’way back in his haid, too, and the rest of his face looked like it ’d got in the way of the hose. “Cupid,” he whispered, “you’ve struck it! Here–read this.”

It was a telegram. Say, you know I ain’t got no use fer telegrams. The blamed things allus give y’ a dickens of a start, and, nine times outen ten, they’ve got somethin’ to say that no man wants to hear. But I opened it up.

“sheriff george bergin,” it read,–all little letters, y’ savvy. (Say! what’s the matter that they cain’t send no capitals over the wire?) “briggs city oklahomaw meet mrs bridger number 201 friday phillips.”

“Aw,” I says, “Mrs. Bridger. Wal, Sheriff, who’s this Mrs. Bridger?”

Pore Bergin just wagged his haid. “You’ll have to give me a goose-aig on that one,” he answers.

“Wal, who’s Phillips, then?” I continued.

“The Sante Fee deepot-master at Chicago.”

“Which means you needn’t to worry. Mrs. Bridger is likely comin’ on to boss the gals at the eatin’-house.”

“If that’s so, what ’d he telegraph to me fer?”

“Don’t know. Buck up, anyhow. I’ll bet she’s gone ’way past the poll-tax age, and has got a face like a calf with a blab on its nose.”

“Cupid,” says the sheriff, standin’ up, “thank y’. I feel better. Was worried ’cause I’ve had bad luck lately, and bad luck most allus runs in threes. Last week, my dawg died–remember that one with a buck tooth? I was turrible fond of that dawg. And yesterday––”

He stopped then, and a new crop of drops come out on to his face. “Look!” he says, hoarse like, and pointed.

’Way off to the north was a little, dark, puffy cloud. It was a-travelin’ our direction. Number 201!

“Gosh!” says the sheriff, and sunk down on to the truck again.

I didn’t leave him. I recollected what happened that time he captured “Cud” and Andy Foster and brung ’em into town, his hat shot off and his left arm a-hangin’ floppy agin his laig. Y’ see, next day, a bunch of ladies–ole ladies, they was, too,–tried to find him and give him a vote of thanks. But when he seen ’em comin’, he swore in a deputy–quick–and vamosed. Day ’r two afterwards, here he come outen that cellar back of Dutchy’s thirst-parlour, his left arm in a red bandaner, a rockin’-chair and a pilla under his right one, and a lantern in his teeth!

But this time, he wasn’t a-goin’ to have no deputy. I made up my mind to stay right byside him till he’d did his duty. Yas, ma’am.

“Cupid,” he begun again, reachin’ fer my fist, “Cupid, when it comes to feemales––”

Too-oo-oot! too-oo-oot! Couldn’t make him hear, so I just slapped him on the shoulder. Then I hauled him up, and we went down the platform to where the crowd was.

When the train slowed down, the first thing I seen was the conductor with a kid in his arms,–a cute kid, about four, I reckon,–a boy. Then the cars stopped, and I seen a woman standin’ just behind them. Next, they was all out on to the platform, and the woman was holdin’ the kid by one hand.

The woman was cute, too. Mebbe thirty, mebbe less, light-complected, yalla-haired, kinda plump, and about so high. Not pretty like Mace ’r Carlota Arnaz, but mighty good t’ look at. Blabbed calf? Say! this was awful!

“Ber-r-gin!” hollers the corn-doc.

“Bergin,” I repeats, encouragin’. (Hope I never see a man look worse. He was all blue and green!)

Bergin, he just kinda staggered up. He’d had one look, y’ savvy. Wal, he didn’t look no more. Pulled off his Stetson, though. Then he smoothed the cow-lick over his one eye, and sorta studied the kid.

“Sheriff,” goes on the corn-doc, “here’s a lady that has been consigned to you’ care. Good-bye, ma’am, it’s been a pleasure to look out fer you. Good-bye, little feller,” (this to the kid). “Aw-aw-awl abroad!”

As Number 201 pulled out, you can bet you’ little Cupid helt on to that sheriff! “Bergin,” I says, under my breath, “fer heaven’s sake, remember you’ oath of office! And, boys,” (they was about a dozen cow-punchers behind us, a-smilin’ at Mrs. Bridger so hard that they plumb laid they faces open) “you’ll have us all shoved on to the tracks in a minute!”

It was the kid that helped out. He’d been lookin’ up at Bergin ever since he hit the station. Now, all to oncet, he reached towards the sheriff with both his little hands–as friendly as if he’d knowed him all his life.

Y’ know, Bergin’s heart ’s as big as a’ ox. He’s tender and awful kind, and kids like him straight off. He likes kids. So, ’fore you could say Jack Robinson, that Bridger young un was histed up. I nodded to his maw, and the four of us went into the eatin’-house, where we all had some dinner t’gether. Leastways, me and the kid and Mrs. Bridger et. The sheriff, he just sit, not sayin’ a word, but pullin’ at that cow-lick of hisn and orderin’ things fer the baby. And whilst we grubbed, Mrs. Bridger tole us about herself, and how she ’d happened to come out Oklahomaw way.

Seems she ’d been livin’ in Buffalo, where her husband was the boss of a lumber-yard. Wal, when the kid was three years old, Bridger up and died, not leavin’ much in the way of cash fer the widda. Then she had to begin plannin’ how to git along, a-course. Chicken-ranchin’ got into her haid. Somebody said Oklahomaw was a good place. She got the name of a land-owner in Briggs City and writ him. He tole her he had a nice forty acres fer sale–hunderd down, the balance later on. She bit–and here she was.

“Who’s the man?” I ast.

The widda pulled a piece of paper outen her hand-satchel. “Frank Curry,” she answers.

Bergin give a jump that come nigh to tippin’ the table over. (Ole Skinflint Curry was the reason.)

“And where’s the ranch?” I ast again.

“This is where.” She handed me the paper.

I read. “Why, Bergin,” I says, “it’s that place right here below town, back of the section-house–the Starvation Gap Ranch.”

The sheriff throwed me a quick look.

“I hope,” begun the widda, leanin’ towards him, “–I hope they’s nothin’ agin the property.”

Fer as much as half a minute, neither of us said nothin’. The sheriff, a-course, was turrible flustered ’cause she ’d spoke direct to him, and he just jiggled his knee. I was kinda bothered, too, and got some coffee down my Sunday throat.

“Wal, as a chicken ranch,” I puts in fin’lly “it’s O. K.,–shore thing. On both sides of the house–see? like this,” (I took a fork and begun drawin’ on the table-cloth) “is a stretch of low ground,–a swale, like, that keeps green fer a week ’r so ev’ry year, and that’ll raise Kaffir-corn and such roughness. You git the tie-houses of the section-gang plank in front–here. But behind, you’ possessions rise straight up in to the air like the side of a house. Rogers’s Butte, they call it. See it, out there? A person almost has to use a ladder to climb it. On top, it’s all piled with big rocks. Of a mornin’, the hens can take a trot up it fer exercise. The fine view ’ll encourage ’em to lay.”

“I’m so glad,” says the widda, kinda clappin’ her hands. “I can make enough to support Willie and me easy. And it’ll seem awful fine to have a little home all my own! I ain’t never lived in the country afore, but I know it’ll be lovely to raise chickens. In pictures, the little bits of ones is allus so cunnin’.”

Wal, I didn’t answer her. What could I ’a’ said? And Bergin?–he come nigh pullin’ his cow-lick clean out.

By this time, that little kid had his bread-basket full. So he clumb down outen his chair and come ’round to the sheriff. Bergin took him on to his lap. The kid lay back and shut his eyes. His maw smiled over at Bergin. Bergin smiled down at the kid.

“Wal, folks,” I begun, gittin’ up, “I’m turrible sorry, but I got to tear myself away. Promised to help the Bar Y boys work a herd.”

“Cupid!” It was the sheriff, voice kinda croaky.

“Good-bye fer just now, Mrs. Bridger,” (I pretended not t’ hear him.) “So long, Bergin.”

And I skedaddled.

Two minutes afterwards here they come outen the eatin’-house, the widda totin’ a basket and the sheriff totin’ the kid. I watched ’em through the crack of Silverstein’s front door, and I hummed that good ole song:

When I got back to the Bar Y, I was dead leary about tellin’ Mace that I had half a mind t’ git Bergin married off. ’Cause, y’ see, I’d been made fun of so much fer my Cupid business; and I hated t’ think of doin’ somethin’ she wouldn’t like. But, fin’lly, I managed t’ spunk up sufficient, and described Mrs. Bridger and the kid, and said what I’d like t’ do fer the sheriff.

“Alec,” says the little gal, “I been tole (Rose tole me) how you like t’ help couples that’s in love. It’s what made me first like you.”

“Honey! Then you’ll help me?”

“Shore, I will.”

I give her a whoppin’ smack right on that cute, little, square chin of hern. “You darlin’!” I says. And then I put another where it’d do the most good.

“Alec,” she says, when she could git a word in edgeways, “this widda comin’ is mighty fortu-nate. Bergin’s too ole fer the gals at the eatin’-house. But Mrs. Bridger’ll suit. Now, I’ll lope down to the Gap right soon t’ visit her, and you go back t’ town t’ see how him goin’ home with her come out.”

“Mace,” I says, “if we just can help such a fine feller t’ git settled. But it’ll be a job–a’ awful job. She’s a nice, affectionate little thing. Why, he’d be a blamed sight happier. And he likes the kid––”

“Let’s not count our chickens ’fore they hatch,” breaks in Mace.

Wal, I hiked fer town, and found the sheriff right where he was settin’ that mornin’. But, say! he was a changed man! No shakin’, no caved-in look–nothin’ of that kind. He was gazin’ thoughtful at a knot in the deepot platform, his mouth was part way open, and they was a sorta sickly grin spread all over them features of hisn.

I stopped byside him. “Wal, Sheriff,” I says, inquirin’.

He sit up. “Aw–is that you, Cupid?” he ast. (I reckon I know a guilty son-of-a-gun when I see one!)

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!”

“The best thing you can do, Mister Cupid,” growls Bergin (with a few cuss words throwed in), “is to mind-you’-own-business.”

“All right,” I answers cheerful. “I heerd y’. But, I never could see why you fellers are so down on me when I advise marryin’. Take my word fer it, Sheriff, any man’s a heap better off with a nice wife to look after his shack, and keep it slicked up, and a nice baby ’r two t’ pull his whiskers, and I reckon––”

But Bergin was makin’ fer the freight shed, two-forty.

When I tole Mace what’d passed ’twixt me and the sheriff, she says, “Alec, leave him alone fer a while, and mebbe he’ll look you up. In love affairs, don’t never try t’ drive nobody.”

“But ain’t it funny,” I says (it was lodge night, and we had the porch to ourselves), “–ain’t it funny how dead set some fellers is agin marryin’–the blamed fools! Y’ see, they think that if they don’t hitch up t’ some sweet gal, why, they git ahaid of somebody. It makes me plumb sick!”

“But think of the lucky gal that don’t marry such a yap,” says Mace. “If she was to, by some hook ’r crook, why, he’d throw it up to her fer the balance of his life that she’d ketched him like a rat in a trap.”

“I never could git no such notion about you,” I says; “aw, little gal, we’ll be so happy, you and me, won’t we, honey,––”

Wal, to continue with the Bridger story: You recollect what I said about that kid needin’ a father? Wal, say! if he’d ’a’ wanted one, he shore could ’a’ picked from plenty of candi-dates. Why, ’fore long, ev’ry bach in town had his cap set fer Mrs. Bridger–that’s straight. All other subjects of polite conversation was fergot byside the subject of the widda. Sam Barnes was in love with her, and went ’round with that red face of hisn lookin’ exac’ly like the full moon when you see it through a sandstorm. Chub Flannagan was in love with her, too, and ’d sit by the hour on Silverstein’s front porch, his pop eyes shut up tight, a-rockin’ hisself back’ards and for’ards, back’ards and for-’ards, and a-hummin’. Then, they was Dutchy’s brother, August. Aw, he had it bad. And took t’ music, just like Chub, yas, ma’am. Why, that feller spent hours a-knockin’ the wind outen a’ pore accordion. And next come Frank Curry–haid over heels, too, mean as he was, and to hear him talk you’d ’a’ bet they wasn’t nothin’ he wouldn’t ’a’ done fer Mrs. Bridger. But big talk’s cheap, and he was small potatoes, you bet, and few in the hill.

Wal, one after the other, them four fellers blacked they boots, wet they hair down as nice and shiny as Hairoil’s, and went to see the widda. She ast ’em in, a-course, and was neighbourly; fed ’em, too, if it was nigh meal-time, and acted, gen’ally speakin’, as sweet as pie.

But she treated ’em all alike. And they knowed it. Consequently, in order so’s all of ’em would git a’ even chanst, and so’s they wouldn’t be no gun-play account of one man tryin’ to cut another out by goin’ to see her twicet to the other man’s oncet, the aforesaid boys fixed up a calendar. Sam got Monday, Curry, Wednesday, Dutch August, Friday, and Chub, Sunday afternoons. That tickled Chub. He owns a liv’ry-stable, y’ savvy, and ev’ry week he hitched up a rig and took the widda and her kid fer a buggy ride.

And, Bergin? Wal, I’d took Macie’s advice and stayed away from him. But–the stay-away plan hadn’t worked worth a darn. The sheriff, he kept to his shack pretty steady. And one mornin’, when I seen him at the post-office, he didn’t have nothin’ t’ say to nobody, and looked sorta down on creation.

That fin’lly riled Mace. “What’s the matter with him?” she says one day. “Why, havin’ saw the widda, how can he help fallin’ in love with her! She’s the nicest little woman! And she’s learned me a new crochet stitch.”

“Little gal,” I answers, “you’ idear has been carried out faithful–and has gone fluey. Wal, let Cupid have a try. A-course, I was sit on pretty hard in that confab I had with him, but, all the same, I’ll just happen ’round fer a little neighbourly call.”

His shack was over behind the town cooler, and stood by itself, kinda–a’ ashes dump on one side of it and Sparks’s hoss-corral on the other. It had one room, just high enough so’s Bergin wouldn’t crack his skull, and just wide enough so’s when he laid down on his bunk he wouldn’t kick out the side of the house. And they was a rusty stove with a dictionary toppin’ it, and a saddle and a fryin’-pan on the bed, and a big sack of flour a-spillin’ into a pair of his boots.

I put the fryin’-pan on the floor, and sit down. “Wal, Sheriff,” I begun (he had a skittle ’twixt his knees and was a-peelin’ some spuds fer his dinner), “I ain’t come t’ sponge offen you. Me and Macie Sewell had our dinner down to Mrs. Bridger’s t’-day.”

He let slip the potato he was peelin’, and it rolled under the stove. “Yas?” he says; “that so?”

“And such a dinner as she give us!” I goes on. “Had a white oilcloth on the table,–white, with little blue vi’lets on it–and all her dishes is white and blue. She brung ’em from Buffalo. And we had fried chicken, and corn-dodgers, and prune somethin’-’r-other. Say! I–I s’pose you ain’t been down.”

“No,”–kinda wistful, and eyes on his peelin’–“no. How–how is she?”

“Aw, fine! The kid, he ast after you.”

“Did he?” He looked up, awful tickled. Then, “He’s a nice, little kid,” he adds thoughtful.

“He shore is.” I riz. “Sorry,” I says, “but I got to mosey now. Promised Mrs. Bridger I’d take her some groceries down.” I started out, all business. But I stopped at the door. “Reckon I’ll have to make two trips of it–if I cain’t git someone t’ help me.”

Say! it was plumb pitiful the way Bergin grabbed at the chanst. “Why, I don’t mind takin’ a stroll,” he answers, gittin’ some red. So he put down the spuds and begun to curry that cowlick of hisn.

First part of the way, he walked as spry as me. But, as we come closter to the widda’s, he got to hangin’ back. And when we reached a big pile of sand that was out in front of the house–he balked!

“Guess I won’t go in,” he says.

“O. K.,” I answers. (No use to cross him, y’ savvy, it’d only ’a’ made him worse.)

When I knocked, and the widda opened the door, she seen him.

“Why, how d’ you do!” she called out, lookin’ mighty pleased. “Willie, dear, here’s Mister Bergin.”

“How d’ do,” says the sheriff.

Willie come nigh havin’ a duck-fit, he was so happy. And in about two shakes of a lamb’s tail, he was outen the house and a-climbin’ the sheriff.

Inside, I says to Mrs. Bridger, “Them chickens of yourn come, ma’am. And Hairoil Johnson’ll drive ’em down in a’ hour ’r so. The most of ’em looked fat and sassy, but one ’r two has got the pip.”

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.

Walkin’ up the track afterwards, I remarked, casual like, that they wasn’t many women nicer ’n Mrs. Bridger.

“They’s one thing I like about her,” says the sheriff, “–she’s got eyes like the kid.”

(Dang the kid!)

Wal, me and Macie and them four sparkers wasn’t the only folks that thought the widda was mighty nice. She’d made lots of friends at the section-house since she come. The section-boss’s wife said they was nobody like her, and so did all the greaser women at the tie-camp. She was so handy with a needle, and allus ready to cut out calico dingusses that the peon gals could sew up. When they’d have one of them everlastin’ fiestas of theirn, she’d make a big cake and a keg of lemonade, and pass it ’round. And when you consider that a ten-cent package of cigareets and a smile goes further with a Mexican than fifty plunks and a cuss, why, you can git some idear of how that hull outfit just worshipped her.

Wal, they got in and done her a lot of good turns. Put up a fine chicken-coop, the section-boss overseein’ the job; and, one Sunday, cleaned out her cellar. Think of it! (Say! fer a man to appreciate that, he’s got to know what lazy critters greasers is.) Last of all, kinda to wind things up, the cholos went out into the mesquite and come back with a present of a nice black-and-white Poland China hawg.

Wal, she was tickled at that, and so was the kid. (Hairoil Johnson was shy a pig that week, but you bet he never let on!) The gang made a nice little pen, usin’ ties, and ev’ry day they packed over some feed in the shape of the camp leavin’s.

The widda was settled fine, had half a dozen hens a-settin’ and some castor beans a-growin’ in the low spots next her house, when things begun to come to a haid with the calendar gents. I got it straight from her that in just one solitary week, she collected four pop-the-questions!

She handed out exac’ly that many pairs of mittens–handed ’em out with such a sorry look in them kind eyes of hern, that the courtin’ quartette got worse in love with her ’n ever. Anybody could a’ seen that with one eye. They all begun shavin’ twicet a week, most ev’ry one of ’em bought new things to wear, and–best sign of any–they stopped drinkin’! Ev’ry day ’r so, back they’d track to visit the widda.

She didn’t like that fer a cent. Wasn’t nary one of ’em that suited her, and just when the chickens ’r the cholo gals needed her, here was a Briggs City galoot a-crossin’ the yard.

“Sorry,” she says to Macie, “but I’ll have to give them gents they walkin’-papers. If I don’t, I won’t never git a lick done.”

“Bully fer you!” Mace answers. “It’ll be good riddance of bad rubbish. They’re too gally.” (Somethin’ like that, anyhow.) “Learn ’em to act like they was civylised. But, say, Mrs. Bridger, you–you ain’t a-goin’ to give the rinky-dink to the Sheriff?”

“Mister Bergin,” answers the widda, “ain’t bothered me none.” (Mace was shore they was tears in her eyes.)

“Aw–haw!” I says, when the little gal tole me. I savvied.

That same afternoon, whilst the widda was a-settin’ on the shady side of the house, sewin’ on carpet-rags, up come Sam Barnes. (It was Monday.)

“Mrs. Bridger,” he begun, “I’m a-goin’ to ast you to think over what I said to you last week. I don’t want to be haidstrong, but I’d like to git a ’yas’ outen you.”

“Mister Barnes,” she says. “I’m feard I cain’t say yas. I ain’t thinkin’ of marryin’. But if I was, it’d be to a man that’s–that’s big, and tall, and has blue eyes.” And she looked out at the sand-pile, and sighed.

“Wal,” says Sam, “I reckon I don’t fit specifications.” And he hiked fer town.

He was plumb huffy when he tole me about it. “Fer a woman,” he says, “that’s got to look after herself, and has a kid on her hands to boot, she’s got more airs’n a windmill.”

Next!

That was Chub.

Now, Chub, he knowed a heap about handlin’ a gun, and I reckon he’d pass as a liv’ry-stable keeper, but he didn’t know much about women. So, when he went down to ast the widda fer the second time, he put his foot in it by bein’ kinda short t’ little Willie.

“Say, kid,” he says, “you locate over in that rockin’-chair yonder. Young uns of you’ age should be saw and not heerd.”

Mrs. Bridger, she sit right up, and her eye-winkers just snapped. “Mister Flannagan,” she Says, “I’m feard you’re wastin’ you’ time a-callin’ here. If ever I marry again, it’s goin’ t’ be a man that’s fond of childern.”

Wal, ta-ta, Chub!

And, behind, there was the widda at the winda, all eyes fer that sand-pile.

We never knowed what she said to Dutchy’s brother, August. But he come back to town lookin’ madder’n a wet hen. “Huh!” he says, “I don’t vant her nohow. She couldn’t vork. She’s pretty fer nice, all right, but she’s nichts fer stoudt.”

When ole stingy Curry tried his luck over, he took his lead from Chub’s experience. Seems he put one arm ’round the kid, and then he said no man could kick about havin’ to adopt Willie, and he knowed that with Mrs. Bridger it was “love me, love my dawg.” Then he tacked on that the boy was a nice little feller, and likely didn’t eat much.

“And long’s I ain’t a-goin’ to marry you,” says the widda, “why, just think–you won’t have to feed Willie at all!”

But the next day we laughed on the other side of our face. I went down to Mrs. Bridger’s, the sheriff trailin’, (he balked half-way from the sand-pile to the door, this time, and sit down on a bucket t’ play he was Willie’s steam-injine), and I found that the little woman had been cryin’ turrible.

“What’s the matter?” I ast.

“Nothin’,” she says.

“Yas, they is. Didn’t you git a dun t’-day?”

“Wal,” she answers, blushin’, “I bought this place on tick. But,” (brave as the dickens, she was) “I’ll be able t’ pay up all right–what with my chickens and the pig.”

I talked with her a good bit. Then me and the sheriff started back to town. (Had to go slow at first; Bergin’d helt the ingineer on his knee till his foot was asleep.) On the way, I mentioned that dun.

“Curry,” says the sheriff. And he come nigh rippin’ up the railroad tracks.

He made fer Curry’s straight off. “What’s the little balance due on that Starvation Gap property?” he begun.

“What makes you ast?” says Curry, battin’ them sneaky little eyes of hisn.

“I’m prepared t’ settle it.”

“But it happens I didn’t sell to you. So, a-course, I cain’t take you’ money. Anyhow, I don’t think the widda is worryin’ much. She could git shet of that balance easy.” And he moseyed off.

She could git shet of it by marryin’ him, y’ savvy–the polecat!

The sheriff was boilin’. “Here, Cupid,” he says, “is two hunderd. Now, we’ll go down to Mrs. Bridger’s again, and you offer her as much as she wants.”

“Offer it you’self.”

“No, you do it, Cupid,–please. But don’t you tell her whose money it is.”

“I won’t. Here’s where we git up The Ranchers’ Loan Fund.”

I coaxed Bergin as far as the front step this time. Wasn’t that fine? But, say! Mrs. Bridger wouldn’t touch a cent of that money, no ma’am.

“If I was to take it as a loan,” she says, “I’d have interest to pay. So I’d be worse off ’n I am now. And I couldn’t take it in no other way. Thank y’, just the same. And how’s Miss Sewell t’-day?”

It wasn’t no use fer me to tell her that The Ranchers’ Loan Fund didn’t want no interest. She was as set as Rogers’s Butte.

During the next week ’r two, the sheriff and me dropped down to the widda’s frequent. I’d talk to her–about chicken-raisin’ mostly–whilst Bergin ’d play with the kid. One day I got him to come as far as the door! But I never got him no further. There he stuck, and ’d stand on the sill fer hours, lookin’ out at Willie–like a great, big, scairt, helpless calf.

At first the widda talked to him, pleasant and encouragin’. But when he just said, “Yas, ma’am,” and “No, ma’am,” and nothin’ else, she changed. I figger (’cause women is right funny) that her pride was some hurt. What if he was bound up in the boy? Didn’t he have no interest in her? It hurt her all the worse, mebbe, ’cause I was there, and seen how he acted. ’Fore long she begun to git plumb outen patience with him. And one day, when he was standin’ gazin’ out, she flew up.

“George Bergin,” she says, “a door is somethin’ else ’cept a place to scratch you back on.” And she shut it–him outside, plumb squshed!

Wal, we’d did our best–both Mace and me–and fell down. But right here is where somethin’ better’n just good luck seemed to take a-holt of things. In the first place, considerin’ what come of it, it shore was fortunate that Pedro Garcia, one of them trashy section-gang cholos, was just a-passin’ the house as she done that. He heerd the slam. He seen the look on Bergin’s face, too. And he fixed up what was the matter in that crazy haid of hisn.

In the second place, the very next day, blamed if Curry didn’t hunt Bergin up. “Sheriff,” he begun, “I ain’t been able to collect what’s due me from Mrs. Bridger. She ain’t doin’ nothin’ with the property, neither. So I call on you to put her off.” And he helt out a paper.

Put her off! Say! You oughta saw Bergin’s face!

“Curry,” he says, “in Oklahomaw, a dis-possess notice agin a widda ain’t worth the ink it’s drawed with.”

“Ain’t it?” says Curry. “You mean you won’t act. All right. If you won’t, they’s other folks that will.”

“Will they,” answers the sheriff, quiet. But they was a fightin’ look in his eyes. “Curry, go slow. Don’t fergit that the Gap property ain’t worth such a hull lot.”

The next thing, them cholos in the section-gang ’d heerd what Bergin was ordered to do. And, like a bunch of idjits, ’stead of gittin’ down on Curry, who was responsible, they begun makin’ all kinds of brags about what they’d do when next they seen the sheriff. And it looked to me like gun-play was a-comin’.

But not just yet. Fer the reason that the sheriff, without sayin’ “I,” “Yas,” ’r “No” to nobody, all of a suddent disappeared.

“What in the dickens has struck him!” I says t’ Mace.

“Just you wait,” she answers. “It’s got t’ do with Mrs. B. He ain’t down in a cellar this time.”

Wal, he wasn’t. But we was in the dark as much as the rest of the town, till one evenin’ when the section-boss called me to one side. He had somethin’ t’ tell me, he said. Could I keep a secret–cross my heart t’ die? Yas. Wal, then–what d’ you think it was? The sheriff was camped right back of the widda’s–on Rogers’s Butte!

“Pardner,” I says, “don’t you cheep that to another soul. Bergin is up there t’ keep Curry from puttin’ the widda out.”

The section-boss begun to haw-haw. “It’d take a hull regiment of soldiers to put the widda out,” he says, “–with them greasers of mine so clost.”

“I’ll go down that way on a kinda scout,” I says, and started off. When I got clost to the widda’s,–about as far as from here to that hitchin’-post yonder–I seen a crowd of women and kids a-lookin’ at somethin’ behind the house. I walked up and stretched my neck. And there in that tie-pen was a’ even dozen of new little pigs!

“Ma’am,” I says, “this is good luck!”

“Good luck?” repeats the widda. “I reckon it’s somethin’ more’n just good luck.” (Them’s exac’ly her words–“Somethin’ more’n just good luck.”)

“Wal,” I goes on, “oncet in a while, a feller’s got to admit that somethin’ better’n just or-d’nary good luck does git in a whack. Mebbe it’ll be the case of a gezaba that ain’t acted square; first thing you know, his hash is settled. Next time, it’s exac’ly the other way ’round, and some nice lady ’r gent finds theyselves landed not a’ inch from where they wanted to be. But neither case cain’t be called just good luck, no, ma’am. Fer the reason that the contrary facts is plumb shoved in you’ face.

“Now, take what happened to Burt Slade. Burt had a lot of potatoes ready to plant–about six sacks of ’em, I reckon. The ground was ready, and the sacks was in the field. Wal, that night, a blamed ornery thief come ’long and stole all them potatoes. (This was in Nebraska, mind y’. Took ’em fifty mile north and planted ’em clost to his house. So far, you might call it just bad luck. But–a wind come up, a turrible wind, and blowed all the dirt offen them potatoes; next, it lifted ’em and sent ’em a-kitin’ through the windas of that thief’s house–yas, ma’am, it took ’em in at the one side, and outen the other, breakin’ ev’ry blamed pane of glass; then–I’m another if it ain’t so!–it sailed ’em all that fifty mile back to Slade’s and druv ’em into the ground that he’d fixed fer ’em. And when they sprouted, a little bit later on that spring, Slade seen they’d been planted in rows!

“They ain’t no doubt about this story bein’ true. In the first place, Slade ain’t a man that’d lie; in the second place, ev’rybody knows his potatoes was stole, and ev’rybody knows that, just the same, he had a powerful big crop that year; and, then, Slade can show you his field any time you happen to be in that part of Nebraska. And no man wants any better proof’n that.”

“A-course, he don’t,” says the widda. “And I’d call that potato transaction plumb wonderful.”

“It shore was.”

She turned back to the hawgs. “I can almost see these little pigs grow,” she says, “and I’m right fond of ’em a’ready. I–I hope nothin’ bad’ll happen to ’em. I’m a little nervous, though. ’Cause–have you noticed, Mister Lloyd?–they’s just thirteen pigs in that pen.”

“Aw, thirteen ain’t never hurt nobody in Oklahomaw,” I says. And I whistled, and knocked on wood.

“Anyhow, I’m happy,” she goes on, “I’m better fixed than I been fer a coon’s age.”

“The eatin’-house ’ll buy ev’ry one of these pigs at a good price,” I says, leanin’ on the pen till I was well nigh broke in two, “they bein’ pen-fed, and not just common razor-backs. That’ll mean fifty dollars–mebbe more. Why, it’s like findin’ it!”

“These and the chickens,” she says, “’ll pay that balance, and” (her voice broke, kinda, and she looked over to where pore little Willie was tryin’ to play injine all by hisself) “without the help of no man.”

I looked up at the Butte. Was that black speck the sheriff? And wasn’t his heart a-bustin’ fer her? Wal, it shore was a fool sittywaytion!

“The section-hands is turrible tickled about these pigs,” continues Mrs. Bridger. “They come over this mornin’ t’ see how the fambly was doin’, and they named the hull litter, beginnin’ with Carmelita, and ending’ with Polky Dot.”

You couldn’t ’a’ blamed nobody fer bein’ proud of them little pigs. They was smarter ’n the dickens, playin’ ’round, and kickin’ up they heels, and squee-ee-eelin’. All black and white they was, too, and favoured they maw strong. Ev’ry blamed one had a pink snoot and a kink in its tail, and reg’lar rolly buckshot eyes. And fat!–say, no josh, them little pigs was so fat they had double chins–just one chin right after another–from they noses plumb back to they hind laigs!

But you never can gamble on t’-morra. And the widda, countin’ as she did on them pigs, had to find that out. A-course, if she’d been a’ Irish lady, she’d ’a’ just natu’lly took to ownin’ a bunch of hawgs, and she’d ’a’ likely penned ’em closter to the house. Then nothin’ would ’a’ hurt ’em. Again, mebbe it would–if the hull thing that happened next was accidentally a-purpose. And I reckon that shore was the truth of it.

But I’m a-goin’ too fast.

It was the mornin’ after the Fourth of July. (That was why I was in town.) I was in the Arnaz bunk-house, pullin’ on my coat, just afore daylight, when, all of a suddent, right over Rogers’s Butte, somethin’ popped. Here, acrosst the sky, went a red ball, big, and as bright as if it was on fire. As it come into sight, it had a tail of light a-hangin’ to it. It dropped at the foot of the butte.

First off, I says, “More celebratin’.” Next, I says, “Curry!”–and streaked it fer the widda’s.

’Fore I was half-way, I heerd hollerin’–the scairt hollerin’ of women and kids. Then I heerd the grumble of men’s voices. I yelled myself, hopin’ some of the boys ’d hear me, and foller. “Help! help!” I let out at the top of my lungs, and brung up in Mrs. Bridger’s yard.

It was just comin’ day, and I could see that section-gang all collected t’gether, some with picks, and the rest with heavy track tools. All the greaser women was there, too, howlin’ like a pack of coyotes. Whilst Mrs. Bridger had the kid in her arms, and her face hid in his little dress.

“What’s the matter?” I screeched–had t’ screech t’ git heerd.

The cholos turned towards me. (Say! You talk about mean faces!) “Diablo!” they says, shakin’ them track tools.

Wal, it shore looked like the Ole Harry ’d done it! ’Cause right where the pig-pen used to was, I could see the top of a grea-a-at, whoppin’ rock, half in and half outen the ground, and smokin’ hot. Pretty nigh as big as a box-car, it was. Wal, as big as a wagon, anyhow. But neither hide ’r hair of them pigs!

I walked ’round that stone.

“My friend,” I says to the section-boss, “the maw-pig made just thirteen. It’s a proposition you cain’t beat.”

Them cholos was all quiet now, and actin’ as keerful as if that rock was dynamite. Queer and shivery, they was, about it, and it kinda give me the creeps.

Next, they begun pointin’ up to the top of the Butte!

I seen what was comin’. So I used my haid–quick, so’s to stave off trouble. “Mebbe, boys,” I says, lookin’ the ground over some more, “–mebbe they was a cyclone last night to the north of here, and this blowed in from Kansas.”

The section-boss walked ’round, studyin’. “I’m from Missoura,” he says, “and it strikes me that this rock looks kinda familiar, like it was part iron. Now, mebbe they’s been a thunderin’ big explosion in the Ozark Mountains. But, Mrs. Bridger, as a native son of the ole State, I don’t want to advise you to sue fer da––”

I heerd them cholos smackin’ they lips. I looked where they was lookin’, and here, a-comin’ lickety-split, was the sheriff!

That section-boss was as good-natured a feller as ever lived, and never liked t’ think bad of no man. But the minute he seen Bergin racin’ down offen that Butte, he believed like the peons did. He turned t’ me. “By George!” he says–just like that.

Wal, sir, that “By George” done it. Soon as the Mexicans heerd him speak out what they thought, they set up a Comanche yell, and, with the whites of they eyes showin’ like a nigger’s, they made towards the sheriff on the dead run.

He kept a-comin’. Most men, seein’ a passel of locoed greasers makin’ towards ’em with pickaxes, would ’a’ turned and run, figgerin’ that leg-bail was good enough fer them. But the sheriff, he wasn’t scairt.

A second, and the Mexicans ’d made a surround. He pulled his gun. They jerked it outen his hand. He throwed ’em off.

I drawed my weapon.

Just then–“Sheriff! sheriff!” (It was the widda, one hand helt out towards him.)

A great idear come to me then. I put my best friend back into my pocket. “I won’t interfere fer a while yet,” I says to myself. “Mebbe this is where they’ll be a show-down.”

“Cupid,” says Bergin, “what’s the matter?”

I fit my way to him. “They think you throwed this rock, here,” I answers.

“The low-down, ornery, lay-in-the-sun-and-snooze good-fer-nothin’s is likely t’ think ’most any ole thing,” he says. “Pedro, let go my arm.”

Just then, one of the cholos come runnin’ up with a rope!

The section-boss seen things was gittin’ pretty serious. He begun to wrastle with the feller that had the rope. Next, all the women and kids set up another howlin’, Mrs. Bridger cryin’ the worst. But I wasn’t ready to play my last card. I stepped out in front of the gang and helt up my hand.

“Boys,” I says; “boys! Give the man a chanst t’ talk. Why, this rock ain’t like the rocks on the Butte.”

“You blamed idjits!” yells Bergin. “Use you’ haids! How could I ’a’ hefted the darned thing?”

“Aw, he couldn’t ’a’ done it!” (This from the widda, mind y’,–hands t’gether, and comin’ clost.)

“Thank y’, little woman,” says the sheriff.

(Say! that was better.)

“He pulled his gun, they jerked it outen his hand”

But the cholos wasn’t a-foolin’–they was in dead earnest. Next minute, part of ’em grabbed Bergin, got that rope ’round him, and begun draggin’ him towards a telegraph pole.

I was some anxious, but I knowed enough to hole back a while more.

“Aw, boys,” begged the widda, droppin’ Willie and runnin’ ’longside, “don’t hurt him! don’t! What does the pigs matter?”

“I’ll discharge ev’ry one of you,” says the section-boss.

“Boys,” I begun again, “why should this gent want to harm this lady. Why, I can tell you––”

Pedro Garcia stuck his black fist into my face. “He lof her,” he says, “and she say no. So he iss revenge hisself.” (Say! the grammar they use is plumb fierce.)

“He iss revenge hisself!” yells the rest of the bunch. Then they all looked at the widda.

“Boys,” she sobs, “I ain’t never refused him. Fer a good reason–he ain’t never ast me.”

(The cholos, they just growled.)

“What?” I ast, turnin’ on Bergin like I was hoppin’. “You love her, and yet you ain’t never ast her to marry you? Wal, you blamed bottle of ketchup, you oughta die!”

“How could I ast her?” begun the sheriff. “She plumb hates the sight of me.”

“I don’t! I don’t!” sobs the widda. “Mister Lloyd knows that ain’t so. Willie and me, we–we––”

“Y’ see?” I turned to the Mexicans. “He loves her; she loves him. We’re a-goin’ to have a weddin’, not a hangin’.”

“The stone–he iss revenge,” says Pedro.

“The stone,” I answers, “come outen the sky. It’s a mete’rite.”

“I felt it hit!” cries the widda.

Wal, you couldn’t expect a Mexican t’ swaller that. So we’d no more’n got the words outen our mouths when they begun to dance ’round Bergin again with the halter.

Wal, how do you think it come out?

Mebbe you figger that Mrs. Bridger drawed a knife and sa-a-aved him, ’r I pulled my gun and stood there, tellin’ ’em they ’d only hang the sheriff over my dead body. But that ain’t the way it happened. No, ma’am. This is how:

’Round the bend from towards Albuquerque come the pay-car. Now, the pay-car, she stops just one minute fer ev’ry section-hand, and them section-hands was compelled to git into line and be quick about it, ’r not git they money. So they didn’t have no spare time. They let go of Bergin’s rope and run–the section-boss leadin’.

The sheriff, he slung the rope to one side–and the widda goes into his arms. “Little woman,” he says, lookin’ down at her, “I’ll–I’ll be a good father to the boy.” Then he kissed her.

(Wal, that’s about all you could reas’nably expect from Bergin.)

Next thing, he borraed my gun and just kinda happened over towards the pay-car. And when a cholo got his time and left the line, he showed him the way he was to go. And you bet he minded!

Wal, things come out fine. A big museum in Noo York bought that rock (If you don’t believe it, just go to that museum and you’ll see it a-settin’ out in front–big as life.) A-course, Mrs. Bridger got a nice little pile of money fer it, and paid Curry the balance she owed him. Then, the sheriff got Mrs. Bridger!

And the bunch that didn’t git her? Wal, the bunch that didn’t git her just natu’lly got left!

CHAPTER FIVE
THINGS GIT STARTED WRONG

Up to the day of the sheriff’s weddin’, I reckon I was about the happiest feller that’s ever been in these parts. Gee! but I was in high spirits! It’d be Macie’s and my turn next, I figgered, and if the ole man didn’t like it, he could just natu’lly lump it. So when I walked through Briggs, why, I hit both sides of the street, exac’ly as if I was three sheets in the wind.

But–this was one time when you’ friend Cupid was just a little bit too previous. And I want to say right here that no feller needs to think he’s the hull shootin’-match with a gal, and has the right-a-way, like a wild-cat ingine on a’ open track, just ’cause she’s ast him to write in her autograph-album. It don’t mean such a blamed lot, neither, if his picture is stuck ’longside of hern on top of the organ. Them signs is encouragin’, a-course; but he’d best take his coat off and git to work. Even when she’s give all the others the G. B., and has gone to church with him about forty Sunday evenin’s, hand runnin’, and has allus saved him the grand march and the last waltz at the Fireman’s Ball, and mebbe six ’r seven others bysides, why, even then it’s a toss-up. Yas, ma’am. It took hard knocks t’ learn me that they’s nothin’ dead certain short of the parson’s “amen.”

Y’ see, you can plug a’ Injun, and kick a dawg, and take a club to a mule; but when it’s a gal, and a feller thinks a turrible lot of her, and she’s so all-fired skittish he cain’t manage her, and so eludin’ he cain’t find her no two times in the same place, what’s he goin’ to do? Wal, they ain’t no reg’lar way of proceedin’–ev’ry man has got to blaze his own trail.

But I couldn’t, and that was the hull trouble. I know now that when it come to dealin’ with Mace, I shore was a darned softy. That little Muggins could twist me right ’round her finger–and me not know it! One minute, she’d pallaver me fer further orders, whilst I’d look into them sweet eyes of hern till I was plumb dizzy; the next, she’d be cuttin’ up some dido ’r other and leadin’ me a’ awful chase.

Then, mebbe, I’d git sore at her, and think mighty serious about shakin’ the Bar Y dust offen my boots fer good. “Cupid,” I’d say to myself, “git you’ duds t’gether, and do you’ blankets up in you’ poncho.”

Just about then, here she come lopin’ home from town, her hoss cuttin’ up like Sam Hill, and her a-settin’ so straight and cute. She’d look towards the bunk-house, see me, motion me over with her quirt, and–wal, a-course, I’d go.

I made my first big beefsteak at the very beginnin’. Somehow ’r other, right from the minute we had our confidential talk t’gether back of Silverstein’s, that last night of the Medicine Show. I got it into my fool haid that I as good as had her, and that all they was left to be did was t’ git ’round the ole man. Wal, this idear worked fine as long as we was so busy with Bergin’s courtin’. But when the sheriff was hitched, and me and the little gal got a recess, my! my! but a heap of things begun t’ happen!

They started off like this: The parson wanted money fer t’ buy some hymn-books with. So he planned a’ ice-cream social and entertainment, and ast Mace to go down on the program fer a song. She was willin’; I was, too. So far, ev’ry-thin’ smooth as glare-ice.

But fer a week afore that social, they was a turrible smell of gasoline outside the sittin’-room of the Bar Y ranch-house. That’s ’cause Doctor Bugs come out ev’ry day–to fetch a Goldstone woman from the up-train. (That blamed sulky of hisn ’d been stuck t’gether with flour paste by now, y’ savvy, and was in apple-pie order.) After the woman ’d git to the ranch-house, why, the organ ’d strike up. Then you could hear Macie’s voice–doin’, “do, ray, me.” Next, she’d break loose a-singin’. And pretty soon the doc and the woman ’d go.

Wal, I didn’t like it. Y’ see, I’ve allus noticed that if a city feller puts hisself out fer you a hull lot, he expects you t’ give him a drink, ’r vote fer him, ’r loan him some money. And why was Bugsey botherin’ t’ make so many trips to the Bar Y? I knowed what it was. It was just like Hairoil ’d said–he wanted my Macie.

One night, I says to her, “What’s that Goldstone woman doin’ out here so much, honey?”

“Givin’ me music lessons,” she answers.

“I know,” I says. “But you don’t need no lessons. You sing good enough t’ suit me right now.”

“Wal, I don’t sing good enough t’ suit myself. And bein’ as I’m on that program––”

“Wal, just the same,” I cut in, “I don’t like that Simpson hangin’ ’round here.”

“Alec,” she come back, stiffenin’ right up, “it’s my place to say who comes into this ranch-house, and who don’t.”

“But, look a-here! Folks ’ll think you like him better’n you do me.”

“Aw, that’s crazy.”

“It ain’t. And I won’t have him ’round.”

Then, she got turrible polite. “I’m sorry, Mister Lloyd,” she says, “but I’m a-goin’ t’ take my lessons.”

Wal, the long and short of it is, she did–right up t’ the very day of the social.

“All right,” I says to myself; “but just wait till this shindig is over.” And when Mace and her paw started fer town that evenin’, I saddled up my bronc and follered ’em.

Simpson was kinda in charge of that social. He got up and made a’ openin’ speech, sayin’ they was lots of ice-cream and cake fer sale, and he hoped we’d all shell out good. Then, he begun t’ read off the program.

“We have with us t’night,” he says, “one of the finest and best trained voices in this hull United States–a voice that I wouldn’t be surprised if it ’d be celebrated some day.”

I looked over at Mace. She was gittin’ pink. Did he mean her?

“And,” Simpson goes on, “the young lady that owns it is a-goin’ t’ give us the first number.” And he bowed–Shore enough!

Wal, she sung. It was somethin’ about poppies, and it was awful sad, and had love in it. I liked it pretty nigh as good as The Mohawk Vale. But the ole man, he didn’t. And when she was done, and settin’ next him again, he said out loud, so’s a lot of people heerd him, “I’m not stuck on havin’ you singin’ ’round ’fore ev’ry-body. And that Noo York Doc is too blamed fresh.”

“Paw!” she says, like she was ashamed of him.

“I mean it,” he says, and jerked his haid to one side.

Wal, y’ know, Mace got her temper offen him, and never handed it back. So all durin’ the social, they had it–up and down. I couldn’t ketch all what they said–only little bits, now and then. “Cheek,” I heard the boss say oncet, and Mace come back with somethin’ about not bein’ “a baby.”

Afterwards, when the ole man was out gittin’ the team, she come over t’ me, lookin’ awful appealin’. “Alec,” she says, like she expected I’d shore sympathise with her, “did you hear what paw said? Wasn’t it mean of him?”

I looked down at my boots. Then, I looked straight at her. “Mace,” I says, “he’s right. Mebbe you’ll git mad at me, too, fer sayin’ it. But that Simpson’s tryin’ t’ cut me out–and so he’s givin’ you all this taffy about your voice.”

“Taffy!” she says, fallin’ back a step. “Then you didn’t like my singin’.”

“Why, yas, I did,” I answers, follerin’ along after her. “I thought it was fine.”

But she only shook her haid–like she was hurt–and clumb into the buckboard.

I worried a good deal that night. The more I turned over what Simpson ’d said, the more I wondered if I knowed all they was to his game. What was he drivin’ at with that “celebrated” business? Then, too, it wouldn’t do Mace no good t’ be puffed up so much. She’d been ’lected the prettiest gal. Now she’d been tole she had a way-up voice. ’Fore long, she’d git the big haid.

“Wal, I’ll put a quietus on it,” I says. And, next mornin’, when I seen her, I opened up like this: “Honey, I reckon we’ve waited just about long enough. So we git married Sunday week.”

“That’s too soon,” she answers. “We got t’ git paw on our side. And I ain’t got no new clothes.”

“We’ll splice first and ast him about it afterwards. And when you’re Mrs. Alec, I’ll git you all the clothes you want.” (Here’s where I clean fergot the advice she give me that time in the sheriff’s case: “In love affairs,” was what she said, “don’t never try t’ drive nobody.”)

“But, Alec,––” she begun.

“Sunday week, Mace,” I says. “We’ll talk about it t’-night.”

But that night Monkey Mike come nigh blowin’ his lungs out; and I waited under the cottonwoods till I was asleep standin’–and no Macie.

Wasn’t it cal’lated t’ make any man lose his temper? Wal, I lost mine. And when we went in town to a party, a night ’r two afterwards, the hull business come to a haid.

I was plumb sorry about the blamed mix-up. But no feller wants t’ see his gal dance with a kettle-faced greaser. I knowed she was goin’ to fer the reason that I seen Mexic go over her way, showin’ his teeth like a badger and lettin’ his cigareet singe the hair on his dirty shaps–shaps, mind y’, at a school-house dance! Then I seen her nod.

Our polka come next. And when we was about half done, I says, “They’s lemonade outside, honey. Let’s git a swig.” But outside I didn’t talk no lemonade. “Did Mexic ast you to dance with him?” I begun.

“Wal, he’s one of our boys,” she answers; “and I’m going to give him a schottische.”

“No, you ain’t,” I come back. “I won’t stand fer it.”

“Yas, I am, Alec Lloyd,”–she spoke determined,–“and please don’t try to boss me.”

I shut up and walked in again. Mexic was talkin’ to the school-ma’am–aw, he’s got gall! I shassayed up and took him a little one side. “Mexic,” I says, soft as hair on a cotton-tail, “it’s gittin’ on towards mornin’ and, natu’lly, Macie Sewell ain’t feelin’ just rested; so I wouldn’t insist on that schottische, if I was you.”

“Why?” he ast.

“I tole you why,” I says; “but I’ll give you another reason: You’ boots is too tight.”

We fussed a little then. Didn’t amount to much, though, ’cause neither of us had a gun. (Y’ see, us punchers don’t pack guns no more ’less we’re out ridin’ herd and want t’ pick off a coyote; ’r ’less we’ve had a little trouble and ’re lookin’ fer some one.) But I managed to change that greaser’s countenance consider’ble, and he bit a chunk outen my hand. Then the boys pulled us separate.

They was all dead agin me when I tole ’em what was the matter. They said the other gals danced with Mexic, and bein’ Macie was the Bar Y gal, she couldn’t give him the go-by if she took the rest of the outfit fer pardners.

Just the same, I made up my mind she wouldn’t dance with that greaser. And I says to myself, “This is where you show you’re a-goin’ to run the Lloyd house. She’ll like you all the better if you git the upper hand.” So when I got her coaxed outside again, I led her to where my bronc was tied. She liked the little hoss, and whilst we was chinnin’, I put her into the saddle. Next minute, I was on behind her, and the bronc was makin’ quick tracks fer home.

Wal, sir, she was madder’n a hen in a thunder-shower. She tried to pull in the bronc; she twisted and scolted and cried. Tole me she hated me like arsenic.

“Alec Lloyd,” she says, “after t’night, I’ll never, never speak to you again!”

When we rode up to the corral, I lifted her down, and she went tearin’ away to the house. The ole man heerd her comin’, and thought she was singin’. He slung open the door on the porch.

“Aw, give that calf more rope!” he calls out.

Say! she went by him like a streak of lightnin’, almost knockin’ him down. And the door slammed so hard you could ’a’ heerd it plumb t’ Galveston.

I hung ’round the corral fer as much as half a’ hour, listenin’ to the pow-wow goin’ on at the house. But nobody seemed to be a-hollerin’ fer me t’ come in, so I made fer the straw. “Aw, wal,” I says to myself, “her dander ’ll cool off t’-morra.”

But the next day, she passed me by without speakin’. And I, like a sap-head, didn’t speak neither. I was on my high hoss,–wouldn’t speak till she did. So off I had t’ go to Hasty Creek fer three days–and no good-bye t’ the little gal.

I got back late one afternoon. At the bunk-house, I noticed a change in the boys. They all seemed just about t’ bust over somethin’–not laughin’, y’ savvy, but anxious, kinda, and achin’ to tell news.

Fin’lly, I went over to Hairoil. “Pardner,” I says, “spit it out.”

He looked up. “Cupid,” he says, “us fellers don’t like t’ git you stirred up, but we think it’s about time someone oughta speak–and put you next.”

“Next about what?” I ast. The way he said it give me a kinda start.

“We’ve saw how things was a-goin’, but we didn’t say nothin’ to you ’cause it wasn’t none of our funeral. Quite a spell back, folks begun to talk about how crazy Macie Sewell was gittin’ to be on the singin’ question. It leaked out that she’d been tole she had a A1 voice––”

“It ain’t no lie, neither.”

“And that her warblin’ come pretty clost to bein’ as good as Melba’s.”

“It’s a heap better’n Melba’s.”

“Also”–Hairoil fidgited some–“you know, a-course, that she’s been tackin’ up photographs of op’ra singers and actresses in her room––”

“Wal, what’s the harm?”

“And–and practicin’ bows in front of a glass.”

I begun t’ see what he was drivin’ at.

“And whilst you was away, she had a talk with the station-agent–about rates East.”

“Hairoil! You don’t mean it!” I says. I tell y’, it was just like a red-hot iron ’d been stuck down my wind-pipe and was a-burnin’ the lower end offen my breast-bone!

“I’m sorry, ole man.” He reached out a hand. “But we thought you oughta know.” And then he left me.

So that was it! And she’d been keepin’ me in the dark about it all–whilst ev’ry fence post from the Bar Y t’ Briggs knowed what was happenin’! Wal, I was mad clean through.

Then I begun t’ see that I’d been a blamed fool. A fine, high-strung gal!–and I’d been orderin’ her ’round like I owned her! And I’d gone away on that ride without tryin’ t’ make up. Wal, I’d druv her to it.

I started fer the house.

As I come clost, acrosst the curtains, back’ards and for’ards, back’ards and for’ards, I could see her shadda pass. But when I rapped, she pulled up; then, she opened the door.

“Honey,” I says, “can I come in?”

Her eyes was red; she’d been cryin’. But, aw! she was just as nice and sweet as she could be. “Yas, Alec, come in,” she says.

“Little gal,” I begun, “I want t’ tell you I done wrong to kick about that greaser, yas, I did. And fetchin’ you home that-a-way wasn’t right.”

“Never mind–I wanted t’ come anyhow.”

“Thank y’ fer bein’ so kind. And I ain’t never goin’ to try to run you no more.”

“I’m glad of that No gal likes t’ be bossed.”

“Just give me another chanst. Just fergive me this oncet.”

She smiled, her eyes shinin’ with tears. “I do,” she says; “Alec, I do.”

The next second, I had her helt clost in my arms, and her pretty haid was agin my breast. Aw, it was like them first days once more. And all the hurt went of a suddent, and the air cleared kinda–as if a storm’d just passed. My little gal!

Pretty soon, (I was settin’ on the organ-stool, and she was standin’ in front of me, me holdin’ her hands) I says, “They is one thing–now that I’ve tole you I was wrong–they is just one thing I’m goin’ to ast you t’ do as a favour. If you do it, things ’ll go smooth with us from now on. It’s this, little gal: Cut out that Doctor Bugs.”

“I know how you don’t like him,” she answers; “and you’re right. ’Cause he shore played you a low-down trick at that Medicine Show. But, Alec, he brings my music-teacher.”

“Wal, honey, what you want the teacher fer?”

She stopped, and up went that pert, little haid. “You recollect what Doctor Simpson said about my voice that night at the social?” she begun. “This teacher says the same thing.”

Like a flash, I recalled what Hairoil ’d tole me. “Mace,” I says, “I want t’ ast you about that. A-course, I know it ain’t so. But Hairoil says you got pictures of actresses and singers tacked up in you’ room–just one ’r two.”

“Yas,” she answers; “that’s straight. What about it?”

“It’s all right, I guess. But the ole son-of-a-gun got the idear, kinda, that you was thinkin’ some of–of the East.”

“Alec,” she says, frank as could be, “yesterday Doctor Simpson got a letter from Noo York. He’d writ a big teacher there, inquirin’ if I had a chanst t’ git into op’ra–grand op’ra–and the teacher says yas.”

I couldn’t answer nothin’. I just sit there, knocked plumb silly, almost, and looked at a big rose in the carpet. Noo York!

She brung her hands t’gether. “Why not?” she answers. “It’ll give me the chanst I want. If I’m a success, you could come on too, Alec. Then we’d marry, and you could go along with me as my manager.”

I looked at her. I was hurt–hurt plumb t’ the quick, and a little mad, too. “I see myself!” I says. “Travel along with you’ poodle. Huh! And you wearin’ circus clothes like that Miss Marvellous Murray, and lettin’ some feller kiss you in the play. Macie,”–and I meant what I said–“you can just put the hull thing right to one side. I–won’t–have–it!”

She set her lips tight, and her face got a deep red.

“So this is the way you keep you’ word!” she says. “A minute ago, you said you wasn’t goin’ t’ try to run me no more. Wal,–you wasn’t in earnest. I can see that. ’Cause here’s the same thing over again.”

The door into the ole man’s bedroom opened then, and he come walkin’ out. “You two make a thunderin’ lot of noise,” he begun. “What in the dickens is the matter?”

Mace turned to him, face still a-blazin’. “Alec’s allus tryin’ t’ run me,” she answers, “and I’m gittin’ plumb tired of it.”

Sewell’s mouth come open. “Run you,” he says. “Wal, some while back he done all the runnin’ he’s ever a-goin’ t’ do in this house. And he don’t do no more of it. By what right is he a-interferin’ now?”

I got to my feet. “This right, boss:” I says, “I love Macie.”

He begun to kinda swell–gradual. And if a look could ’a’ kilt me, I’d ’a’ keeled over that second.

“You–love–Macie!” he says slow. “Wal , I’ll be darned if you haven’t got cheek!”

“Sorry you look at it that way, boss.”

“And so you got the idear into that peanut haid of yourn”–he was sarcastic now–“that you could marry my gal! Honest, I ain’t met a bigger idjit ’n you in ten years.”

“No man but Mace’s paw could say that t’ me safe.”

“Why,” he goes on, “you could just about be President of the United States as easy as you could be the husband of this gal. M’ son, I think I tole you on one occasion that you’d play Cupid just oncet too many.”

“That’s what you did.”

“This is it. And, also, I tole you that the smarty who can allus bring other folks t’gether never can hitch hisself.”

“You got a good mem’ry, Sewell.”

Mace broke in then–feard they’d be trouble, I reckon. “Please let’s cut this short,” she says. “The only thing I want Alec to remember is that I ain’t a-goin’ t’ be bossed by no man.”

Sewell patted her on the shoulder. “That’s my gal a-talkin’!” he says. “Bully fer you!”

“All right, Mace,” I says, “a-all right.” And I took up my Stetson.

The ole man dropped into a chair and begun t’ laugh. (Could laugh now, thinkin’ it was all up ’twixt Mace and me.) “Haw! haw! haw!” he started off, slappin’ one knee. “Mister Cupid cain’t do nothin’ fer hisself!” Then he laid back and just hollered, slingin’ out his laig with ev’ry cackle; and pawin’ the air fin’lly, he got so short-winded. “Aw, lawdy!” he yelled; “aw–I’ll bust. Mister Cupid! Whew!”

I got hot. “You found a he-he’s aig in a haw-haw’s nest,” I begun. “Wal, I’ll say back to you what you oncet said to me: Just wait.” Then I faced Macie. “All right, little gal,” I says to her, “I s’pose you know best. Pack you’ duds and go East–and sing on the stage in Noo York.”

The ole man ’d stopped laughin’ t’ listen. Now he sit up straight, a hand on each arm of the chair, knees spread, mouth wider open ’n ever, eyes plumb crossed. “Go East!” he repeats, “–sing!–stage!–Noo York!”

Mace showed her sand, all right. “Yas,” she answers; “you got it exac’ly right, paw–Noo York.”

He riz up, face as white as anythin’ so sunbaked can look. “Git that crazy idear outen you’ brain this minute!” he begun. “I won’t allow you t’ stir a step! The stage! Lawd a-mighty! Why, you ain’t got no voice fer the stage. You can only squawk.”

It was mighty pretty t’ see ’em–father and daughter–standin’ out agin each other. Alike in temper as two peas, y’ savvy. And I knowed somethin’ was shore goin’ to pop.

“Squawk!” repeats Mace. (That was the finishin’ touch.) “I’ll just show you! Some day when my voice’s made me famous, you’ll be sorry fer that. And you, too, Alec Lloyd, if you do think my voice is all taffy. I’ll show you both!”

“Wal,” Sewell come back, “you don’t use none of my money fer t’ make you’ show.” He was pretty nigh screechin’.

“Wait till I ast you fer it,” she says, pert haid up again. “Keep you’ money. I can earn my own. I ain’t scairt of work.”

And just like she was, in the little, white dress she used t’ meet me in–she up and walked out!

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––”

But I was outen the room and makin’ fer the bunk-house. When I got there, I begun t’ change my clothes.

Hairoil was inside. (He’d been a-listenin’ to the rumpus, likely.) “Don’t go off half-cocked,” he says to me.

“Cupid’s drunk,” says Monkey Mike. “Somebody’s hit him with a bar-towel.”

But I knowed what I was a-goin’ to do. Two wags of a dawg’s tail, and I was in the house again, facin’ the ole man. “Sewell,” I says, “I want my time.”

“Where you goin’, Cupid?” he ast, reachin’ into his britches-pocket.

I took my little forty dollars and run it into my buckskin sack. “I’m a-goin’ into Briggs,” I says, “t’ see if I can talk some sense into that gal’s haid.”

The ole man give a kinda sour laugh. “Mebbe you think you can bring her home on hossback again,” he says. “Wal, just remember, if she turns loose one of her tantrums, that you poured out this drench you’self. It’s like that there feller in Kansas.” And he give that laugh of hisn again. “Ever heerd about him?”

“No,” I says; “no, what about you’ Kansas feller?”

“Wal,”–the boss pulled out a plug of t’bacca,–“he bought a house and lot fer five hunderd dollars. The lot was guaranteed to raise anythin’, and the house was painted the prettiest kind of a green. Natu’lly, he thought he owned ’em. Wal, things went smooth till one night when he was away from home. Then a blamed cyclone come along. Shore enough, that lot of hisn could raise. It raised plumb into the air, house and all, and the hull business blowed into the neighbourin’ State!

“‘What goes up must come down,’ says the feller. And knowin’ which way that cyclone travelled, he started in the same direction, hotfoot. He goes and goes. Fin’lly he comes to a ranch where they was a new barn goin’ up. It was a pinto proposition. Part of it wasn’t painted, and some of it was green. He stopped to demand portions of his late residence.

“The man he spoke to quit drivin’ nails just long enough to answer. ‘When you Kansas folks git up one of them baby cyclones of yourn,’ he says, ‘fer Heaven’s sake have sand enough to accept the hand-out it gives y’.’”

“I savvy what you mean,” I says to the ole man, “but you fergit that in this case the moccasin don’t fit. Another man’s behind this, boss. The little gal has ketched singin’-bugs. And when she gits enough cash––”

“How can she git cash?”

“The eatin’-house is short of, help, Sewell. She can git a job easy–passin’ fancy Mulligan to the pilgrims that go through.”

Say! that knocked all the sarcastic laughin’ outen him. A’ awful anxious look come into his face. “Why–why, Cupid,” he begun. “You don’t reckon she’d go do that!”

Just then, Clickety–clickety–clickety–click a hoss was comin’ along the road. We both got to a winda. It was that bald-faced bronc of Macie’s again, haid down and tail out. But the bridle-reins was caught ’round the pommel t’ keep ’em from gittin’ under foot, and the little gal’s saddle–was empty!

CHAPTER SIX
WHAT A LUNGEE DONE

It was Macie Sewell singin’. Ole Number 201 ’d just pulled outen Briggs City, haided southwest with her freight of tenderfeet, and with Ingineer Dave Reynolds stickin’ in his spurs to make up lost time. The passengers ’d had twenty-five minutes fer a good grubbin’-up at the eatin’-house, and now the little gal was help-in’ the balance of the Harvey bunch to clear off the lunch-counter. Whilst she worked, she was chirpin’ away like she’d plumb bust her throat.

I was outside, settin’ on a truck with Up-State. He was watchin’ acrosst the rails, straight afore him, and listenin’, and I could see he was swallerin’ some, and his eyes looked kinda like he’d been ridin’ agin the wind. When I shifted my position, he turned the other way quick, and coughed–that pore little gone-in cough of hisn.

Wal, I felt pretty bad myself; and I seen somethin’ turrible was wrong with Up-State–I couldn’t just make out what. Pretty soon, I put my hand on his arm, and I says, “I don’t want t’ worm anythin’ outen you, ole man; I just want t’ say I’m you’ friend.”

“Cupid,” he whispers back, “it’s The Mohawk Vale.”

(He allus whispered, y’ savvy; couldn’t talk out loud no more, bein’ so turrible shy on lung.)

“Is that a bony fido place?” I ast, “’r just made up a-purpose fer the song?”

“It’s my country,” he whispers, slow and husky, and begun gazin’ acrosst to the mesquite again. “And, Cupid, it’s a beautiful country!”

“I reckon,” I says. “It’s likely got Oklahomaw skinned t’ death.”

Up-State, he didn’t answer that–too polite. Aw, he was a gent, too, same as the parson.

Minute ’r so, Macie struck up again–

Up-State lent over, elbows on his knees, face in his hands, and begun tremblin’–Why, y’ know, even a hoss ’ll git homesick. Now, I brung a flea-bitten mare from down on the lower Cimarron oncet, and blamed if that little son-of-a-gun didn’t hoof it all the way back, straighter ’n a string! Yas, ma’am. And so, a-course, it’s natu’al fer a man. Wal, I ketched on to how things was with Up-State, and I moseyed.

I was at the deepot pretty frequent them days–waitin’. Macie hadn’t talked to me none yet, and mebbe she wouldn’t. But I was on hand in case the notion ’d strike her.

Her hangin’ out agin me and her paw tickled them eatin’-house Mamies turrible. They thought her idear of earnin’ her own money, and then goin’ East to be a’ op’ra singer, was just grand.

But the rest of the town felt diff’rent. And behind my back all the women folks and the boys that knowed me was sayin’ it was a darned shame. They figgered that a gal gone loco on the stage proposition wouldn’t make no kind of a wife fer a cow-punch. “Would she camp down in Oklahomaw,” they says, “and cook three meals a day, and wash out blue shirts, when she’s set on gittin’ up afore a passel of highflyers and yelpin’ ‘Marguerite’? Nixey.”

Next thing, one day at Silverstein’s, here come the parson to me, lookin’ worried. “Cupid,” he says, “git on the good side of that gal as quick as ever you can–and marry her. The stage is a’ awful place fer a decent gal. Keep her offen it if you love her soul. And if I can help, just whistle.”

I said thank y’, but I was feard marryin’ was a long way off.

“But, Alec,” goes on the parson, “that Simpson has gone back t’ Noo York––”

“What?”

“Yas. He put all his doctor truck into his gasoline wagon last night and choo-chooed outen town. If he’s there, and she goes, wal,–I don’t like the looks of it.”

“I don’t neither, parson. He’s crooked as a cow-path, that feller. Have you tole her paw?”

“No, but I will,” says the parson.

I went over to the deepot again. Havin’ done a little thinkin’, I wasn’t so scairt about Simpson by now. ’Cause why? Wal, y’ see, I knowed

Mace didn’t have no money; ole Sewell wouldn’t give her none; and she wasn’t the kind of a gal t’ borra. So it was likely she’d be in Briggs fer quite a spell.

I found Up-State settin’ outside the eatin’-house. I sit down byside him. Allus, them days, whenever I come in sight of the station, he was a-hangin’ ’round, y’ savvy. He’d be on a truck, say, ’r mebbe on the edge of the platform. If it was all quiet inside at the lunch-counter, he’d be watchin’ the mesquite, and sorta swingin’ his shoes. But if Macie was singin’, he’d be all scrooched over with his face covered up–and pretty quiet.

When Macie sung, it was The Mohawk Vale ev’ry time. Now, that seemed funny, bein’ she was mad at me and that was my fav’rite song. Then, it didn’t seem so funny. One of the eatin’-house gals tole me, confidential, that Up-State had lots of little chins with Macie acrosst the lunch-counter, and that The Mohawk Vale was “by request.”

I didn’t keer. Let Up-State talk to her as much as he wanted to. He couldn’t make me jealous–not on you’ life! I wasn’t the finest lookin’ man in Oklahomaw, and I wasn’t on right good terms with Mace. But Up-State–wal, Up-State was pretty clost t’ crossin’ the Big Divide.

All this time not a word ’d passed ’twixt Macie and her paw. The ole man was too stiff-necked t’ give in and go to her. (He was figgerin’ that she’d git tired and come home.) And Macie, she wasn’t tired a blamed bit, and she was too stiff-necked t’ give in and go t’ Sewell.

Wal, when the boss heerd about Up-State and Mace, you never seen a man so sore. He said Up-State was aigin’ her on, and no white man ’d do that.

Y’ see, he had some reason fer not goin’ shucks on the singin’ and actin’ breed. We’d had two bunches of op’ra folks in Briggs at diff’rent times. One come down from Wichita, and was called “The Way to Ruin.” (Wal, it shore looked its name!) The other was “The Wild West Troupe” from Dallas. This last wasn’t West–it was from Noo York direct–but you can bet you’ boots it was wild all right. By thunder! you couldn’t ’a’ helt nary one of them young ladies with a hoss-hair rope!

But fer a week of Sundays, he didn’t say nothin’ to Up-State. He just boiled inside, kinda. Then one day–when he’d got enough steam up, I reckon,–why, he opened wide and let her go.

“Up-State,” he begun, “I’m sorry fer you, all right, but––”

Up-State looked at him. “Sewell,” he whispers, “I don’t want no man’s pity.”

“Listen to me,” says the boss. “Macie’s my little gal–the only child I got left now, and I warn you not to go talkin’ actress to her.”

“Don’t holler ’fore you git hit,” whispers Up-State, smilin’.

The boss got worse mad then. “Look a-here,” he says, “don’t give me none of that. You know you lie––”

Up-State shook his haid. “I’m not a man any more, Sewell,” he whispers. “I’m just what’s left of one. I didn’t used to let nobody hand out things that flat to me.”

I stuck in my lip. (One more time couldn’t hurt.) “Now, Sewell,” I says, “put on the brake.”

He got a holt on hisself then. “This ain’t no josh to me, Cupid,” he says. (He was tremblin’, pore ole cuss!) “What you think I heerd this mornin’? Mace ain’t makin’ enough money passin’ slumgullion to them passenger cattle all day, so she’s a-goin’ over to Silverstein’s ev’ry night after this to fix up his books. I wisht now I’d never sent her t’ business college.”

Just then–

Up-State lent over, his elbows on his knees, and his face in his hands.

The boss looked at me. I give a jerk of my haid to show him he’d best go. And he walked off, grindin’ his teeth.

It seemed to me I could hear Up-State whisperin’ into his fingers. I stooped over. “What is it, pardner?” I ast.

“It’s full of home,” he says, “–it’s full of home! Cupid! Cupid!” (Darned if I don’t wisht them lungers wouldn’t come down here, anyhow. They plumb give a feller the misery.)

Doc Trowbridge stopped by just then. “How you makin’ it t’-day, Up-State?” he ast.

Up-State got to his feet, slow though, and put a hand on Billy’s shoulder. “The next sandstorm, ole man,” he says; “the next sandstorm.”

“Up-State,” says Billy, “buck up. You got more lives’n a cat.”

“No show,” Up-State whispers back.

He was funny that-a-way. Now, most lungers fool theyselves. Allus “goin’ to git better,” y’ savvy. But Up-State–he knew.

“Come over to my tent t’-night,” he goes on to Billy. “I got somethin’ I want to talk to you about.”

“All right,” says Billy. “Two haids is better ’n one, if one is a sheep’s haid.”

After supper, I passed Silverstein’s two ’r three times, and about nine o’clock I seen Macie. She was ’way back towards the end of the store, a lamp and a book in front of her; and she was a-workin’ like a steam-thrasher.

Somehow it come over me all to oncet then that she’d meant ev’ry single word she said, and that, sooner ’r later–she was goin’. Goin’. And I’d be stayin’ behind. I looked ’round me. Say! Briggs City didn’t show up much. “Without her,” I says, (they was that red-hot-iron feelin’ inside of me again) “–without her, what is it?–the jumpin’-off place!”

Beyond me, a piece, was Up-State’s tent. A light was burnin’ inside it, too, and Doc Trowbridge was settin’ in the moonlight by the openin’. Behind him, I could see Up-State, writin’.

I trailed home to my bunk. But you can understand I didn’t sleep good. And ’way late, I had a dream. I dreamed the Bar Y herd broke fence and stampeded through Briggs, and after ’em come about a hunderd bull-whackers, all a-layin’ it on to them steers with the flick of they lashes -zip, zip, zip, zip.

Next mornin, I woke quick–with a jump, y’ might say. I looked at my nickel turnip. It was five-thirty. I got up. The sun was shinin’, the air was nice and clear and quiet and the larks was just singin’ away. But outside, along the winda-sill, was stretched a’ inch-wide trickle of sand!

In no time I was hoofin’ it down the street. When I got to Up-State’s tent, Billy Trowbridge was inside it, movin’ ’round, puttin’ stuff into a trunk, and–wipin’ the sand outen his eyes.

“He was right?” I says, when I goes in, steppin’ soft, and whisperin’–like Up-State ’d allus whispered. Billy turned to me and kinda smiled, fer all he felt so all-fired bad. “Yas, Cupid,” he says, “he was right. One more storm.”

Just then, from the station–

Billy walked over to the bed and looked down. “Up-State, ole man,” he says, “you’re a-goin’ back to the Mohawk.”

Up-State left two letters behind him–one fer me and one fer Billy. The doc didn’t show hisn; said it wouldn’t be just profeshnal–yet. But mine he ast me to read to the boss.

“Dear Cupid,” it run, “ast Mister Sewell not to come down too hard on me account of what I’m goin’ to do fer Macie. The little gal says she wants a singin’ chanst more’n anythin’ else. Wal, I’m goin’ to give it to her. You’ll find a’ even five hunderd in green-backs over in Silverstein’s safe. It’s hern. Tell her I want she should use it to go to Noo York on and buck the op’ra game.”

Wal, y’ see, the ole man ’d been right all along–Up-State was sidin’ with Mace. Somehow though, I couldn’t feel hard agin him fer it. I knowed that she’d go–help ’r no help.

But Sewell, he didn’t think like me, and I never seen a man take on the way he done. Crazy mad, he was, swore blue blazes, and said things that didn’t sound so nice when a feller remembered that Up-State was face up and flat on his back fer keeps–and goin’ home in the baggage-car.

I tell you, the boys was nice to me that day. “The little gal won’t fergit y’, Cupid,” they says, and “Never you mind, Cupid, it’ll all come out in the wash.”

I thanked ’em, a-course. But with Macie fixed to go (far’s money went), and without makin’ friends with me, neither, what under the shinin’ sun could chirk me up? Wal, nothin’ could.

CHAPTER SEVEN
THE BOYS PUT THEY FOOT IN IT

“Wal, Hairoil,” I says, “I shore am a’ unlucky geezer! Why, d’ you know, I don’t hardly dast go from one room to another these days fer fear I’ll git my lip pinched in the door.”

Hairoil, he clawed thoughtful. “You and the boss had a talk oncet on the marryin’ question,” he begun. “It was out at the Bar Y.” (We was settin’ on a truck at the deepot again, same as that other time.) “A-course, I don’t want t’ throw nothin’ up, but–you tole him then that when it come you’ own time, you wouldn’t have no trouble. Recollect braggin’ that-a-way?”

“Yas,” I answers, meeker’n Moses. “But Hairoil, that was ’fore I met Macie.”

“So it was,” he says. Then, after a minute, “I s’pose nothin’ could keep her in Briggs much longer.”

I shook my haid. “The ole man won’t let her fetch a dud offen the ranch, and so she’s havin’ a couple of dresses made. I figger that when they git done, she’ll–she’ll go.”

“How long from now?”

“About two weeks–accordin’ to what Mollie Brown tole me.”

“Um,” says Hairoil, and went on chawin’ his cud. Fin’lly, he begun again, and kinda like he was feelin’ ’round. “Don’t you think Mace Sewell is took up with the romance part of this singin’ proposition?” he ast. “That’s my idear. And I think that if she was showed that her and you was also a romance, why, she’d give up goin’ to Noo York. Now, it might be possible to–to git her t’ see things right–if they was a little scheme, say.”

I got up. “No, Hairoil,” I says, “no little scheme is a-goin’ t’ be played on Macie. A-course, I done it fer Rose and Billy; but Macie,–wal, Macie is diff’rent. I want t’ win her in the open. And I’ll be jiggered if I stand fer any underhand work.”

“It needn’t t’ be what you’d call underhand,” answers Hairoil.

“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––”

“Walker! That critter up fer sheriff?”

“Yas. And, a-course, Hank’s been behind Bergin t’ git him re’lected fer the ’leventh time.”

“I know, and Bergin’s got t’ win. Why, Bergin’s the only fit man.”

“Wal, now, if our paper cain’t git in and crow the loudest, and tell how many kinds of a swine the other feller is, how’s Bergin goin’ t’ win?”

“I don’t know.”

“Neither do I. (You see how ticklish things is?) Wal, here’s Hank in no shape to make any kind of a newspaper fight, but just achin’ t’ use his gun on anybody that comes nigh him. Why, I never seen such a change in a man in all my born life!”

I was surprised some more. I didn’t know Hank packed a gun. He was a darned nice cuss, and ev’rybody shore liked him, and he’d never been laid up fer repairs account of somethin’ he’d put in his paper. He was square, smart’s a steel-trap, and white clean through. Had a handshake that was hung on a hair-trigger, and a smile so winnin’ that he could coax the little prairie-dawgs right outen they holes.

Hairoil goes on. “I can see Briggs City eatin’ the shucks when it comes ’lection-day,” he says, “and that Goldstone man cabbagin’ the sheriff’s office. Buckshot Milliken tole me this mornin’ that the Tarantula called Bergin ‘a slouch’ last week; ‘so low-down he'd eat sheep,’ too, and ‘such a blamed pore shot he couldn’t hit the side of a barn.’”

“That’s goin’ too far.”

“So I say. I wanted Bergin t’ go over to Goldstone and give ’em a sample of his gun-play that’d interfere with the printin’ of they one-hoss sheet. But Bergin said it was no use–the Tarantula editor is wearin’ a sheet-iron thing-um-a-jig acrosst his back and his front, and has to use a screw-driver t’ take off his clothes.”

“The idear of Hank actin’ like a idjit when the ’lection depends on him!” I says. “Wal, things is outen kilter.”

“Sh-sh-sh!” says Hairoil, lookin’ round quick. “Be awful keerful what you say about Hank. We don’t want no shootin’-scrape here.”

But I didn’t give a continental who heerd me. I was sore t’ think a reg’lar jay-hawk ’d been put up agin our man! Say, that Walker didn’t know beans when the bag was open. His name shore fit him, ’cause he couldn’t ride a hoss fer cold potatoes. And he was the kind that gals think is a looker, and allus stood ace-high at a dance. Lately, he’d been more pop’lar than ever. When we had that little set-to with Spain, Walker hiked out to the Coast; and didn’t show up again till after the California boys come home from Manila. Then, he hit town, wearin’ a’ army hat, and chuck full of all kinds of stories about the Philippines, and how he’d been in turrible fights. That got the girls travelin’ after him two-forty. Why, at Goldstone, they was all a-goin’ with him, seems like.

I didn’t want him fer sheriff, you bet you’ boots. He wasn’t no friend to us Briggs City boys any more ’n we was to him. And then, none of us believed that soldier hand-out. Y’ know, we had a little bunch of fellers from this section that went down t’ Cuba with Colonel Roos’velt and chased the Spanish some. Wal, y’ never heerd them crowin’ ’round about what they done. And this Walker, he blowed too much t’ be genuwine.

“If he’s ’lected sheriff, it’s goin’ t’ be risky business gittin’ in to a’ argyment with anybody,” I says. “He’d just like t’ git one of us jugged. Say, what’s goin’ to be did fer Hank?”

“Wal,” answers Hairoil, mouth screwed up anxious, “we’re in a right serious fix. So they’s to be a sorta convention this afternoon, and we’re a-goin’ t’ cut out whisky whilst the session lasts.”

“I’ll come. Walker fer sheriff! Huh!”

“Good fer you! So long.”

“So long.”

We made fer the council-tent at three o’clock–the bunch of us. The deepot waitin’-room was choosed, that bein’, as the boys put it, “the most respectable public place in town that wouldn’t want rent.” Wal, we worked our jaws a lot, goin’ over the sittywaytion from start to finish. “Gents let’s hear what you-all got to say,” begun Chub Flannagan, standin’ up. Doc Trowbridge was next. “I advise you to rope Shackleton,” he says, “and lemme give him some hoss liniment t’ put him on his laigs.” (We was agreed that the hull business depended on the Eye-Opener.) But the rest of us didn’t favour Billy’s plan. So we ended by pickin’ a ’lection committee. No dues, no by-laws, no chairman. But ev’ry blamed one of us a sergeant-at-arms with orders t’ keep Hank Shackleton outen the saloons. ’Cause why? If he could buck up, and stay straight, and go t’ gittin’ out the Eye-Opener, Bergin ’d shore win out.

“Gents,” says Monkey Mike, “soon as ever Briggs hears of our committee, we’re a-goin’ t’ git pop’lar with the nice people, ’cause we’re tryin’ t’ help Hank. And we’re also goin’ t’ git a black eye with the licker men account of shuttin’ off the Shackleton trade. A-course, us punchers must try t’ make it up t’ the thirst-parlours fer the loss, though I admit it ’ll not be a’ easy proposition. But things is desp’rate. If Walker gits in, we’ll have a nasty deputy-sheriff sent up here t’ cross us ev’ry time we make a move. We got t’ work, gents. You know how I feel. By thunder! Bergin treated me square all right over that Andrews fuss.” (Y’ see, Mike’s a grateful little devil, if he does ride like a fool Englishman.)

“Wal,” says Buckshot Milliken, “who’ll be the first sergeant? I call fer a volunteer.”

All the fellers just kept quiet–but they looked at each other, worried like.

“Don’t all speak to oncet,” says Buckshot.

I got up. “I’m willin’ t’ try my hand,” I says.

“Thank y’, Cupid.” It was Buckshot, earnest as the dickens. “But–but we hope you’re goin’ to go slow with Hank. Don’t do nothin’ foolish.”

“What in thunder ’s got into you fellers?” I ast, lookin’ at ’em. “Is Hank got the hydrophoby?”

“You ain’t saw him since he begun t’ drink, I reckon,” says Chub.

“No.”

“Wal, then.”