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diff --git a/33884-h/33884-h.htm b/33884-h/33884-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c4f502b --- /dev/null +++ b/33884-h/33884-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,10208 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" > +<head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta name="generator" content="eppg.py 0.82 (02-Oct-2010)" /> + <title>Alec Lloyd, Cowpuncher</title> + <style type="text/css"> + body {margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%;} + p {margin-top:1ex; margin-bottom:0; text-align:justify;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size:x-small; text-align:right; text-indent:0; + position:absolute; right:2%; padding:1px 3px; font-style:normal; + font-variant:normal; font-weight:normal; text-decoration:none; + background-color:inherit; border:1px solid #eee;} + .pncolor {color:silver;} + h2 {text-align:center; font-weight:normal;font-size:1.4em; margin-top:4ex; margin-bottom:2ex;} + hr.pb {margin:30px 0; width:100%; border:none; border-top:thin dashed silver; clear:both;} + .sc {font-variant: small-caps;} + div.figcenter {text-align:center; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em;} + p.center {text-align:center; text-indent:0em;} + p.caption {font-size:smaller;} + hr.tp {border:none;border-bottom:1px solid black; width:120px; margin-top:20px; margin-bottom:20px;} + .fsl {font-size:larger;} + div.titlepage {} + div.titlepage p {text-align:center;} + .fs22 {font-size:2.2em;} + .fs10 {font-size:1.0em;} + .mb00 {margin-bottom:00px;} + .fs14 {font-size:1.4em;} + .mt00 {margin-top:00px;} + .mb20 {margin-bottom:20px;} + .fs08 {font-size:0.8em;} + .mb30 {margin-bottom:30px;} + .mt30 {margin-top:30px;} + .c {text-align:center;} + a {text-decoration:none;} + div.toc {} + div.toc a {text-decoration:underline;} + table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto; clear:both;} + td.tcol1 {text-align:right; padding-right:1ex; vertical-align:top;} + td.tcol2 {text-align:left; padding-right:2ex; font-variant:small-caps; vertical-align:top;} + td.tcol3 {text-align:right; vertical-align:bottom;} + td.center {text-align:center;} + td.fs12 {font-size:1.2em;} + td.fs08 {font-size:0.8em;} + td.tar {text-align:right;} + span.h2fs {font-size:smaller;} + table.poetry {text-indent:0em; margin-bottom:.7em; margin-top:.7em; text-align:center; margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + table.poetry p {margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;} + p.i {font-style:italic} + div.bquote {font-size:1.0em; margin:5px 5%;} + div.bquote p {text-indent:0em; margin-bottom:4px; margin-top:4px;} + hr.tb {border:none; border-bottom:1px solid black; margin-top:10px; margin-bottom:10px; text-align:center; width:40%;} + div.center {text-indent:0em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom:.7em; margin-top:.7em; text-align: center;} + div.center p {text-align: center; margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;} + div.poetry {text-indent:0em; margin-left:2em; margin-bottom:.7em; margin-top:.7em;} + div.poetry p {margin-top:0; margin-bottom:0;} + .mt20 {margin-top:20px;} + </style> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Alec Lloyd, Cowpuncher, by Eleanor Gates + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Alec Lloyd, Cowpuncher + +Author: Eleanor Gates + +Illustrator: Allen True + +Release Date: October 26, 2010 [EBook #33884] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALEC LLOYD, COWPUNCHER *** + + + + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.fadedpage.net + + + + + + +</pre> + +<div class='figcenter'> +<img src='images/illus-cvr.jpg' alt='cover' /> +</div> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<div class='figcenter'> +<a id='link_i1'></a><img src='images/illus-fpc.jpg' alt='' /> +<p class='center caption'> +“<i>And you can chalk down forty votes fer Miss Macie Sewell</i>” (See p. 64) +</p> +</div> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<div class='titlepage'> +<p class='fs22'>ALEC LLOYD<br />COWPUNCHER</p> + +<hr class='tp' /> + +<p class='fs10 mb00'><i>Originally published under the title of</i></p> +<p class='fs14 mt00'>CUPID: THE COWPUNCH</p> + +<hr class='tp' /> + +<p class='mb20'>BY<br /><span class='fsl'>ELEANOR GATES</span></p> + +<p class='fs08 mb30'>AUTHOR OF<br />THE POOR LITTLE RICH GIRL,<br />THE PLOW WOMAN, <span class='sc'>Etc.</span></p> + +<p class='mb30'>ILLUSTRATIONS BY<br /><span class='fsl'>ALLEN TRUE</span></p> + +<div class='figcenter'> +<img src='images/illus-tpg.jpg' alt='emblem' /> +</div> + +<p class='mt30'>NEW YORK<br /><span class='fsl'>GROSSET & DUNLAP</span><br />PUBLISHERS</p> +</div> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<p class='fs08 c'><i>Copyright, 1907, by The McClure Company</i><br /> +Published, November, 1907</p> +<p class='fs08 c'>Copyright, 1905, 1906, 1907 by The Curtis Publishing Company<br /> +Copyright, 1906, 1907, by International Magazine Company</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> + +<div class='toc'> +<table summary='TOC'> +<tr><td colspan='3' class='center fs12'>CONTENTS</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan='3' class='center fs12'></td></tr> +<tr><td class='fs08'>CHAPTER</td><td colspan='2' class='tar fs08'>PAGE</td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>I.</td><td class='tcol2'>Rose Andrews’s Hand and Doctor Bugs’s Gasoline Bronc</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_1'>3</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>II.</td><td class='tcol2'>A Thirst-Parlour Mix-Up Gives Me a New Deal</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_2'>31</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>III.</td><td class='tcol2'>The Prettiest Gal and the Homeliest Man</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_3'>52</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>IV.</td><td class='tcol2'>Concernin’ the Sheriff and Another Little Widda</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_4'>85</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>V.</td><td class='tcol2'>Things Git Started Wrong</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_5'>132</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>VI.</td><td class='tcol2'>What a Lunger Done</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_6'>157</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>VII.</td><td class='tcol2'>The Boys Put They Foot in It</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_7'>169</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>VIII.</td><td class='tcol2'>Another Scheme, and How It Panned Out</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_8'>195</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>IX.</td><td class='tcol2'>A Round-Up in Central Park</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_9'>234</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>X.</td><td class='tcol2'>Macie and the Op’ra Game</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_10'>260</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XI.</td><td class='tcol2'>A Boom That Busted</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_11'>276</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class='tcol1'>XII.</td><td class='tcol2'>And a Boom at Briggs</td><td class='tcol3'><a href='#link_12'>300</a></td></tr> +</table> +</div> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_3'></a>3</span><a id='link_1'></a>CHAPTER ONE<br /><span class='h2fs'>ROSE ANDREWS’S HAND AND DOCTOR BUGS’S GASOLINE BRONC</span></h2> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p class='i'>“Sweet is the vale where the Mohawk gently glides</p> +<p class='i'>On its fair, windin’ way to the sea;</p> +<p class='i'>And dearer by f-a-a-ar<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>“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 <i>around!</i>”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_4'></a>4</span> +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 <i>di</i>rection 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.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>The par<i>ti</i>cular 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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_5'></a>5</span> +hummed that was <i>mighty</i> important, why, I +didn’t want t’ mosey, no, ma’am.</p> + +<p>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. <i>Some</i>body’s got t’ help +out when it’s a case of two lovin’ souls that’s +bein’ kept apart.</p> + +<p>“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 <i>you.</i>”</p> + +<p>Hairoil, he stood up–quick, so that I come +nigh fallin’ offen my end of the truck. “But +you are fer some <i>other</i> pore cuss,” he says. +“You as good as owned up.”</p> + +<p>“Yas,” I answers, “I are. But the gent in +question wouldn’t want you should worry about +<i>him</i>. All that’s a-keepin’ <i>him</i> anxious is that +mebbe he won’t git his gal.”</p> + +<p>“Alec,” Hairoil goes on,–turrible solemn, he +was–“I have <i>de</i>cided that this town has had +just about it’s fill of this Cupid business of +yourn–and I’m a-goin’ t’ stop it.”</p> + +<p>I snickered. “Y’ are?” I ast. “Wal, how?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_6'></a>6</span>“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.”</p> + +<p>“That good news,” I says. “Who’s the for-tu<i>nate</i> +gal you’ve picked fer me?”</p> + +<p>“Never you mind,” answers Hairoil. “She’s +a new gal, and she’ll be along next week.”</p> + +<p>“Is she pretty?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Wal, a-course, I thought he was foolin’. (And +mebbe he was–<i>then</i>.) 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 +<i>that</i>.</p> + +<p>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 <i>me,</i> y’ savvy. And if +only I’d ’a’ knowed what a turrible bust-up he’d +fin’lly be <i>re</i>sponsible fer ’twixt me and the same +grey-eyed, sassy-winkered gal! If I had, it’s a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_7'></a>7</span> +cinch I’d ’a’ sit on him <i>hard</i>–right then and +there.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Yas.”</p> + +<p>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 <i>pore</i> friend!” he +says.</p> + +<p>“Wal, what’s eatin’ you now?” I ast.</p> + +<p>“Nothin’–only that pretty gal I tole you +about, she’s<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>Then he stopped short.</p> + +<p>“She’s what?”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_8'></a>8</span> +man Sewell!” And, shakin’ his haid, he turned +the corner of the deepot.</p> + +<p>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? <i>Nixey!</i></p> + +<p>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 <i>that</i> +time. Andrews was as low-down and sneakin’ as +a coy<i>o</i>te, 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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_9'></a>9</span> +all knowed <i>that,</i> 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.</p> + +<p>I said pill just now. Funny how I just fall +into the habit of usin’ doctor words when I come +to talk of this par<i>tic</i>ular 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 <i>did</i> 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 certifi<i>cate,</i> O. K., and when it +comes t’ curin’, he can give cards and spades to +<i>any</i> of you’ highfalutin’ college gezabas, and +<i>then</i> beat ’em out by a mile. That’s <i>straight!</i></p> + +<p>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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_10'></a>10</span> +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-<i>tic</i>ular +about his hands; but a <i>pro</i>feshnal gent’s +<i>got</i> to be. And with a nice gal like Rose, it shore +do stack up.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>little</i> 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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_11'></a>11</span> +all stuffed with goose feathers and covered with +leather–reg’lar Standard Sleeper.</p> + +<p>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 <i>hull</i> 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.</p> + +<p>I was plumb crazy about it. “Billy,” I says +one day, when I met him a-comin’ from ’Pache +Sam’s hogan on his bi<i>cy</i>cle; “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!”</p> + +<p>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. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_12'></a>12</span> +“Aw, never mind, Cupid,” he says; “–just keep +on you’ shirt.”</p> + +<p>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 <i>new</i> deal: He +got to discoverin’ bugs!</p> + +<p>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. (<i>Too</i> bad!) +Why, it was astonishin’ how many kinds of newfangled +critters we’d never heard of was a-livin’ +in this Terrytory!</p> + +<p>But all his bugs didn’t split no shakes with +<i>Rose</i>. She was <i>po</i>lite 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’ <i>did</i> 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!</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_13'></a>13</span>I was out at the Bar Y that same day, and +when the news got over to the bunk-house, we +was all turrible <i>ex</i>cited. “Which’ll the ole man +send after,” we says, “–Simpson ’r Billy?”</p> + +<p>It was that bug-doctor!</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>“Aw, maw!” says Monkey Mike; “he’s too +rich fer <i>my</i> blood!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Hired man! I took a jump his <i>di</i>rection that +come nigh to splittin’ my boots. “Back up, m’ +son,” I says, reachin’ to my britches pocket. “<i>I</i> +ain’t no hired man.”</p> + +<p>Sewell, he puts in quick. “No, no, Doc,” he +says; “this man’s one of the Diamond O cow-boys. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_14'></a>14</span> +Fer heaven’s sake, Cupid! You’re gittin’ +to be as touchy as a cook!”</p> + +<p>Simpson, he apologised, and I let her pass f er +<i>that</i> time. But, a-course, far’s him and <i>me</i> was +<i>con</i>cerned–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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>pro</i>-duced +a bi<i>cy</i>cle pump, stuck it agin her chest, +and put his ear to the other end. “Lungs all +right,” he says; “heart all right. Must be<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>” +Course, <i>you</i> know–bugs!</p> + +<p>“But–but, couldn’t it be teeth?” ast Rose.</p> + +<p>Simpson grinned like she was a’ idjit, and he +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_15'></a>15</span> +was sorry as the dickens fer her. “Aw, a baby +ain’t <i>all</i> teeth,” he says.</p> + +<p>Wal, he left some truck ’r other. Then he +goes out, gits into his Pullman section, blows his +punkin whistle and <i>de</i>parts.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>Day after, changes the pro<i>gram</i>. Sticks a +needle into the kid and gits first blood. Says +somethin’ about “Modern scientific idears,” and +tracks back t’ town.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Rose didn’t say nothin’. She just turned and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_16'></a>16</span> +lent over the kid. Gee whiz! I hate t’ see a +woman cry!</p> + +<p>’Way early, next day, the kid had a <i>con</i>vul-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.</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“Trowbridge?” he says disgusted. “<i>No,</i> +ma’am! Simpson’ll be here in a jiffy!”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_17'></a>17</span>The ole man begun t’ chaw and spit like a +bob-cat. “I ain’t astin’ Bill’s <i>ad</i>vice,” 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 <i>no</i>-ways!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span></p> + +<p>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 <i>such</i> a look as she was +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_18'></a>18</span> +a-givin’ me!–like she knowed what I was a-worryin’ +about and was surprised I was so blamed +thick.</p> + +<p>I jumped up and run over to her. “Maud,” +I says, “you got more savvy ’n any horse I know, +bar <i>none</i>. <i>Danged if we don’t do it!</i>”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He slowed up and blowed his whistle.</p> + +<p>I hoed her down harder’n ever.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_19'></a>19</span>“You’re a-skeerin’ my hoss,” I yells back.</p> + +<p>“Pull t’ one side,” he answers. “I want to +git by.”</p> + +<p>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>I</i> got! +Fin’lly, just as Mister Doc was managin’ to +pass, I got <i>turrible</i> mad, and, cussin’ blue blazes, +I took out my forty-five and let her fly.</p> + +<p>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 <i>di</i>rection–snortin’ like she was wind-broke. +He hawed her back. Then he went +a-kitin’ on, leavin’ me a-eatin’ his dust.</p> + +<p>But I wasn’t <i>done</i> with him, no, ma’am.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_20'></a>20</span> +the other fence, and landed about a hunderd feet +in front of him.</p> + +<p>When he seen me through his goggles, he +come on full-steam. I set Maud a-runnin’ the +same <i>di</i>rection–and took up my little rope.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Say! talk about you’ <i>flyin’</i>-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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<div class='figcenter'> +<a id='link_i2'></a><img src='images/illus-020.jpg' alt='' /> +<p class='center caption'> +“<i>He lay the kid lookin’ up and put his finger into her mouth</i>” +</p> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_21'></a>21</span>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!</p> + +<p>I give him a nod. “Wal, Young-Man-That-Flies-Like-A-Bird?” +I says, inquirin’.</p> + +<p>He began to paw up the road like a mad bull. +“I’ll make you pay fer this!” he bellered.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“How <i>dast</i> you do such a’ in<i>fame</i>ous thing!” +he goes on.</p> + +<p>“You gasoline gents got t’ have a lesson,” I +answers; “you let the stuff go t’ you’ haids. +Why, a <i>hired man</i> ain’t got a chanst fer his life +when you happen t’ be travellin’.”</p> + +<p>He begun t’ wiggle his arms. “You lemme +go,” he says.</p> + +<p>“Go where?” I ast.</p> + +<p>“T’ my machine.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“She’s ruined!” he says, like he was goin’ to +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_22'></a>22</span> +bawl. “And I meant t’ go down to Goldstone +t’night.”</p> + +<p>“That duck-wing lady’ll have t’ wait fer the +train,” I says. “But never mind. I’ll tell Rose +Andrews you got the <i>en</i>gagement.” Then Maud +slacked the rope and I rode up t’ him, so’s to let +him loose. “So long,” I says.</p> + +<p>“I ain’t done with you!” he answers, gittin’ +purple; “I ain’t done with you!”</p> + +<p>“Wal, you know where I live,” I says, and +loped off, hummin’ the tune the ole cow died on.</p> + +<p>When I rid up to the Bar Y ranch-house, +here was Billy, gittin’ offen that little bi<i>cy</i>cle +of hisn.</p> + +<p>“Cupid,” he says, and he was whiter’n chalk-rock, +“is the baby worse? And Rose<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>I pulled him up on to the porch. “Now’s +you’ chanst, Billy,” I answers. “<i>Do you’ darnedest!</i>”</p> + +<p>Rose opened the door, and her face was as +white as hisn. “Aw, Billy!” was all she says.</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>It was me that spoke. “Doc Simpson’s had +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_23'></a>23</span> +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.”</p> + +<p>“Bill!” says the ole man, disgusted. “<i>Thun-deration!</i>”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“That’s right,” he says to Rose; “that’s right,–let him massacree her!”</p> + +<p>Rose didn’t take no notice. “Aw, Billy!” she +kept sayin’, and “Aw, baby!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“See here,” he says to me.</p> + +<p>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-<i>zip,</i> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_24'></a>24</span> +zip-<i>zip,</i> zip-<i>zip,</i> zip-<i>zip</i>. And, jumpin’ buffaloes! +<i>out pops four of the prettiest teeth a man +ever seen!</i></p> + +<p>Bugs?–rats!</p> + +<p>“Now, a little Bella Donnie,” says Bill, “and +the baby’ll be O. K.”</p> + +<p>“O. K.!” says Rose. “Aw, Billy!” And <i>such</i> +a kissin’!–the baby, a-<i>course</i>.</p> + +<p>Ole man Sewell stopped swearin’ a minute. +“What’s the matter?” he ast.</p> + +<p>“Teeth,” says Billy.</p> + +<p>Think of that! Why, the trouble was so clost +to Simpson that if it’d been a rattler, it’d ’a’ bit +him!</p> + +<p>“<i>Teeth!</i>” says the ole man, like he didn’t believe +it.</p> + +<p>“Come look,” says Billy.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“<i>Look</i> at ’em!” he yelped. “Rose! Rose!–<i>look</i> +at ’em! Four all to oncet!” And he give +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_25'></a>25</span> +the doc such a wallop on the back that it come +nigh to knockin’ him down.</p> + +<p>“I know,” I says sarcastic, “but, shucks! a +baby ain’t <i>all</i> teeth. This is a mighty puzzlin’ +case, and Simpson<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“Close you’ fly-trap,” says the ole man, “and +look at them teeth! Four of a kind–can y’ +beat it?”</p> + +<p>“Wa-a-al,” I says, sniffin’, “they’s so, so, I +reckon, but any kid<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“<i>Any</i> kid!” yells the ole man, plumb aggervated. +And he was just turnin’ round to give +<i>me</i> one when–in limps Simpson!</p> + +<p>“Mister Sewell,” he says, “I come to make a +complaint”–he shook his fist at me–“agin this +here ruffian. He<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“Wow!” roars Sewell. “Don’t you trouble +to make no complaints in <i>this</i> 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!”</p> + +<p>That plumb rattled Simpson. He was gittin’ +a <i>re</i>ception he didn’t reckon on. But he tried t’ +keep up his game.</p> + +<p>“This cow-boy here is <i>re</i>sponsible fer damages +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_26'></a>26</span> +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 <i>you.</i>”</p> + +<p>“Sue?” says Sewell; “<i>sue?</i> You go guess +again! You send in you’ bill, that’s what <i>you</i> 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. <i>Git.</i>”</p> + +<p>And with that, out goes Mister Bugs.</p> + +<p>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 <i>you’</i> bill, too.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Here, Mister Sewell,” he says.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_27'></a>27</span>“<i>Mister Zach Sewell, debtor to W. A. Trowbridge, +fer medical services–the hand of one +Rose Andrews in marriage.</i>”</p> +</div> <!-- block quote --> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>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 <i>that</i>.</p> + +<p>“<i>Rose!</i>” says Billy, holdin’ out his two arms +to her.</p> + +<p>I took a squint through the winda at the +scenery–and heerd a sound like a cow pullin’ +its foot outen the mud.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_28'></a>28</span>“Rose,” goes on Billy, “I’ll be as good as I +know how to you.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Seems Mister Cupid Lloyd is a-runnin’ +things ’round this here ranch-house,” he begun +slow, like he was holdin’ in his mad.</p> + +<p>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.)</p> + +<p>“So Cupid’s gone and done it again!” he +goes on. “How accommodatin’! Haw!” And +he give one of them short, sarcastic laughs.</p> + +<p>“Wal, just let me tell you,” he <i>con</i>tinues, +steppin’ closter, “that I, fer one, ain’t got <i>no</i> +use fer a feller that’s allus a-stickin’ in his lip.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_29'></a>29</span>“Sewell,” I says, “no feller <i>likes</i> to–that’s a +cinch. But oncet in a while it’s plumb needful.”</p> + +<p>“It is, is it? And I s’pose <i>this</i> is one of them +cases. Wal, Mister Cupid, all I can say is this: +The feller that sticks in his lip <i>allus gits into +trouble.</i>”</p> + +<p>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 <i>shiver,</i> yas, ma’am. <i>The fetter that +sticks in his lip allus gits into trouble</i>–nothin’ +was ever said truer’n that!</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>I’d been keepin’ still ’cause I didn’t want they +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_30'></a>30</span> +should be no hard feelin’s ’twixt us. But that +last <i>re</i>mark of hisn kinda got my dander up.</p> + +<p>“Aw, I don’t know,” I answers; “when it +comes my own time, I don’t figger t’ have much +trouble.”</p> + +<p>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, <i>you just wait.</i>” And out he goes.</p> + +<p>“Cupid,” says Billy, “I’m <i>turrible</i> sorry. +Seems, somehow, that you’ve got Sewell down on +y’ account of me<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“That’s all right, Doc,” I answers; “<i>I</i> don’t +keer. It mocks nix oudt, as Dutchy ’d say.” +And I shook hands with him and Rose, and kissed +the baby.</p> + +<p>It mocks nix oudt–that’s what I said. Wal, +how was I t’ know then, that I’d made a’ enemy +of the <i>one</i> man that, later on, I’d be willin’ t’ give +my <i>life</i> t’ please, almost?–<i>how</i> was I t’ know?</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_31'></a>31</span><a id='link_2'></a>CHAPTER TWO<br /><span class='h2fs'>A THIRST-PARLOUR MIX-UP GIVES ME A NEW DEAL</span></h2> + +<p><span class='sc'>Ain’t</span> it funny what little bits of things can +sorta change a feller’s life all ’round ev’ry which +<i>di</i>rection–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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_32'></a>32</span> +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 par<i>tic</i>ular section of Oklahomaw.</p> + +<p>As I said, Bud was <i>re</i>sponsible 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_33'></a>33</span>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 <i>him</i>–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 <i>they</i> could kick at, +<i>no,</i> 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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“Heerd we was goin’ to have a polo team,” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_34'></a>34</span> +answers Hairoil. “Reckon he’s kinda loco on +polo. Anyhow, he’s took my shack.”</p> + +<p>“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 <i>savvy</i>. 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.”</p> + +<p>Ole Dutch lay back his ears. “Better he +do’n make no trubbles mit me,” he says.</p> + +<p>Say! that was like tellin’ you’ fortune. The +next day but one, right in front of the “Station,” +trouble popped. This is how:</p> + +<p>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 par<i>tic</i>ular 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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_35'></a>35</span> +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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Sir,” says the parson to Dutchy, when he +seen the damage, “call off you’ beast.”</p> + +<p>Dutchy, he just grinned. “Ock,” he says, +“it mocks nix oudt if dey do sometinks. Here de +street iss not brivate broperty.”</p> + +<p>At that, the parson clumb down and drug his +dawg loose. Then he looked up at the thirst-parlour. +“What a name fer a <i>saloon,</i>” he says, +“in a civilised country!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_36'></a>36</span>Dutch done a jig he was so mad. “Fer +<i>dat?</i>” 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. <i>Ya</i>. Unt +de minister iss just so bat as dat.”</p> + +<p>Then, to show how he liked <i>us</i>, Dutchy set up +the red-eye. And the <i>next</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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. <i>Say!</i> 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 <i>meanest, low</i>-down +buckin’ proposition that ever wore the hide of a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_37'></a>37</span> +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!</p> + +<p>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 +<i>mention</i> everlastin’ fire. And he didn’t ramp +and pitch and claw his hair. Fact is, he didn’t +hell-toot!</p> + +<p>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 <i>said</i>.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_38'></a>38</span> +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, <i>nixey</i>.</p> + +<p>But that hand-out didn’t give the parson no +black eye with <i>us</i>. <i>We</i> 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 <i>re</i>quired. It was +a cinch that he’d draw like wet rawhide.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But pretty soon he got plumb tired of just +dawg-fightin’. He <i>pre</i>pared to turn hisself +loose. And he advertised a free supper fer the +very next Sunday night. When Sunday night +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_39'></a>39</span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The parson was plumb tickled.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_40'></a>40</span>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.</p> + +<p>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>I</i> ain’t +no judge of beef.”</p> + +<p>Sunday night, you know, a-course, where the +<i>boys</i> 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!</p> + +<p>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. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_41'></a>41</span> +Wal, <i>I</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.</p> + +<p>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’<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span></p> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p class='i'>“Yield not to tempta-a-ation,</p> +<p class='i'> ’Cause yieldin’ is sin.</p> +<p class='i'> Each vic’try<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>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.</p> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p class='i'>“Some other to win.</p> +<p class='i'>Strive manfully onwards<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>Then, I begun t’ look ’round. <i>Couldn’t</i> be +the Kelly kid’s maw (I’d heerd her call the +hawgs), ner the teacher, ner that tall lady next +her, ner<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span></p> + +<p>Spotted the right one! Up clost to the organ +was a gal I’d never saw afore. So many was in +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_42'></a>42</span> +the way that I wasn’t able t’ git more’n a squint +at her back hair. But, say! it was <i>mighty</i> +pretty hair–brown, and all sorta curly over the +ears.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>Say! <i>that’s</i> the kind of preachin’ a <i>puncher</i> +likes!</p> + +<p>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 <i>di</i>rection, 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!</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_43'></a>43</span>I made fer the parson. “<i>Ex</i>cuse 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 <i>in</i>-quire +who she is?”</p> + +<p>“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 <i>gent</i>.) “That young +lady is Billy Trowbridge’s sister-in-law.”</p> + +<p>“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<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>) “But, parson, I didn’t know +the Doc <i>had</i> a brother.” (I felt kinda down on +Billy all to oncet.)</p> + +<p>“He ain’t,” says the parson. “(<i>Good</i>-night, +Mrs. Baker.) This young lady is Mrs. Trowbridge’s +sister.”</p> + +<p>“Mrs. <i>Trowbridge’s</i> sister?”</p> + +<p>“Yas,–ole man Sewell’s youngest gal. +She’s been up to St. Louis goin’ t’ school.” He +turned out the bracket lamp.</p> + +<p>Ole man Sewell’s youngest gal! Shore +enough, they <i>was</i> another gal in that fambly. +But she was just a kid when she was in Briggs +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_44'></a>44</span> +the last time,–not more’n fourteen ’r fifteen, +anyhow,–and I’d clean fergot about her.</p> + +<p>“Her name’s Macie,” goes on the parson.</p> + +<p>“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 <i>Her</i> name, it sounded awful +fine. “Macie–Macie Sewell.”</p> + +<p>“Cupid, I wisht you’d walk home with me,” +says the parson. “I want t’ ast you about +somethin’.”</p> + +<p>“Tickled t’ death.”</p> + +<p>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 <i>that</i> +in you’ sunbonnet.”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_45'></a>45</span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“I bet <i>I</i> knows,” says Dutchy. “De preacher +mans buys some viskey, alretty.”</p> + +<p>Hairoil snickered. “Wal,” he says, “what +I carried over was nailed up good and tight, all +right, all right.”</p> + +<p>Wal, say! that made the boys suspicious, and +made ’em wonder if they wasn’t a darned good +<i>reason</i> fer the parson not wearin’ duds like other +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_46'></a>46</span> +religious gents, and fer his knowin’ how to ride +so good. And they was <i>sore</i>–bein’ that they’d +stood up so strong fer him, y’ savvy.</p> + +<p>“A cow-punch,” says Monkey Mike, “’ll +swaller almost <i>any</i> ole thing, long ’s it’s right out +on the table. But he shore cain’t go a <i>hippy-crit.</i>”</p> + +<p>“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 <i>Williams?</i>”</p> + +<p>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!”</p> + +<p>Fer a minute, he looked plumb scairt.</p> + +<p>But the boys was plumb <i>disgusted</i>. “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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_47'></a>47</span> +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.</p> + +<p>I sit down, too.</p> + +<p>We wasn’t there more’n ten minutes when +one of the fellers jumped up. “There comes +the parson now,” he says.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I hollered in to Dutchy. “Where’s you’ +purp, Dutch?” I ast. “The parson’s haided this +way.”</p> + +<p>Dutchy was as tickled as a kid with a lookin’-glass +and a hammer. He dropped his bar-towel +and hawled out his purp.</p> + +<p>“Vatch me!” he says.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“A svetter, mind y’!” says Dutchy.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_48'></a>48</span>“Be a Mother Hubbard <i>next,</i>” says Bill +Rawson.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>bow-legged</i>.</p> + +<p>Wal, the parson pulled up. And he’d no +more’n got offen his seat when, first rattle outen +the box, them dawgs mixed.</p> + +<p>Gee whillikens! <i>such</i> a mix! They wasn’t +much of the reg’lar ki-yin’. Dutchy’s purp +yelped some; but the parson’s? Not fer <i>him!</i> +He just got a good holt–a shore enough diamond +hitch–on that thirst-parlour dawg, and +chawed. <i>Say!</i> 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, <i>how that spotted dawg could fight!</i></p> + +<p>Dutchy didn’t know what ’d struck him. He +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_49'></a>49</span> +runs out. “Come, hellup,” he yells to the parson.</p> + +<p>The parson shook his head. “This street is +not my private property,” he says.</p> + +<p>Then Dutchy jumped in and begun t’ kick the +parson’s dawg in the snoot. The parson walks +up and stops Dutchy.</p> + +<p>That made the Dutchman turrible mad. He +didn’t have no gun on him, so out he jerks his +pig-sticker.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Lieber!” screeched Dutchy.</p> + +<p>“Goin’ t’ have any more Sunday night +dances?” ast the parson. (<i>Bing, bang</i>.)</p> + +<p>“Nein! Nein!”</p> + +<p>“Any more” (<i>bing, bang</i>) “free Sunday +suppers?”</p> + +<p>“Nein! Nein! Hellup!”</p> + +<p>“Goin’ to change this” (<i>biff, biff</i>) “saloon’s +name!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_50'></a>50</span>“Ya! Ya! <i>Gott!</i>”</p> + +<p>The parson got up. “<i>Amen!</i>” he says.</p> + +<p>Then he runs into Silverstein’s, grabs a pail +of water, comes out again, and throws it on to +the dawgs.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But that critter of the parson’s. Soon as the +water touched him, them spots of hisn <i>begun to +run</i>. Y’ see, he wasn’t the stylish keerige dawg +at all! <i>He was a jimber-jawed bull!</i></p> + +<hr class='tb' /> + +<p>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 <i>rest</i> of the women +folks was. And about forty-’leven cow-punchers +was on hand, and Buckshot, and Rawson +and Dutchy,–yas, ma’am, <i>Dutchy,</i> we rounded +<i>him</i> up. Do y’ think after such a come-off we +was goin’ to let that limburger run any compytition +place agin our parson?</p> + +<p>And that night the parson stands up on the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_51'></a>51</span> +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.’”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_52'></a>52</span><a id='link_3'></a>CHAPTER THREE<br /><span class='h2fs'>THE PRETTIEST GAL AND THE HOMELIEST MAN</span></h2> + +<p><span class='sc'>I’m</span> just square enough to own <i>up</i> it was one +on me. But far’s that par<i>tic</i>ular mix-up goes, I +can <i>afford</i> 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? <i>Course,</i> 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!”</p> + +<p>That medicine show follered the dawg fight. +It hit Briggs City towards sundown one day, in +a prairie-schooner drawed by two big, white +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_53'></a>53</span> +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!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Them hand-bills read somethin’ like this: The +<i>Re</i>nowned 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 <i>re</i>call.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_54'></a>54</span>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.</p> + +<p>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>I</i> got to say, and +drawed like a mustard plaster. ’Cause whilst in +Oklahomaw a <i>Injun</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>them,</i> 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, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_55'></a>55</span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Wal, who do you think it was! <i>I</i> knowed to +oncet. They wasn’t no mistakin’ that slim, little +figger and that pert little haid. It was <i>Her!</i></p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>I didn’t say nothin’. I was a-watchin’ where +<i>she</i> was. I wanted t’ ketch sight of her face.</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_56'></a>56</span> +good comp’ny. Huh! Comp’ny ain’t what +<i>that</i> dude’s after. He’s after a big ranch and a +graded herd. It’s a blamed pity you didn’t git +<i>him</i> sent up t’ Kansas City fer <i>re</i>pairs.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>Just then, I’m another if she didn’t look round! +And square at <i>me!</i> 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’ +<i>this</i> 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!</p> + +<p>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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_57'></a>57</span> +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 +<i>nickel</i> 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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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 <i>hope</i> 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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_58'></a>58</span> +’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!</p> + +<p>When they was done, they all come to the edge +of the platform, the lady kissin’ her hand. All the +punchers kissed back!</p> + +<p>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>I</i> thought. Say! I was glad of that. +Wasn’t <i>none</i> of my business, a-course. <i>Course,</i> +it wasn’t. But, just the same, whenever I seen +him put his haid clost to hern, it shore got under +my skin.</p> + +<p>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 <i>minute</i>–reg’lar +cow-bellerin’ in place of a voice, y’ savvy. +What’s more, she was only that Marvellous Murray +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_59'></a>59</span> +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<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span></p> + +<p>She looked my way again!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“You blamed idjit!” says Hairoil, out loud almost, +“what’s the matter with you? You’ll have +me outen this winda in a minute!”</p> + +<p>The Judge was bowin’ some more. “We have +now come to the middle of our pro<i>gram,</i>” he says. +“But ’fore I begin announcin’ the last half, which +is our best, I want to tell you all a story.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“Listen! Years ago, a little boy, about so +high, with his father and mother and ’leven sisters +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_60'></a>60</span> +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.)</p> + +<p>“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 <i>won</i>-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 <i>in</i> that salve, +and what was <i>in</i> that medicine. Wal, he made +friends with a nice Injun boy. He ast him <i>questions</i> +about that salve and that medicine. He +learnt what plants was dug to make both of +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_61'></a>61</span> +’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 <i>man, woman</i> and +<i>child</i> of his own race. As he galloped along, he +says to hisself, ‘I'll spend my <i>life</i> givin’ this +priceless secret to the world!’</p> + +<p>“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>I</i>–am–that–boy!”</p> + +<p>That got the punchers so excited and so tickled, +that they hollered and stamped and banged and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_62'></a>62</span> +done about twenty dollars’ worth of damage to +the hall.</p> + +<p>“My friends,” goes on the Judge, “I have +<i>pre</i>pared, 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 <i>more’n</i> +that. Ev’rywheres I go, I <i>pre</i>sent, as a soovneer +of my visit, <i>a handsome, solid-gold watch and +chain.</i>”</p> + +<p>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’!</p> + +<p>“This elegant gift,” <i>con</i>tinues the Judge, “is +<i>a</i>warded by means of a votin’ contest. And it goes +to the prettiest gal.”</p> + +<p>More whisperin’, and I sees a brakeman git up +and go over to talk to another railroad feller. +Wal, <i>I</i> didn’t have to be tole who was the prettiest +gal!</p> + +<p>“Ladies and gents,”–the Judge again–“in +this contest, <i>ev’ry</i>body is allowed to vote. All a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_63'></a>63</span> +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!”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>Up jumps that brakeman, “Gimme two dollars’ +worth of you’ dope,” he says, “and drop ten +votes in the box fer Miss Mollie Brown.”</p> + +<p>(Eatin’-house waitress, y’ savvy.)</p> + +<p>“And the ugliest man?” ast the Judge, whilst +one of the fancy vests took in the cash and handed +over the medicine.</p> + +<p>“Monkey Mike,” answers the brakeman. And +then the boys began t’ josh Mike.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_64'></a>64</span>“I’m a sucker, too,” hollers the other railroad +feller. “Here’s ten <i>more</i> votes fer Miss +Brown.”</p> + +<p>Just then, in she come,–pompydore stickin’ +up like a hay-stack. The railroad bunch, they give +a cheer. Huh!</p> + +<p>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 <i>eight</i> dollars fer you’ +rat-pizen. And you can chalk down forty votes +fer Miss Macie Sewell.”</p> + +<p>Say! cain’t you hear them Bar Y punchers?–“<i>Yip! +yip! yip! yip! yip! yip! ye-e-e!</i>” A-course +all the <i>other</i> 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 <i>me!</i></p> + +<p>I was so <i>ex</i>cited I didn’t know whether I was +a-foot ’r a-hoss-back. But I knowed enough to +<i>buy,</i> all right. Wal, that medicine went like hotcakes! +I blowed <i>my</i>self, and Hairoil blowed <i>his</i>-self, +and the Bar Y boys cleaned they pockets till +the bottles was piled up knee-high byside the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_65'></a>65</span> +benches. And whilst we shelled out, the Judge +kept on a-goin’ like he’d been wound up–“Here’s +<i>another</i> feller that wants Root-ee! and +here’s another over on this side! And, lady, it’ll +be good fer you, too, <i>yas,</i> 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!”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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 <i>oughta</i> have ’em, why, I’d +just shove a gun under that Judge’s nose and tell +him to “count ’em over and <i>count ’em right.</i>” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_66'></a>66</span> +’Cause, I figgered, no eatin’-house gal with a face +like a flat-car was a-goin’ to be <i>e</i>lected the prettiest +gal of Briggs. Not if <i>I</i> seen myself, <i>no,</i> +ma’am. ’Specially not whilst Sewell’s little gal +was in the country. Anybody could pick <i>her</i> fer +the winner if they had on blinders. “Cupid,” I +says, “you hump you’self!”</p> + +<p>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 <i>me</i> a good +turn.</p> + +<p>I hunted up Billy. “Doc,” I says, “I <i>hope</i> +Briggs ain’t a-goin’ to name that Brown waitress +fer its best sample. Now<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“Aw, wal,” says Billy, “think how it ’d tickle +her!”</p> + +<p>“Tickle some other gal just as much,” I says.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_67'></a>67</span>“And the <i>prettiest</i> gal ought to be choosed. +Now, it could be fixed–<i>easy.</i>”</p> + +<p>“Who do you think it oughta be?” ast Billy.</p> + +<p>“Strikes me you’ wife’s little sister is the pick.”</p> + +<p>“Cupid,” says Billy, lookin’ anxious like, +“don’t you git you’self too much inter<i>est</i>ed in +Macie Sewell. You know how the ole man feels +towards you. And what can <i>I</i> do? He ain’t any +too friendly with <i>me</i> yet? So be keerful.”</p> + +<p>“Now, Doc,” I goes on, “don’t you go to +worryin’ about me. Just you help by <i>prescribin’ +that medicine.</i>”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Wal,” I says, “it won’t do ’em no <i>harm.</i>”</p> + +<p>Billy said he’d see.</p> + +<p>“You could let it out that somebody in town’s +been cured by the stuff,” I suggests.</p> + +<p>“Only make them railroad fellers buy more.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Billy throwed back his haid and haw-hawed.</p> + +<p>“You’re a <i>dickens</i> of a feller!” he says. “When +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_68'></a>68</span> +you want to have you’ own way, I never seen <i>any</i>-body +that could think up more gol-darned +things.”</p> + +<p>“And,” I <i>con</i>tinues, “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 <i>one</i> bottle, they’d shore take <i>another.</i>”</p> + +<p>“Now, Cupid,” says Billy, like he was goin’ to +scolt me.</p> + +<p>“’R if ole man Baker ’d take the stuff and git +his hearin’ back.”</p> + +<p>“No show. Nothin’ but sproutin’ a new ear’d +help Baker.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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 <i>word</i>. (He had sev’ral +risin’s on his face yet.)</p> + +<p>“Wal, Doc,” I says, “I know you think I +didn’t treat you square, <i>but</i>–has you city fellers +any idear how mad you make us folks in the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_69'></a>69</span> +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.”</p> + +<p>“Yas,” says the Doc, “it <i>has</i>. But that ain’t +why you treated <i>me</i> like you did. No, I ain’t +green enough to think <i>that.</i>”</p> + +<p>“You ain’t green at <i>all,</i>” 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.”</p> + +<p>“What thing, I’d like t’ know?”</p> + +<p>“Why, gittin’ Miss Macie Sewell elected the +prettiest gal.”</p> + +<p>Fer a bit he didn’t say nothin’. Then he made +some <i>re</i>mark about a gal’s name bein’ “handed +’round town,” and that a votin’ contest was “vulgar.”</p> + +<p>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 <i>shore</i> of it, I’d ’a’ put some <i>more</i> +risin’s on to his face.</p> + +<p>Wisht now I had–on gen’ral principles. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_70'></a>70</span> +’Cause, thinkin’ back, I know <i>just</i> 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?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“That’s what she has,” growls Buckshot.</p> + +<p>“Wal, <i>I</i> knowed it! But is she <i>right?</i> Now, <i>I</i> +think, Buckshot,–I think you’ve got the bliggers.” +(Made it up on the spot.)</p> + +<p>“The bliggers!” he says, turrible scairt-like.</p> + +<p>“That’s what I think. But all you need is that +Root-ee they sell over yonder.”</p> + +<p>He perked up. “Shore of it?” he ast.</p> + +<p>“Buy a bottle and try. And leave off drinkin’ +anythin’ else whilst you’re takin’ the stuff, so’s it +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_71'></a>71</span> +can have a fair chanst. In a week, you’ll be a new +man.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll do it,” he says, makin’ fer that prairie-schooner.</p> + +<p>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 <i>think</i> her name is Macie.”</p> + +<p>“All right, Cupid. So long.”</p> + +<p>Seen Sewell a little bit later. And braced right +up to him. ’Cause fer two reasons: First, I +wanted <i>him</i> 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?)</p> + +<p>The ole man was pretty short, and wouldn’t do +a livin’ lick about them votes. Said <i>he</i> 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.</p> + +<p>Then, I says, “S’pose you ain’t lookin’ fer no +extra punchers out at the Bar Y? I’m thinkin’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_72'></a>72</span> +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 <i>bad</i>.)</p> + +<p>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 <i>could</i> use another puncher,” +he says, “t’ ride line. Forty suit y’?”</p> + +<p>“Shore, boss. Be out the first. So long.”</p> + +<p>I was goin’ to the Bar Y, where <i>she</i> 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!</p> + +<p>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 <i>me</i> none.”</p> + +<p>That Blackfoot Injun (he was turned into +To-Ko, the Human Snake) was a-throwin’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_73'></a>73</span> +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 +<i>won</i>derful 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!”</p> + +<p>Say! it made my jaw plumb tired t’ listen to +him.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>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 <i>him,</i> why, the Judge had <i>de</i>cided to +keep the homeliest-man contest a secret.</p> + +<p>Wal, <i>I</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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_74'></a>74</span> +from his thirst-parlour to look on a minute. +“Buyin’, Dutchy?” I ast.</p> + +<p>“Nix.”</p> + +<p>“But I reckon you need Root-ee, all the same. +Do you ever feel kinda full and stuffy after +meals?”</p> + +<p>“Yaw.”</p> + +<p>“Now, don’t that show! Dutchy, I’m sorry, +but it’s a cinch you got the bliggers!”</p> + +<p>Wal, <i>he</i> bit.</p> + +<p>The station-agent was standin’ right next me. +“Cupid,” he whispers, “I hear you got a candi-<i>date</i> +in fer the prettiest gal. What you say about +runnin’ as the homeliest man?”</p> + +<p>“No,” I answers, quick, “I don’t hanker fer +the honour. (That ’d hurt me with <i>her,</i> y’ +savvy.) Then, I begun chinnin’ with Sparks, that +owns the corral.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>Sparks said no, he didn’t think he needed it.</p> + +<p>“Wal, a man never knows,” I goes on. “Now, +mebbe, of a mornin’, when you wake up, you feel +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_75'></a>75</span> +tired and sorta stretchy; wisht you could just roll +over and take another snooze.”</p> + +<p>“Bet I do!”</p> + +<p>“That ain’t right, Sparks.” And I turned in +and give him that bliggers talk.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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, <i>neither,</i>) 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:</p> + +<div class='figcenter'> +<img src='images/illus-075.jpg' alt='code' /> +</div> + +<p>By jingo, I reckon it stood just about that way!</p> + +<p>Next mornin’, whilst I was standin’ outside the +post-office, she come ridin’ up! Say, all to oncet +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_76'></a>76</span> +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.</p> + +<p>She seen me, and smiled, sorta bashful.</p> + +<p>“Miss Sewell,” I says, “can I ast fer you’ +mail? Then you won’t have to git down.”</p> + +<p>“Yas, thank y’.”</p> + +<p>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’?”</p> + +<p>“Why,–why, no.”</p> + +<p>“I’m awful glad. And I’m a-comin’ out to the +Bar Y the first to ride line.”</p> + +<p>“Are y’?” Them pink cheeks of hern got +pinker’n ever, and when she loped off, she smiled +back at me!</p> + +<p>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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_77'></a>77</span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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!”</p> + +<p>Then <i>she</i> come in, and I wouldn’t ’a’ pulled +outen that place fer a new dollar. She looked so +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_78'></a>78</span> +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>I</i> keer! She wasn’t noticin’ <i>him</i> much. +Wal, I just never looked anywheres else but at +her. Aw, I hoped that pretty soon she’d look +round at me!</p> + +<p>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 <i>couldn’t</i> smile.</p> + +<p>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 <i>ain’t.</i>” And I reached down to +see if my pop-gun was all right.</p> + +<p>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 +pro<i>gram</i> too long. Fer the reason that I know +just what you-all want to hear <i>most</i>. And that is, +the <i>re</i>sult of the contest.”</p> + +<p>That railroad gang begun t’ holler.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_79'></a>79</span>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!</p> + +<p>“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 fortu<i>nate</i> young lady to the platform.” +(I seen a brakeman start over to Mollie +Brown.)</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Wal, us punchers let out a yell that plumb +cracked the ceiling. “Wow! wow! <i>wow!</i> Macie +Sewell!” And we whistled, and kicked the floor, +and banged the benches, and whooped.</p> + +<p>Doctor Bugs got to his feet, puttin’ his stylish +hat and gloves on his chair, and crookin’ a’ elbow. +Wal, I reckon <i>this</i> part wasn’t vulgar!</p> + +<p>Then, <i>she</i> 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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_80'></a>80</span> +hand. “With the compliments of the company,” +he says. She took the watch. Then she turned.</p> + +<p>Another cheer–a <i>whopper</i>.</p> + +<p>She stood there, lookin’ like a’ angel, ’r a bird, +’r a little bobbin’ rose.</p> + +<p>“Thank y’, boys,” she says; “thank y’.”</p> + +<p>If I’d ’a’ knowed what was a-goin’ to happen +next, I’d ’a’ slid out then. But, a-course, I didn’t.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<i>hated</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_81'></a>81</span> +that Simpson trailin’, went to the back of the +hall. There she stopped, kinda half turned, and +waited.</p> + +<p>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 <i>mo</i>lasses below in Silverstein’s. I wisht +I was dead, and I wisht the hull blamed bunch of +punchers was–Wal, I felt something <i>turrible</i>.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>I laughed, a-course,–sickish, though.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Whee-oop!” goes the boys.</p> + +<p>I seen her start down then. Billy and his wife +got up, too. So did the crowd, still a-laughin’ and +a-hootin’.</p> + +<p>I kinda backed a bit. When I reached the +stairs, I went slower, feelin’ my way. Minute and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_82'></a>82</span> +I come out onto Silverstein’s hind porch. Nobody +was there, so I went over to the edge and +lent agin a’ upright.</p> + +<p>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 par<i>tic</i>-ular. +Till, ’round the corner, towards ’em, come +that Simpson. Next, walkin’ slow and lookin’ +down–Macie.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_83'></a>83</span> +man on the back porch, ’cause she pulled in a +little, lookin’ hard.</p> + +<p>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!”</p> + +<p>“Why,–why, Mister Lloyd!” She wheeled +her hoss. “Is that you?”</p> + +<p>I went acrosst the yard to where she was. +“Yas,–it’s me,” I says.</p> + +<p>She lent down towards me a little. “You been +awful good to me,” she says. “<i>I</i> know. It was +<i>you</i> got all them votes. Hairoil said so.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t mention it.”</p> + +<p>“And–and”–I heerd her breath ’way deep, +kinda like a sob–“you <i>ain’t</i> the homeliest man! +you <i>ain’t!</i> Aw, it was <i>mean</i> of ’em! And it +hurt<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“No, it didn’t–please, <i>I</i> don’t mind.”</p> + +<p>“It hurt–me.”</p> + +<p>That put the cheek of ten men into me. I +Straightened up, and I lifted my chin. “Why, +Gawd <i>bless</i> you, little gal!” I says. “It’s all +<i>right.</i>”</p> + +<p>Her one hand was a-restin’ on the pommel. I +reached up–only a stay-chain could a’ helt me +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_84'></a>84</span> +back then–and took it into both of mine. Say! +did you ever holt a little, flutterin’ bird ’twixt +you’ two palms?</p> + +<p>“Macie,” I says, “Macie Sewell.” And I +pressed her hand agin my face.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_85'></a>85</span><a id='link_4'></a>CHAPTER FOUR<br /><span class='h2fs'>CONCERIN’ THE SHERIFF AND ANOTHER LITTLE WIDDA</span></h2> + +<p><span class='sc'>Aw</span>! them first days out at the Bar Y ranch-house!–them +first days! <i>No</i>body could ’a’ been +happier’n I was then.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_86'></a>86</span> +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:</p> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p class='i'>“Sweet is the vale where the Mohawk gently glides</p> +<p class='i'>On its fair, windin’ way to the sea<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>A wait–ten seconds ’r so (it seemed longer); +then, the same part of the song, over again, +and<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span></p> + +<p>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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_87'></a>87</span> +come acrosst the alfalfa–like a butterfly. And +then<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span></p> + +<p>“Don’t you want a shawl ’round you’ shoulders, +honey? It’s some chilly.”</p> + +<p>“No.” (Did you ever see a gal that’d own up +she needed a wrap?)</p> + +<p>“Wal, you got to have <i>somethin’</i> ’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.</p> + +<p>“You <i>mustn’t,</i> Alec!” (She was allus shy +about bein’ kissed.)</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_88'></a>88</span>“You ain’t never liked nobody else, honey?”</p> + +<p>“No–just you, Alec!–<i>dear</i> Alec!”</p> + +<p>“Same here, Macie,–and this is fer keeps.”</p> + +<p>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 <i>me</i> doin’ much!</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>And I reckon it was just <i>’cause</i> we was so turrible +happy that we got inter<i>ested</i> in Bergin’s +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_89'></a>89</span> +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 <i>dandy</i> little pardner she was +a-goin’ t’ make.</p> + +<p>But I want t’ say right here that we wasn’t <i>re</i>-sponsible +fer the way that case of hisn turned out–and neither was <i>no other livin’ soul. No,</i> +ma’am. The hull happenstance was the kind that +a feller cain’t <i>ex</i>plain.</p> + +<p>It begun when I’d been out at the Sewell +ranch about two weeks. (I disremember the exac’ +day, but <i>that</i> 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.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_90'></a>90</span>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. <i>The +sheriff was scairt.</i></p> + +<p>First off, I wasn’t hardly able to believe what +I seen with my own <i>eyes</i>. Next, I begun to +think ’round fer the cause why. Didn’t have to +think much. Knowed they wasn’t a <i>pinch</i> of +’fraid-cat in Bergin–no crazy-drunk greaser ’r +no passel of bad men, <i>red</i> ’r white, could put <i>him</i> +in a sweat, <i>no,</i> sir-<i>ree</i>. They was just <i>one</i> thing +on earth could stampede the sheriff. I kinda +tip-toed over to him. “Bergin,” I says, “<i>who is +she?</i>”</p> + +<p>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 +<i>straight</i>. 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.”</p> + +<p>It was a telegram. Say, you know I ain’t got +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_91'></a>91</span> +<i>no</i> use fer telegrams. The blamed things <i>allus</i> +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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Aw,” I says, “Mrs. Bridger. Wal, Sheriff, +who’s this Mrs. Bridger?”</p> + +<p>Pore Bergin just wagged his haid. “You’ll +have to give me a goose-aig on that one,” he +answers.</p> + +<p>“Wal, who’s Phillips, then?” I <i>con</i>tinued.</p> + +<p>“The Sante Fee deepot-master at Chicago.”</p> + +<p>“Which means you needn’t to worry. Mrs. +Bridger is likely comin’ on to boss the gals at the +eatin’-house.”</p> + +<p>“If that’s so, what ’d he telegraph to <i>me</i> fer?”</p> + +<p>“Don’t know. Buck up, anyhow. I’ll bet +she’s gone <i>’way</i> past the poll-tax age, and has +got a face like a calf with a blab on its nose.”</p> + +<p>“Cupid,” says the sheriff, standin’ up, +“thank y’. I feel better. Was worried ’cause +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_92'></a>92</span> +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<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>He stopped then, and a new crop of drops +come out on to his face. “Look!” he says, +hoarse like, and pointed.</p> + +<p>’Way off to the north was a little, dark, puffy +cloud. It was a-travelin’ our <i>di</i>rection. Number +201!</p> + +<p>“Gosh!” says the sheriff, and sunk down on +to the truck again.</p> + +<p>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–<i>ole</i> 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–<i>quick</i>–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!</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_93'></a>93</span>But <i>this</i> time, he wasn’t a-goin’ to <i>have</i> no +deputy. I made up my mind to stay right byside +him till he’d did his duty. Yas, ma’am.</p> + +<p>“Cupid,” he begun again, reachin’ fer my +fist, “Cupid, when it comes to feemales<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p><i>Too-oo-oot! too-oo-oot!</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>mighty</i> good t’ look +at. Blabbed calf? Say! this was <i>awful!</i></p> + +<p>“Ber-r-gin!” hollers the corn-doc.</p> + +<p>“Bergin,” I repeats, encouragin’. (Hope I +never see a man look worse. He was all blue +and green!)</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_94'></a>94</span>Bergin, he just kinda staggered up. He’d +had <i>one</i> 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.</p> + +<p>“Sheriff,” goes on the corn-doc, “here’s a +lady that has been <i>con</i>signed 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!”</p> + +<p>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, <i>boys,</i>” +(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!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Y’ know, Bergin’s heart ’s as big as a’ ox. +He’s tender and <i>awful</i> kind, and kids like him +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_95'></a>95</span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Who’s the man?” I ast.</p> + +<p>The widda pulled a piece of paper outen her +hand-satchel. “Frank Curry,” she answers.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_96'></a>96</span>Bergin give a jump that come nigh to tippin’ +the table over. (Ole Skinflint Curry was the +reason.)</p> + +<p>“And where’s the ranch?” I ast again.</p> + +<p>“This is where.” She handed me the paper.</p> + +<p>I read. “Why, Bergin,” I says, “it’s that +place right here below town, back of the section-house–the +Starvation Gap Ranch.”</p> + +<p>The sheriff throwed me a quick look.</p> + +<p>“I hope,” begun the widda, leanin’ towards +him, “–I hope they’s nothin’ <i>agin</i> the property.”</p> + +<p>Fer as much as half a minute, neither of us +said nothin’. The sheriff, a-course, was turrible +flustered ’cause she ’d spoke <i>di</i>rect to him, and he +just jiggled his knee. <i>I</i> was kinda bothered, too, +and got some coffee down my Sunday throat.</p> + +<p>“Wal, as a <i>chicken</i> ranch,” I puts in fin’lly +“it’s O. K.,–shore <i>thing</i>. 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’ <i>po</i>ssessions rise straight up in +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_97'></a>97</span> +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.”</p> + +<p>“I’m <i>so</i> 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’.”</p> + +<p>Wal, I didn’t answer her. What could I ’a’ +<i>said?</i> And Bergin?–he come nigh pullin’ his +cow-lick clean out.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_98'></a>98</span>“<i>Cupid!</i>” It was the sheriff, voice kinda +croaky.</p> + +<p>“Good-bye fer just now, Mrs. Bridger,” (I +pretended not t’ hear <i>him</i>.) “So long, Bergin.”</p> + +<p>And I skedaddled.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p class='i'>“He never keers to wander from his own fireside;</p> +<p class='i'>He never keers to ramble ’r to roam.</p> +<p class='i'>With his baby on his knee,</p> +<p class='i'>He’s as happy as can be-e-e,</p> +<p class='i'>Cause they’s no-o-o place like home, sweet home.”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>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’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_99'></a>99</span> +she wouldn’t like. But, fin’lly, I managed t’ +spunk up sufficient, and <i>de</i>scribed Mrs. Bridger +and the kid, and said what I’d like t’ do fer the +sheriff.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Honey! Then you’ll help me?”</p> + +<p>“<i>Shore,</i> I will.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Alec,” she says, when she could git a word in +edgeways, “this widda comin’ is mighty fortu-<i>nate</i>. +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.”</p> + +<p>“Mace,” I says, “if we <i>just</i> can help such a +fine feller t’ git settled. But it’ll be a job–a’ +<i>awful</i> job. She’s a nice, affection<i>ate</i> little thing. +Why, he’d be a <i>blamed</i> sight happier. And he +likes the kid<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_100'></a>100</span>“Let’s not count our chickens ’fore they +hatch,” breaks in Mace.</p> + +<p>Wal, I hiked fer town, and found the sheriff +right where he was settin’ that mornin’. But, +say! <i>he was a changed man!</i> No shakin’, no +caved-in look–<i>nothin’</i> 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.</p> + +<p>I stopped byside him. “Wal, Sheriff,” I says, +inquirin’.</p> + +<p>He sit up. “Aw–is that you, Cupid?” he ast. +(I reckon I know a guilty son-of-a-gun when I +see one!)</p> + +<p>I sit down on the other end of the truck. “Did +Mrs. Bridger git settled all right?” I begun.</p> + +<p>“Yas,” he answers; “I pulled the rags outen +the windas, and put some panes of glass in<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“<i>Good</i> 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 <i>no</i> place fer that little woman.” +(And I watched sideways to see how he’d take +it.)</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_101'></a>101</span>“You’re right, Cupid,” he says. Then, after +swallerin’ hard, “Did you happen t’ notice how +soft and kinda pinky her hands is?”</p> + +<p>Was that the <i>sheriff</i> talkin’? Wal, you could +’a’ knocked me down with a feather!</p> + +<p>“Yas, Sheriff,” I answers, “I noticed her +pretty par<i>tic</i>ular. And it strikes me that we +needn’t to worry–she won’t stay on that ranch +<i>long</i>. Out here in Oklahomaw, <i>any</i> 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>I</i> +seen how the boys acted when she got offen that +train t’-day–and I knowed then that it wouldn’t +be <i>no</i> time till she’d marry.”</p> + +<p>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’ +<i>else</i> but marry?”</p> + +<p>“No-o-ow, Bergin,” I says, “what diff’rence +does it make t’ <i>you?</i> S’pose she marries, and +s’pose she don’t. <i>You</i> don’t give a bean. Wal, <i>I</i> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_102'></a>102</span> +look at it diff’rent. <i>I</i> know that nice little kid +of hern needs the keer of a father–yas, Bergin, +the keer of a <i>father.</i>” And I looked him square +in the eye.</p> + +<p>“It’s <i>just</i> like Hairoil says,” he went on. “If +Doc Simpson was t’ use a spy-glass on <i>you,</i> he’d +find you plumb alive with <i>bugs</i>–<i>marryin’</i> bugs. +<i>Yas,</i> sir. With you, it’s a <i>disease.</i>”</p> + +<p>“<i>Wal,</i>” I answers, “don’t git anxious that +it’s ketchin’. You? Huh! If I had anythin’ +<i>agin</i> the widda, I <i>might</i> be a-figgerin’ on how t’ +hitch her up t’ <i>you</i>–you ole <i>woman-hater!</i>”</p> + +<p>“The best thing <i>you</i> can do, Mister Cupid,” +growls Bergin (with a few cuss words throwed +in), “is to <i>mind-you’-own-business.</i>”</p> + +<p>“All right,” I answers cheerful. “<i>I</i> heerd y’. +But, I never could see why you fellers are so +down on me when I <i>ad</i>vise marryin’. Take my +word fer it, Sheriff, <i>any</i> 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<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>But Bergin was makin’ fer the freight shed, +two-forty.</p> + +<p>When I tole Mace what’d passed ’twixt me +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_103'></a>103</span> +and the sheriff, she says, “Alec, leave him alone +fer a while, and mebbe he’ll look <i>you</i> up. In love +affairs, don’t never try t’ drive <i>nobody.</i>”</p> + +<p>“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 <i>don’t</i> hitch up t’ some sweet gal, why, +they git ahaid of somebody. It makes me plumb +sick!”</p> + +<p>“But think of the lucky gal that don’t marry +such a yap,” says Mace. “If she <i>was</i> 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.”</p> + +<p>“<i>I</i> never could git no such notion about you,” +I says; “aw, little gal, we’ll be <i>so</i> happy, you +and me, won’t we, honey,<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>Wal, to <i>con</i>tinue 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 can<i>di</i>-dates. +Why, ’fore long, ev’ry bach in town had +his cap set fer Mrs. Bridger–that’s <i>straight</i>. +All other subjects of <i>po</i>lite conversation was +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_104'></a>104</span> +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 <i>bad</i>. And took +t’ music, just like Chub, yas, ma’am. Why, that +feller spent <i>hours</i> a-knockin’ the wind outen a’ +pore accordion. And next come Frank Curry–haid over heels, too, <i>mean</i> as he was, and to +hear him talk you’d ’a’ bet they wasn’t <i>nothin’</i> +he wouldn’t ’a’ done fer Mrs. Bridger. But big +talk’s cheap, and he was small potatoes, <i>you</i> bet, +and few in the hill.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But she treated ’em all <i>alike</i>. And they +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_105'></a>105</span> +knowed it. <i>Con</i>sequently, 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.</p> + +<p>And, Bergin? Wal, I’d took Macie’s <i>ad</i>vice +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.</p> + +<p>That fin’lly riled Mace. “What’s the <i>matter</i> +with him?” she says one day. “Why, havin’ +saw the widda, how can he <i>help</i> fallin’ in love +with her! She’s the <i>nicest</i> little woman! And +she’s learned me a new crochet stitch.”</p> + +<p>“Little gal,” I answers, “you’ idear has been +carried out faithful–and has gone fluey. Wal, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_106'></a>106</span> +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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>He let slip the potato he was peelin’, and it +rolled under the stove. “Yas?” he says; “that +so?”</p> + +<p>“And <i>such</i> a dinner as she give us!” I goes +on. “Had a white oilcloth on the table,–white, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_107'></a>107</span> +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 <i>you</i> +ain’t been down.”</p> + +<p>“No,”–kinda wistful, and eyes on his +peelin’–“no. How–how is she?”</p> + +<p>“Aw, <i>fine!</i> The kid, he ast after you.”</p> + +<p>“Did he?” He looked up, awful tickled. +Then, “He’s a nice, little kid,” he adds thoughtful.</p> + +<p>“He <i>shore</i> 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.”</p> + +<p>Say! it was plumb pitiful the way Bergin +grabbed at the chanst. “Why, <i>I</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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_108'></a>108</span> +big pile of sand that was out in front of the +house–he balked!</p> + +<p>“Guess I won’t go in,” he says.</p> + +<p>“O. K.,” I answers. (No use to cross him, y’ +savvy, it’d only ’a’ made him worse.)</p> + +<p>When I knocked, and the widda opened the +door, she seen him.</p> + +<p>“Why, how d’ you do!” she called out, lookin’ +mighty pleased. “Willie, dear, here’s Mister +Bergin.”</p> + +<p>“How d’ do,” says the sheriff.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>She didn’t act like she’d heerd me. She was +watchin’ the sandpile.</p> + +<p>“One ’r two has got the pip,” I repeats.</p> + +<p>“What?–how’s that?” she ast.</p> + +<p>“Don’t worry about you’ boy,” I says. “Bergin’ll +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_109'></a>109</span> +look after him. Y’ know, Bergin is one +of the whitest gents in Oklahomaw.”</p> + +<p>“<i>I</i> ain’t a-worryin’,” answers the widda. “<i>I</i> +know Mister Bergin is a fine man.” And she +kept on lookin’ out.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>She turned like lightnin’. “What you mean?” +she ast, kinda short. (Reckon she thought <i>I</i> +was tryin’ t’ spark her.)</p> + +<p>“A man like Bergin,” I <i>con</i>tinues.</p> + +<p>“Aw,” she says, plumb relieved.</p> + +<p>And I left things that-a-way–t’ sprout.</p> + +<p>Walkin’ up the track afterwards, I remarked, +casual like, that they wasn’t <i>many</i> women nicer +’n Mrs. Bridger.</p> + +<p>“They’s <i>one</i> thing I like about her,” says the +sheriff, “–she’s got eyes like the kid.”</p> + +<p>(Dang the kid!)</p> + +<p>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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_110'></a>110</span> +wife said they was <i>no</i>body 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 <i>con</i>sider 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 <i>worshipped</i> +her.</p> + +<p>Wal, they got in and done her a <i>lot</i> of good +turns. Put up a fine chicken-coop, the section-boss +overseein’ the job; and, one Sunday, cleaned +out her cellar. <i>Think</i> 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.</p> + +<p>Wal, she <i>was</i> tickled at that, and so was the +kid. (Hairoil Johnson was shy a pig that week, +but you bet <i>he</i> never let on!) The gang made a +nice little pen, usin’ ties, and ev’ry day they +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_111'></a>111</span> +packed over some feed in the shape of the camp +leavin’s.</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>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 <i>that</i> 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 <i>any</i>–they stopped drinkin’! Ev’ry day ’r so, +back they’d track to visit the widda.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Bully fer you!” Mace answers. “It’ll be +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_112'></a>112</span> +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?”</p> + +<p>“Mister Bergin,” answers the widda, “ain’t +bothered me none.” (Mace was shore they was +tears in her eyes.)</p> + +<p>“Aw–<i>haw!</i>” I says, when the little gal tole +me. <i>I</i> savvied.</p> + +<p>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.)</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“Wal,” says Sam, “I reckon I don’t fit specifications.” +And he hiked fer town.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_113'></a>113</span>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.”</p> + +<p>Next!</p> + +<p>That was Chub.</p> + +<p>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 <i>women</i>. +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.</p> + +<p>“Say, kid,” he says, “you locate over in that +rockin’-chair yonder. Young uns of you’ age +should be saw and not heerd.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>Wal, ta-ta, Chub!</p> + +<p>And, behind, there was the widda at the winda, +all eyes fer that sand-pile.</p> + +<p>We never knowed what she said to Dutchy’s +brother, August. But he come back to town +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_114'></a>114</span> +lookin’ madder’n a wet hen. “Huh!” he says, +“I don’t vant her <i>no</i>how. <i>She</i> couldn’t vork. +She’s pretty fer <i>nice,</i> all right, but she’s nichts +fer stoudt.”</p> + +<p>When ole stingy Curry tried <i>his</i> luck over, he +took his lead from Chub’s <i>ex</i>perience. 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.</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter?” I ast.</p> + +<p>“Nothin’,” she says.</p> + +<p>“Yas, they is. Didn’t you git a dun t’-day?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_115'></a>115</span>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“<i>Curry,</i>” says the sheriff. And he come nigh +rippin’ up the railroad tracks.</p> + +<p>He made fer Curry’s straight off. “What’s +the little balance due on that Starvation Gap +property?” he begun.</p> + +<p>“What makes you ast?” says Curry, battin’ +them sneaky little eyes of hisn.</p> + +<p>“I’m <i>pre</i>pared t’ settle it.”</p> + +<p>“But it happens I didn’t sell to <i>you</i>. 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.</p> + +<p>She could git shet of it by marryin’ <i>him,</i> y’ +savvy–the polecat!</p> + +<p>The sheriff was boilin’. “Here, Cupid,” he +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_116'></a>116</span> +says, “is two hunderd. Now, we’ll go down to +Mrs. Bridger’s again, and you offer her as much +as she wants.”</p> + +<p>“Offer it you’self.”</p> + +<p>“No, <i>you</i> do it, Cupid,–please. But don’t you +tell her whose money it is.”</p> + +<p>“I won’t. Here’s where we git up The Ranchers’ +Loan Fund.”</p> + +<p>I coaxed Bergin as far as the front step <i>this</i> +time. Wasn’t that fine? But, say! Mrs. Bridger +wouldn’t touch a cent of that money, no +ma’am.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>as far as the door!</i> But I never +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_117'></a>117</span> +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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>was</i> +bound up in the boy? Didn’t he have no interest +in <i>her?</i> 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.</p> + +<p>“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!</p> + +<p>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, <i>con</i>siderin’ what come +of it, it shore was fortu<i>nate</i> 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. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_118'></a>118</span> +And he fixed up what was the matter in that +crazy haid of hisn.</p> + +<p>In the second place, the very <i>next</i> 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.</p> + +<p><i>Put her off!</i> Say! You oughta saw Bergin’s +face!</p> + +<p>“Curry,” he says, “in Oklahomaw, a dis-<i>po</i>ssess +notice agin a widda ain’t worth the ink it’s +drawed with.”</p> + +<p>“Ain’t it?” says Curry. “You mean you +won’t act. All right. If you won’t, they’s other +folks that <i>will.</i>”</p> + +<p>“<i>Will</i> 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.”</p> + +<p>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 <i>re</i>sponsible, they begun +makin’ all kinds of brags about what they’d do +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_119'></a>119</span> +when next they seen the sheriff. And it looked +to me like gun-play was a-comin’.</p> + +<p>But not just yet. Fer the reason that the +sheriff, without sayin’ “I,” “Yas,” ’r “No” to +nobody, all of a suddent <i>disappeared</i>.</p> + +<p>“What in the dickens has struck him!” I says +t’ Mace.</p> + +<p>“Just you wait,” she answers. “It’s got t’ +do with Mrs. B. He ain’t down in a cellar <i>this</i> +time.”</p> + +<p>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? <i>The sheriff was +camped right back of the widda’s</i>–<i>on Rogers’s +Butte!</i></p> + +<p>“Pardner,” I says, “don’t you cheep that to +another soul. Bergin is up there t’ keep Curry +from puttin’ the widda out.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_120'></a>120</span>“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 <i>my</i> neck. And there +in that tie-pen was a’ even dozen of new little +pigs!</p> + +<p>“Ma’am,” I says, “this <i>is</i> good luck!”</p> + +<p>“Good luck?” repeats the widda. “I reckon +it’s somethin’ more’n just good luck.” (Them’s +<i>exac’ly</i> her words–“Somethin’ more’n just good +luck.”)</p> + +<p>“Wal,” I goes on, “oncet in a while, a feller’s +got to <i>ad</i>mit that somethin’ better’n just or-d’nary +good luck <i>does</i> git in a whack. Mebbe +it’ll be the case of a gezaba that ain’t acted +square; first thing you know, <i>his</i> hash is settled. +Next time, it’s exac’ly the <i>other</i> 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 <i>luck, no,</i> +ma’am. Fer the reason that the contrary facts +is plumb shoved in you’ face.</p> + +<p>“Now, take what happened to Burt Slade. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_121'></a>121</span> +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 +<i>bad</i> luck. <i>But</i>–a wind come up, a <i>turrible</i> 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 <i>they’d +been planted in rows!</i></p> + +<p>“They ain’t no doubt about this story bein’ +<i>true</i>. In the first place, Slade ain’t a man that’d +lie; in the second place, ev’rybody knows his +potatoes was <i>stole,</i> 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. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_122'></a>122</span> +And no man wants any better proof’n +<i>that.</i>”</p> + +<p>“A-<i>course,</i> he don’t,” says the widda. “And +I’d call that potato transaction plumb wonderful.”</p> + +<p>“It shore was.”</p> + +<p>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?–<i>they’s just thirteen pigs in that pen.</i>”</p> + +<p>“Aw, thirteen ain’t never hurt nobody in Oklahomaw,” +I says. And I whistled, and knocked +on wood.</p> + +<p>“Anyhow, I’m happy,” she goes on, “I’m +better fixed than I been fer a coon’s age.”</p> + +<p>“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 <i>common</i> razor-backs. +That’ll mean fifty dollars–mebbe more. Why, +it’s like <i>findin’</i> it!”</p> + +<p>“These and the chickens,” she says, “’ll pay +that balance, and” (her voice broke, kinda, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_123'></a>123</span> +and she looked over to where pore little Willie +was tryin’ to play injine all by hisself) “without +the help of <i>no</i> man.”</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>“The section-hands is turrible tickled about +these pigs,” <i>con</i>tinues 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.”</p> + +<p>You couldn’t ’a’ blamed <i>no</i>body fer bein’ +proud of them little pigs. They was smarter ’n +the dickens, playin’ ’round, and kickin’ up they +heels, and <i>squee-ee-eelin’</i>. 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!</p> + +<p>But you never can gamble on t’-morra. And +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_124'></a>124</span> +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 <i>took</i> 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 <i>would</i>–if the hull thing +that happened next was accidentally a-purpose. +And I reckon that shore was the truth of it.</p> + +<p>But I’m a-goin’ too fast.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>First off, I says, “More celebratin’.” Next, +I says, “Curry!”–and streaked it fer the +widda’s.</p> + +<p>’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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_125'></a>125</span> +foller. “Help! help!” I let out at the top of +my lungs, and brung up in Mrs. Bridger’s yard.</p> + +<p>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 coy<i>o</i>tes. Whilst Mrs. Bridger had the +kid in her arms, and her face hid in his little +dress.</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter?” I screeched–<i>had</i> t’ +screech t’ git <i>heerd</i>.</p> + +<p>The cholos turned towards me. (Say! You +talk about mean faces!) “Diablo!” they says, +shakin’ them track tools.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>smokin’ hot</i>. Pretty nigh as big as a box-car, it +was. Wal, as big as a wagon, <i>any</i>how. But +neither hide ’r hair of them pigs!</p> + +<p>I walked ’round that stone.</p> + +<p>“My friend,” I says to the section-boss, “the +maw-pig made just thirteen. It’s a proposition +you cain’t beat.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_126'></a>126</span>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.</p> + +<p>Next, they begun pointin’ up to the top of the +Butte!</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>The section-boss walked ’round, studyin’. “I’m +from Missoura,” he says, “and it strikes <i>me</i> that +this rock looks kinda familiar, like it was part +iron. Now, mebbe they’s been a thunderin’ big +<i>ex</i>plosion in the Ozark Mountains. But, Mrs. +Bridger, as a native son of the ole State, I don’t +want to <i>ad</i>vise you to sue fer da<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>I heerd them cholos smackin’ they lips. I +looked where they was lookin’, and here, a-comin’ +lickety-split, was the sheriff!</p> + +<p>That section-boss was as good-natured a feller +as ever lived, and never liked t’ think bad +of <i>no</i> man. But the minute he seen Bergin racin’ +down offen that Butte, he believed like the peons +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_127'></a>127</span> +did. He turned t’ me. “By George!” he says–just like that.</p> + +<p>Wal, sir, that “By George” done it. Soon as +the Mexicans heerd him speak out what <i>they</i> +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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>them</i>. But the +sheriff, he wasn’t scairt.</p> + +<p>A second, and the Mexicans ’d made a surround. +He pulled his gun. They jerked it outen +his hand. He throwed ’em off.</p> + +<p>I drawed <i>my</i> weapon.</p> + +<p>Just then–“Sheriff! sheriff!” (It was the +widda, one hand helt out towards him.)</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Cupid,” says Bergin, “what’s the matter?”</p> + +<p>I fit my way to him. “They think you throwed +this rock, here,” I answers.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_128'></a>128</span>“The low-down, ornery, lay-in-the-sun-and-snooze +good-fer-nothin’s is likely t’ think ’most +<i>any</i> ole thing,” he says. “Pedro, let go my arm.”</p> + +<p>Just then, one of the cholos come runnin’ up +with a rope!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Boys,” I says; “<i>boys! Give</i> the man a chanst +t’ talk. Why, this rock ain’t like the rocks on the +Butte.”</p> + +<p>“You blamed idjits!” yells Bergin. “Use you’ +haids! How could <i>I</i> ’a’ hefted the darned +thing?”</p> + +<p>“Aw, he <i>couldn’t</i> ’a’ done it!” (This from the +widda, mind y’,–hands t’gether, and comin’ +clost.)</p> + +<p>“Thank y’, little woman,” says the sheriff.</p> + +<p>(Say! that was <i>better</i>.)</p> + +<div class='figcenter'> +<a id='link_i3'></a><img src='images/illus-128.jpg' alt='' /> +<p class='center caption'> +“<i>He pulled his gun, they jerked it outen his hand</i>” +</p> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_129'></a>129</span>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.</p> + +<p>I was some anxious, but I knowed enough to +hole back a while more.</p> + +<p>“Aw, boys,” begged the widda, droppin’ +Willie and runnin’ ’longside, “don’t hurt him! +<i>don’t!</i> What does the pigs matter?”</p> + +<p>“I’ll discharge ev’ry one of you,” says the +section-boss.</p> + +<p>“Boys,” I begun again, “<i>why</i> should this +gent want to harm this lady. Why, I can tell +you<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>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.)</p> + +<p>“He iss revenge hisself!” yells the rest of the +bunch. Then they all looked at the widda.</p> + +<p>“Boys,” she sobs, “I ain’t <i>never</i> refused him. +Fer a good reason–he ain’t never ast me.”</p> + +<p>(The cholos, they just growled.)</p> + +<p>“<i>What?</i>” 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 <i>oughta</i> die!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_130'></a>130</span>“How <i>could</i> I ast her?” begun the sheriff. +“She plumb hates the sight of me.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t! I don’t!” sobs the widda. “Mister +Lloyd knows that ain’t so. Willie and me, we–we<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“Y’ <i>see?</i>” I turned to the Mexicans. “He +loves her; she loves him. We’re a-goin’ to have a +weddin’, not a hangin’.”</p> + +<p>“The stone–he iss revenge,” says Pedro.</p> + +<p>“The stone,” I answers, “come outen the sky. +It’s a mete’rite.”</p> + +<p>“I felt it hit!” cries the widda.</p> + +<p>Wal, you couldn’t expect a Mexican t’ swaller +<i>that</i>. So we’d no more’n got the words outen our +mouths when they begun to dance ’round Bergin +again with the halter.</p> + +<p>Wal, how do you think it come out?</p> + +<p>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. <i>This</i> is how:</p> + +<p>’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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_131'></a>131</span> +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’.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>(Wal, that’s about all you could reas’nably expect +from <i>Bergin</i>.)</p> + +<p>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 +<i>minded!</i></p> + +<p>Wal, things come out <i>fine</i>. 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!</p> + +<p>And the bunch that didn’t git her? Wal, the +bunch that didn’t git her just natu’lly got <i>left!</i></p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_132'></a>132</span><a id='link_5'></a>CHAPTER FIVE<br /><span class='h2fs'>THINGS GIT STARTED WRONG</span></h2> + +<p><span class='sc'>Up</span> 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.</p> + +<p>But–this was one time when you’ friend +Cupid was just a little bit too previous. And I +want to say right here that <i>no</i> 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 <i>git to work</i>. Even when she’s give +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_133'></a>133</span> +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 <i>then</i> +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.”</p> + +<p>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, <i>what’s he goin’ to do?</i> Wal, +they ain’t no reg’lar way of proceedin’–ev’ry +man has got to blaze his own trail.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_134'></a>134</span>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I made my <i>first</i> 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! <i>my!</i> but a heap of +things begun t’ happen!</p> + +<p>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 pro<i>gram</i> fer +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_135'></a>135</span> +a song. She was willin’; I was, <i>too</i>. So far, ev’ry-thin’ +smooth as glare-ice.</p> + +<p>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’, “<i>do, ray, me.</i>” Next, she’d +break loose a-singin’. And pretty soon the doc +and the woman ’d go.</p> + +<p>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>I</i> knowed what it was. It was just like +Hairoil ’d said–he wanted my Macie.</p> + +<p>One night, I says to her, “What’s that Goldstone +woman doin’ out here so much, honey?”</p> + +<p>“Givin’ me music lessons,” she answers.</p> + +<p>“I know,” I says. “But you don’t need no +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_136'></a>136</span> +lessons. You sing good enough t’ suit me right +now.”</p> + +<p>“Wal, I don’t sing good enough t’ suit myself. +And bein’ as I’m on that pro<i>gram</i><span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“Wal, just the same,” I cut in, “I don’t like +that Simpson hangin’ ’round here.”</p> + +<p>“Alec,” she come back, stiffenin’ right up, +“it’s my place to say who comes into this ranch-house, +and who don’t.”</p> + +<p>“But, look a-here! Folks ’ll think you like +him better’n you do me.”</p> + +<p>“Aw, that’s crazy.”</p> + +<p>“It ain’t. And I won’t have him ’round.”</p> + +<p>Then, she got <i>turrible po</i>lite. “I’m sorry, +Mister Lloyd,” she says, “but I’m a-goin’ t’ take +my lessons.”</p> + +<p>Wal, the long and short of it is, she did–right +up t’ the very day of the social.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_137'></a>137</span> +he hoped we’d all shell out good. Then, he begun +t’ read off the pro<i>gram</i>.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>I looked over at Mace. She was gittin’ pink. +Did he mean her?</p> + +<p>“And,” Simpson goes on, “the young lady +that owns it is a-goin’ t’ give us the first number.” +And he bowed–Shore enough!</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Paw!” she says, like she was ashamed of +him.</p> + +<p>“I <i>mean</i> it,” he says, and jerked his haid to +one side.</p> + +<p>Wal, y’ know, Mace got her temper offen +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_138'></a>138</span> +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.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Taffy!” she says, fallin’ back a step. +“Then you didn’t <i>like my singin’.</i>”</p> + +<p>“Why, yas, I did,” I answers, follerin’ along +after her. “I thought it was <i>fine.</i>”</p> + +<p>But she only shook her haid–like she was hurt–and clumb into the buckboard.</p> + +<p>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. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_139'></a>139</span> +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.</p> + +<p>“Wal, I’ll put a qui<i>e</i>tus 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.”</p> + +<p>“That’s too soon,” she answers. “We got t’ +git paw on our side. And I ain’t got no new +clothes.”</p> + +<p>“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 <i>ad</i>vice she give me that time in the +sheriff’s case: “In love affairs,” was what she +said, “don’t never try t’ drive <i>no</i>body.”)</p> + +<p>“But, Alec,<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>” she begun.</p> + +<p>“Sunday week, Mace,” I says. “We’ll talk +about it t’-night.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_140'></a>140</span>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.</p> + +<p>I was plumb sorry about the blamed mix-up. +But <i>no</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Wal, he’s one of our boys,” she answers; +“and I’m going to give him a schottische.”</p> + +<p>“No, you <i>ain’t,</i>” I come back. “I won’t stand +fer it.”</p> + +<p>“Yas, I <i>am,</i> Alec Lloyd,”–she spoke determined,–“and +please don’t try to boss me.”</p> + +<p>I shut up and walked in again. Mexic was +talkin’ to the school-ma’am–aw, he’s got <i>gall!</i> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_141'></a>141</span> +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.”</p> + +<p>“Why?” he ast.</p> + +<p>“I tole you why,” I says; “but I’ll give you +another reason: You’ boots is too tight.”</p> + +<p>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 +coy<i>o</i>te; ’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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Just the same, I made up my mind she wouldn’t +dance with that <i>greaser</i>. And I says to myself, +“This is where you show you’re a-goin’ to +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_142'></a>142</span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Alec Lloyd,” she says, “after t’night, I’ll +never, never speak to you again!”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Aw, give that calf more rope!” he calls out.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>I hung ’round the corral fer as much as half +a’ hour, listenin’ to the pow-wow goin’ on at the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_143'></a>143</span> +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.”</p> + +<p>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 <i>she</i> did. So off I had t’ go to Hasty Creek +fer three days–and no good-bye t’ the little +gal.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Fin’lly, I went over to Hairoil. “Pardner,” I +says, “spit it out.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Next about what?” I ast. The way he said +it give me a kinda start.</p> + +<p>“We’ve saw how things was a-goin’, but we +didn’t say nothin’ to you ’cause it wasn’t none +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_144'></a>144</span> +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<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“It ain’t no lie, neither.”</p> + +<p>“And that her warblin’ come pretty clost to +bein’ as good as Melba’s.”</p> + +<p>“It’s a heap <i>better’n</i> Melba’s.”</p> + +<p>“Also”–Hairoil fidgited some–“you know, +a-course, that she’s been tackin’ up photographs +of op’ra singers and actresses in her room<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“Wal, what’s the harm?”</p> + +<p>“And–and practicin’ bows in front of a +glass.”</p> + +<p>I begun t’ see what he was drivin’ at.</p> + +<p>“And whilst you was away, she had a talk +with the station-agent–about rates East.”</p> + +<p>“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!</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry, ole man.” He reached out a hand. +“But we thought you oughta know.” And then +he left me.</p> + +<p>So <i>that</i> was it! And she’d been keepin’ me in +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_145'></a>145</span> +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 <i>through</i>.</p> + +<p>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 <i>druv</i> her to it.</p> + +<p>I started fer the house.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Honey,” I says, “can I come in?”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Never mind–I wanted t’ come anyhow.”</p> + +<p>“Thank y’ fer bein’ so kind. And I ain’t +never goin’ to try to run you no more.”</p> + +<p>“I’m glad of that No gal likes t’ be bossed.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_146'></a>146</span>“Just give me another chanst. Just fergive +me this oncet.”</p> + +<p>She smiled, her eyes shinin’ with tears. “I +do,” she says; “Alec, I do.”</p> + +<p>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!</p> + +<p>Pretty soon, (I was settin’ on the organ-stool, +and she was standin’ in front of me, me holdin’ +her hands) I says, “They <i>is</i> one thing–now that +I’ve tole you I was wrong–they is <i>just</i> 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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Wal, honey, what you <i>want</i> the teacher fer?”</p> + +<p>She stopped, and up went that pert, little haid. +“You recollect what Doctor Simpson said about +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_147'></a>147</span> +my voice that night at the social?” she begun. +“This teacher says <i>the same thing.</i>”</p> + +<p>Like a flash, I <i>re</i>called what <i>Hairoil</i> ’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.”</p> + +<p>“Yas,” she answers; “that’s straight. What +about it?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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–<i>grand</i> op’ra–and the +teacher says yas.”</p> + +<p>I couldn’t answer nothin’. I just sit there, +knocked plumb silly, almost, and looked at a big +rose in the carpet. <i>Noo York!</i></p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_148'></a>148</span>I looked at her. I was hurt–hurt plumb t’ the +quick, and a little mad, too. “I <i>see</i> 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–<i>have</i>–it!”</p> + +<p>She set her lips tight, and her face got a deep +red.</p> + +<p>“So <i>this</i> 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.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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 <i>this</i> house. And +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_149'></a>149</span> +he don’t do no more of it. By what right is he +a-interferin’ now?”</p> + +<p>I got to my feet. “<i>This</i> right, boss:” I says, +“I love Macie.”</p> + +<p>He begun to kinda swell–gradual. And if a +look could ’a’ kilt me, I’d ’a’ keeled over that +second.</p> + +<p>“You–love–Macie!” he says slow. “Wal , +I’ll be darned if you haven’t got <i>cheek!</i>”</p> + +<p>“Sorry you look at it that way, boss.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“No man but Mace’s paw could say that t’ me +safe.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“That’s what you did.”</p> + +<p>“This is <i>it</i>. And, also, I tole you that the +smarty who can allus bring other folks t’gether +never can hitch hisself.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_150'></a>150</span>“You got a good mem’ry, Sewell.”</p> + +<p>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 <i>no</i> man.”</p> + +<p>Sewell patted her on the shoulder. “That’s +my gal a-talkin’!” he says. “Bully fer you!”</p> + +<p>“All right, Mace,” I says, “a-all <i>right.</i>” And +I took up my Stetson.</p> + +<p>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 <i>hollered,</i> 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 +<i>bust</i>. Mister <i>Cupid! Whew!</i>”</p> + +<p>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: <i>Just wait.</i>” +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.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_151'></a>151</span>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!”</p> + +<p>Mace showed her sand, all right. “Yas,” she +answers; “you got it <i>exac’ly</i> right, paw–Noo +York.”</p> + +<p>He riz up, face as white as anythin’ so sunbaked +can look. “Git that crazy idear outen you’ +brain this <i>minute!</i>” he begun. “I won’t allow +you t’ stir a <i>step!</i> The stage! Lawd a-mighty! +Why, <i>you</i> ain’t got no voice fer the stage. You +can only squawk.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Squawk!” repeats Mace. (<i>That</i> 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 +<i>do</i> think my voice is all taffy. I’ll show you +<i>both!</i>”</p> + +<p>“Wal,” Sewell come back, “you don’t use +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_152'></a>152</span> +none of <i>my</i> money fer t’ make you’ show.” He +was pretty nigh screechin’.</p> + +<p>“Wait till I <i>ast</i> you fer it,” she says, pert +haid up again. “<i>Keep</i> you’ money. I can earn +my own. <i>I</i> ain’t scairt of work.”</p> + +<p>And just like she was, in the little, white dress +she used t’ meet me in–she up and walked +out!</p> + +<p>Now, it was the ole man’s turn t’ walk the +floor. “Noo York!” he begun, his eyes dartin’ +fire. “Did y’ ever <i>hear</i> such a blamed fool proposition! +Doc Simpson is <i>re</i>sponsible fer that.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>That second, <i>clickety</i>–<i>clickety</i>–<i>clickety</i>–<i>click!</i>–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.</p> + +<p>“She’s goin’, boss,” I says. (The bald-face +was haided towards Briggs.)</p> + +<p>“<i>Let</i> her go,” says Sewell. “Let her ride off +her mad.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_153'></a>153</span>“Boss,” I says, “I’m t’ blame fer this kick-up. +Yas, I am.”</p> + +<p>And <i>I</i> begun t’ walk the floor.</p> + +<p>“Wal, no use bellyachin’ about it,” he answers. +“But you’re allus a-stickin’ in that lip of yourn. +And–you’ll <i>re</i>call 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.)</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“She’ll be back in a’ hour. Rose cain’t keep +her, and<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>But I was outen the room and makin’ fer the +bunk-house. When I got there, I begun t’ change +my clothes.</p> + +<p>Hairoil was inside. (He’d been a-listenin’ to +the rumpus, likely.) “Don’t go off half-cocked,” +he says to me.</p> + +<p>“Cupid’s drunk,” says Monkey Mike. +“Somebody’s hit him with a bar-towel.”</p> + +<p>But I knowed what I was a-goin’ to do. Two +wags of a dawg’s tail, and I was in the house +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_154'></a>154</span> +again, facin’ the ole man. “Sewell,” I says, “I +want my time.”</p> + +<p>“Where you goin’, Cupid?” he ast, reachin’ +into his britches-pocket.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“No,” I says; “no, what about you’ Kansas +feller?”</p> + +<p>“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 +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_155'></a>155</span> +raise. It raised plumb into the air, house and all, +and the hull business blowed into the neighbourin’ +State!</p> + +<p>“‘What goes up must come down,’ says the +feller. And knowin’ which way that cyclone +travelled, he started in the same <i>di</i>rection, 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.</p> + +<p>“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’.’”</p> + +<p>“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<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“How can <i>she</i> git cash?”</p> + +<p>“The eatin’-house is short of, help, Sewell. +She can git a job easy–passin’ fancy Mulligan +to the pilgrims that go through.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_156'></a>156</span>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!”</p> + +<p>Just then, <i>Clickety</i>–<i>clickety</i>–<i>clickety</i>–<i>click</i> +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!</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_157'></a>157</span><a id='link_6'></a>CHAPTER SIX<br /><span class='h2fs'>WHAT A LUNGEE DONE</span></h2> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p class='i'>“Sweet is the vale where the Mohawk gently glides</p> +<p class='i'>On its fair, windin’ way to the sea–”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>po</i>sition, he turned the other way quick, and +coughed–that pore little gone-in cough of hisn.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_158'></a>158</span>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.”</p> + +<p>“Cupid,” he whispers back, “it’s The Mohawk +Vale.”</p> + +<p>(He allus whispered, y’ savvy; couldn’t talk +out loud no more, bein’ so turrible shy on +lung.)</p> + +<p>“Is that a bony fido place?” I ast, “’r just +made up a-purpose fer the song?”</p> + +<p>“It’s <i>my</i> country,” he whispers, slow and +husky, and begun gazin’ acrosst to the mesquite +again. “And, Cupid, it’s a <i>beau</i>tiful country!”</p> + +<p>“I reckon,” I says. “It’s likely got Oklahomaw +skinned t’ death.”</p> + +<p>Up-State, he didn’t answer that–too <i>po</i>lite. +Aw, he was a gent, too, same as the parson.</p> + +<p>Minute ’r so, Macie struck up again–</p> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p class='i'>“And dearer by far than all charms on earth byside,</p> +<p class='i'>Is that bright, rollin’ river to me.”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_159'></a>159</span>Up-State lent over, elbows on his knees, face +in his hands, and begun tremblin’–Why, y’ +know, even a <i>hoss</i> ’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 <i>man</i>. Wal, I ketched on to how +things was with Up-State, and I moseyed.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>grand</i>.</p> + +<p>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 <i>no</i> kind of a wife fer +a cow-punch. “Would <i>she</i> camp down in Oklahomaw,” +they says, “and cook three meals a day, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_160'></a>160</span> +and wash out blue shirts, when she’s set on gittin’ +up afore a passel of highflyers and yelpin’ +‘Marguerite’? <i>Nixey.</i>”</p> + +<p>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’ <i>awful</i> place fer a decent gal. Keep her offen +it if you love her soul. And if I can help, just +whistle.”</p> + +<p>I said thank y’, but I was feard marryin’ was +a long way off.</p> + +<p>“But, Alec,” goes on the parson, “that Simpson +has gone back t’ Noo York<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“<i>What?</i>”</p> + +<p>“Yas. He put all his doctor truck into his +gasoline wagon last night and choo-chooed outen +town. If <i>he’s</i> there, and <i>she</i> goes, wal,–I don’t +like the looks of it.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t neither, parson. He’s crooked as a +cow-path, that feller. Have you tole her paw?”</p> + +<p>“No, but I will,” says the parson.</p> + +<p>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</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_161'></a>161</span>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p><i>I</i> didn’t keer. Let Up-State talk to her as +much as he wanted to. <i>He</i> couldn’t make me +jealous–not on you’ life! I wasn’t the finest +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_162'></a>162</span> +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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Wal, when the boss heerd about Up-State and +Mace, you never <i>seen</i> a man so sore. He said +Up-State was aigin’ her on, and no white man ’d +do <i>that</i>.</p> + +<p>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 <i>di</i>rect–but you +can bet you’ boots it was <i>wild</i> all right. By +thunder! you couldn’t ’a’ helt nary one of them +young ladies with a hoss-hair rope!</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_163'></a>163</span>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.</p> + +<p>“Up-State,” he begun, “I’m sorry fer you, +all right, but<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>Up-State looked at him. “Sewell,” he whispers, +“I don’t want <i>no</i> man’s pity.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t holler ’fore you git hit,” whispers Up-State, +smilin’.</p> + +<p>The boss got worse mad then. “Look a-here,” +he says, “don’t give me none of that. You know +you lie<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>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 <i>no</i>body hand out +things that flat to me.”</p> + +<p>I stuck in <i>my</i> lip. (<i>One</i> more time couldn’t +hurt.) “Now, Sewell,” I says, “put on the +brake.”</p> + +<p>He got a holt on hisself then. “This ain’t no +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_164'></a>164</span> +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.”</p> + +<p>Just then–</p> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p class='i'>“Sweet is the vale where the Mohawk gently glides</p> +<p class='i'>On its fair, windin’ way to the sea–”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>Up-State lent over, his elbows on his knees, +and his face in his hands.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>It seemed to me I could hear Up-State whisperin’ +into his fingers. I stooped over. “What is +it, pardner?” I ast.</p> + +<p>“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.)</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_165'></a>165</span>Doc Trowbridge stopped by just then. “How +you makin’ it t’-day, Up-State?” he ast.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Up-State,” says Billy, “buck up. You got +more lives’n a cat.”</p> + +<p>“No show,” Up-State whispers back.</p> + +<p>He was funny that-a-way. Now, most lungers +fool theyselves. Allus “goin’ to git better,” +y’ savvy. But Up-State–<i>he knew</i>.</p> + +<p>“Come over to my tent t’-night,” he goes on +to Billy. “I got somethin’ I want to talk to you +about.”</p> + +<p>“All right,” says Billy. “Two haids is better +’n one, if one <i>is</i> a sheep’s haid.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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’. <i>Goin’</i>. And I’d +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_166'></a>166</span> +be stayin’ behind. I looked ’round me. Say! +Briggs City didn’t show up <i>much</i>. “Without +<i>her,</i>” I says, (they was that red-hot-iron feelin’ +inside of me again) “–without her, what is it?–the jumpin’-off place!”</p> + +<p>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’.</p> + +<p>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 +<i>-zip, zip, zip, zip</i>.</p> + +<p>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 <i>a’ inch-wide trickle of +sand!</i></p> + +<p>In no time I was hoofin’ it down the street. +When I got to Up-State’s tent, Billy Trowbridge +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_167'></a>167</span> +was inside it, movin’ ’round, puttin’ stuff +into a trunk, and–wipin’ the sand outen his eyes.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>Just then, from the station–</p> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p class='i'>“Sweet is the vale where the Mohawk gently glides</p> +<p class='i'>On its fair, windin’ way to the sea–”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>Billy walked over to the bed and looked down. +“Up-State, ole man,” he says, “you’re a-goin’ +back to the Mohawk.”</p> + +<hr class='tb' /> + +<p>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 <i>pro</i>feshnal–yet. +But mine he ast me to read to the boss.</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p>“<i>Dear Cupid,</i>” it run, “<i>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. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_168'></a>168</span>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.</i>”</p> +</div> <!-- block quote --> + +<p>Wal, y’ see, the ole man ’d been right all along–Up-State <i>was</i> sidin’ with Mace. Somehow +though, <i>I</i> couldn’t feel hard agin him fer it. I +knowed that she’d go–help ’r <i>no</i> help.</p> + +<p>But Sewell, he didn’t think like me, and I +never <i>seen</i> a man take on the way he done. +<i>Crazy</i> 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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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 <i>me</i> up? Wal, <i>nothin’</i> could.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_169'></a>169</span><a id='link_7'></a>CHAPTER SEVEN<br /><span class='h2fs'>THE BOYS PUT THEY FOOT IN IT</span></h2> + +<p>“<span class='sc'>Wal</span>, 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.”</p> + +<p>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’ <i>own</i> time, <i>you</i> wouldn’t +have no trouble. Recollect braggin’ that-a-way?”</p> + +<p>“Yas,” I answers, meeker’n Moses. “But +Hairoil, that was ’fore I met Macie.”</p> + +<p>“So it was,” he says. Then, after a minute, +“I s’pose nothin’ could keep her in Briggs much +longer.”</p> + +<p>I shook my haid. “The ole man won’t let her +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_170'></a>170</span> +fetch a dud offen the ranch, and so she’s havin’ +a couple of dresses made. I figger that when +<i>they</i> git done, she’ll–she’ll go.”</p> + +<p>“How long from now?”</p> + +<p>“About two weeks–accordin’ to what Mollie +Brown tole me.”</p> + +<p>“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 <i>ro</i>mance part of this +singin’ proposition?” he ast. “That’s <i>my</i> idear. +And <i>I</i> think that if she was showed that her and +you was <i>also</i> a <i>ro</i>mance, why, she’d give up goin’ +to Noo York. Now, it <i>might</i> be possible to–to +git her t’ see things right–if they was a little +scheme, say.”</p> + +<p>I got up. “No, Hairoil,” I says, “no little +scheme is a-goin’ t’ be played on <i>Macie</i>. 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.”</p> + +<p>“It needn’t t’ <i>be</i> what you’d call underhand,” +answers Hairoil.</p> + +<p>“Pardner,” I says, “don’t talk about it no +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_171'></a>171</span> +more. You make me plumb nervous, like crumbs +in the bed.”</p> + +<p>And so he shut up.</p> + +<p>But now when I <i>re</i>call that conversation of +ourn, and think back on what begun t’ happen +right afterwards, it seemed <i>blamed</i> 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 <i>why</i> didn’t I ketch on! Wal, +I shore <i>was</i> a yap!</p> + +<p>Next day, Hairoil didn’t even speak of Mace. +I thought he’d clean fergot about her. He was +all <i>ex</i>cited over somethin’ else–the ’lection of +a sheriff. And ’fore he got done tellin’ me about +it, I was some <i>ex</i>cited, too–fer all I was half +sick account of my own troubles.</p> + +<p>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 <i>covered</i> with proud flesh these +six years, though, ’cause Roos’velt, <i>he’s</i> a +puncher.) We don’t much keer, neither, who’s +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_172'></a>172</span> +Gov’ner of Oklahomaw. But you can bet you’ +bottom dollar it makes a <i>heap</i> 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, <i>you</i> git ’lected–t’ +the calaboose!</p> + +<p>Now, what Hairoil come and rep’esented to +me was this: That Hank Shackleton, editor of +<i>The Briggs City Eye-Opener,</i> ’d been lickerin’ +up somethin’ <i>turrible</i> the last twenty-four hours.</p> + +<p>“Hank?” I says to Hairoil, plumb surprised. +“Why, I didn’t know he ever took more ’n a +glass.”</p> + +<p>“A <i>glass!</i>” repeats Hairoil disgusted. “He +ain’t used no glass <i>this</i> time; he used a <i>funnel</i>. +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, +<i>and not a word about Bergin.</i>”</p> + +<p>“You don’t say! But–what does that matter, +Hairoil?”</p> + +<p>“What does that <i>matter!</i> Why, if Hank gits +it into his haid to keep on tankin’ that-a-way (till +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_173'></a>173</span> +he plumb spills over, by jingo!) the <i>Eye-Opener</i> +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 <i>one</i> of us. You been worried, Cupid, and +you ain’t noticed how this sheriff sittywaytion is. +The Goldstone <i>Tarantula</i> is behind the <i>Re</i>publican +can<i>di</i>date, Walker<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“<i>Walker! That</i> critter up fer sheriff?”</p> + +<p>“Yas. And, a-course, Hank’s been behind +Bergin t’ git <i>him</i> re’lected fer the ’leventh time.”</p> + +<p>“<i>I</i> know, and Bergin’s got t’ <i>win</i>. Why, Bergin’s +the only fit man.”</p> + +<p>“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, <i>how’s</i> Bergin goin’ t’ +win?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know.”</p> + +<p>“Neither do <i>I</i>. (You see how ticklish things +is?) Wal, here’s Hank in <i>no</i> 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 <i>seen</i> such a change in a man in +all my born <i>life!</i>”</p> + +<p>I was surprised some <i>more</i>. I didn’t know +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_174'></a>174</span> +Hank <i>packed</i> a gun. He was a darned nice cuss, +and ev’rybody shore liked him, and he’d never +been laid up fer <i>re</i>pairs 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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>Tarantula</i> 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.’”</p> + +<p>“That’s goin’ too far.”</p> + +<p>“So <i>I</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 <i>Tarantula</i> 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.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_175'></a>175</span>“The idear of Hank actin’ like a idjit when +the ’lection depends on him!” I says. “Wal, +things <i>is</i> outen kilter.”</p> + +<p>“Sh-sh-sh!” says Hairoil, lookin’ round quick. +“Be awful keerful what you say about Hank. +We don’t want no shootin’-scrape <i>here.</i>”</p> + +<p>But I didn’t give a continental <i>who</i> 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 <i>turrible</i> +fights. That got the girls travelin’ after him two-forty. +Why, at Goldstone, they was <i>all</i> a-goin’ +with him, seems like.</p> + +<p>I didn’t want <i>him</i> fer sheriff, you bet you’ +boots. He wasn’t no friend to us Briggs City +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_176'></a>176</span> +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 <i>them</i> crowin’ ’round about what they done. +And this Walker, he blowed too much t’ be +genuwine.</p> + +<p>“If he’s ’lected sheriff, it’s goin’ t’ be risky +business gittin’ in to a’ argyment with anybody,” +I says. “He’d just <i>like</i> t’ git one of us jugged. +Say, what’s goin’ to be did fer Hank?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll come. <i>Walker</i> fer sheriff! <i>Huh!</i>”</p> + +<p>“Good fer you! So long.”</p> + +<p>“So long.”</p> + +<p>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 +<i>re</i>spectable public place in town that wouldn’t +want rent.” Wal, we worked our jaws a lot, +goin’ over the sittywaytion from start to finish. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_177'></a>177</span> +“Gents let’s hear what you-all got to say,” begun +Chub Flannagan, standin’ up. Doc Trowbridge +was next. “<i>I ad</i>vise 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 <i>Eye-Opener</i>.) 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 <i>outen the saloons</i>. ’Cause why? If +he could buck up, and <i>stay</i> straight, and go t’ +gittin’ out the <i>Eye-Opener,</i> Bergin ’d shore win +out.</p> + +<p>“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 <i>ad</i>mit it ’ll not be a’ +easy proposition. But things is <i>desp</i>’rate. If +Walker gits in, we’ll have a nasty deputy-sheriff +sent up here t’ cross us ev’ry time we make a +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_178'></a>178</span> +move. We got t’ <i>work,</i> gents. You know how <i>I</i> +feel. By thunder! Bergin treated me square all +right over that Andrews fuss.” (Y’ see, Mike’s +a grateful little devil, if he <i>does</i> ride like a fool +Englishman.)</p> + +<p>“Wal,” says Buckshot Milliken, “who’ll be +the first sergeant? I call fer a volunteer.”</p> + +<p>All the fellers just kept quiet–but they looked +at each other, worried like.</p> + +<p>“Don’t all speak to oncet,” says Buckshot.</p> + +<p>I got up. “<i>I’</i>m willin’ t’ try my hand,” I says.</p> + +<p>“<i>Thank</i> 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.”</p> + +<p>“What in thunder ’s got <i>into</i> you fellers?” I +ast, lookin’ at ’em. “Is Hank got the hydrophoby?”</p> + +<p>“You ain’t saw him since he begun t’ drink, I +reckon,” says Chub.</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“<i>Wal,</i> then.”</p> + +<p>By this time, I was so all-fired et up with curiosity +t’ git a look at Hank that I couldn’t stand +it no more. So I got a move on.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_179'></a>179</span>Hank is a turrible tall feller, and thin as a ramrod. +He’s got hair you could flag a train with, +and a face as speckled as a turkey aig. And +when I come on to him that day, here he was, +stretched out on the floor of Dutchy’s back room, +mouth wide open, and snorin’ like a rip-saw.</p> + +<p>I give his shoulder a jerk. “Here, Hank,” I +says, “wake up and pay fer you’ keep. What’s +got into you, anyhow. My goodness me!”</p> + +<p>He opened his eyes–slow. Next, he sit up, +and fixed a’ awful ugly look on me. “Wa-a-al?” +he says.</p> + +<p>“My friend,” I begun, “Briggs City likes +you, and in the present case it’s a-tryin’ t’ make +’lowances, and not chalk nothin’ agin y’, but<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“Blankety blank Briggs City!” growls Hank. +“Ish had me shober and ish had me drunk, and +neither way don’t shoot.”</p> + +<p>“Now, ole man, I reckon you’re wrong,” I +says. “But never mind, anyhow. Just try t’ +realise that they ’s a ’lection comin’, and that you +got t’ help.”</p> + +<p>“Walkersh a friend of mine,” says Hank, and +laid down again.</p> + +<p>Wal, I didn’t want t’ be there all day. I +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_180'></a>180</span> +wanted t’ have <i>some</i> time to myself, y’ savvy, so +’s I could keep track of Mace. So I grabbed him +again.</p> + +<p>This whack, he got up, straddlin’ his feet out +like a mad tarantula, and kinda clawin’ the air. +They wasn’t no gun visible on him, but he was +loaded, all right. Had a revolver stuck under his +belt in front, so ’s the bottom of his vest hid it.</p> + +<p>I jerked it out and kicked it clean acrosst the +floor. Then I drug him out and started fer the +bunk-house with him. <i>Gosh!</i> it was a job!</p> + +<p>Wal, the pore cuss didn’t git another swalla +of forty-rod that day; and by the next mornin’ +he was calm and had a’ appetite. So three of us +sergeant-at-arms happened over to see him. Bill +Rawson was there a’ready, keepin’ him comp’ny. +And first thing y’ know, I was handin’ that editor +of ourn great big slathers of straight talk.</p> + +<p>“<i>I</i> know what you done fer me, Cupid,” says +Hank. “And I’m grateful,–yas, I am. But let +me tell you that when I git started drinkin’, I +cain’t <i>stop</i>–never do till I’m just wored out ’r +stone broke. And I git mean, and on the fight, +and don’t know what I’m doin’. But,” he <i>con</i>-tinues +(his face was as long as you’ arm), “if +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_181'></a>181</span> +you-all ’ll fergive me, and let this spree pass, +why, I’ll go back t’ takin’ water at the railroad +tank with the Sante Fee ingines.”</p> + +<p>“Hank,” I says, “you needn’t t’ say nothin’ +further. But pack no more loads, m’ son, pack +no more loads. And <i>try</i> t’ git out another <i>EyeOpener</i>. +Not only is this sheriff matter pressin’, +but the lit’rary standin’ of Briggs City is at +stake.”</p> + +<p>“That’s dead right,” he says. “And I’ll git +up a’ issue of the <i>Opener</i> pronto–only you boys +’ll have t’ help me out some on the news part. I +don’t recollect much that’s been happenin’ +lately.”</p> + +<p>Wal, things looked cheerfuller. So, ’fore long, +I was back at the deepot, settin’ on a truck and +watchin’ the eatin’-house windas, and the boys–Bergin +and all–was lined up ’longside Dutchy’s +bar, celebratin’.</p> + +<p>But our work was a long, l-o-n-g way from +bein’ done. Hank kept sober just five hours. +Then he got loose from Hairoil and made fer a +thirst-parlour. And when Hairoil found him +again, he was fuller’n a tick.</p> + +<p>“I’m blue as all git out about what’s happened,” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_182'></a>182</span> +says Hairoil. “But I couldn’t help it; +it was just rotten luck. And I hear that when the +<i>Tarantula</i> come out yesterday it had a hull column +about that Walker, callin’ him a brave ex-soldier +and the next sheriff of Woodward +County.”</p> + +<p>“And just ten days ’fore ’lection!” chips in +Bill Rawson. “Cupid, it’s root hawg ’r die!”</p> + +<p>“That’s what it is,” I says. “Wal, I’ll go git +after Hank again.”</p> + +<p>He was in Dutchy’s, same as afore. But not +so loaded, this time, and a blamed sight uglier. +Minute he <i>seen</i> me, his back was up! “Here, you +snide puncher,” he begun, “you tryin’ to arrest +<i>me?</i> Wal, blankety blank blank,” (fill it in the +worst you can think of–he was beefin’ somethin’ +<i>awful</i>) “I’ll have you know that I ain’t never +’lowed <i>no</i> man t’ put the bracelets on me.” And +his hand went down and begun feelin’ fer the butt +of a gun.</p> + +<p>“Look oudt!” whispers Dutchy. “You vill +git shooted!”</p> + +<p>But I only just walked over and put a’ arm +’round Hank. “Now, come on home,” I says, +like I meant it. “’Cause y’ know, day after t’-morra +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_183'></a>183</span> +another <i>Eye-Opener</i> has <i>got</i> to rise t’ the +top. Hank, think of Bergin!”</p> + +<p>He turned on me then, and give me such a +push in the chest that I sit down on the floor–right +suddent, too. Wal, that rubbed me the +wrong way. And the next thing <i>he</i> knowed, I +had him by the back of the collar, and was a-draggin’ +him out.</p> + +<p>I was plumb wored out by the time I got him +home, and so Chub, he stayed t’ watch. I went +back to the deepot. And I was still a-settin’ there, +feelin’ lonesome, and kinda put out, too, when +here come Buckshot Milliken towards me.</p> + +<p>“I think Hank oughta be ’shamed of hisself,” +he says, “fer the way he talks about you. Course, +we know why he does it, and that it ain’t +true<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“What’s he got t’ say about me?” I ast, huffy.</p> + +<p>“He said you was a ornery hoodlum,” answers +Buckshot, “and a loafer, and that he’s a-goin’ t’ +roast you in his paper. He’d put Oklahomaw on +to <i>you,</i> he said.”</p> + +<p>“Huh!”</p> + +<p>“And you been <i>such</i> a good friend t’ Hank,” +goes on Buckshot. “Wal, don’t it go to show!”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_184'></a>184</span>“If he puts on single <i>word</i> about me in that +paper of hisn,” I says, gittin’ on my ear good +and plenty, “I’ll just natu’ally take him acrosst +my knee and give him a spankin’.”</p> + +<p>“And he’ll put enough slugs in you t’ make +a sinker,” answers Buckshot. “Why, Cupid, +Hank Shackleton can fight his weight in wildcats. +<i>You go slow.</i>”</p> + +<p>“But <i>he</i> cain’t shoot,” I says.</p> + +<p>“He cain’t <i>shoot!</i>” repeats Buckshot. “Why, +I hear he was a reg’lar gun-fighter oncet, and so +blamed fancy with his shootin’ that he could drive +a two-penny nail into a plank at twenty yards +ev’ry bit as good as a carpenter.”</p> + +<p>“Wal,” I says, “I’ll be blasted if that’s got +<i>me</i> scairt any.”</p> + +<p>Buckshot shook his haid. “I’m right sorry t’ +see any bad blood ’twixt y’,” he says.</p> + +<p>Next thing, it was all over town that Hank +was a-lookin’ fer me.</p> + +<p>Afterwards, I heerd that it was Hairoil tole +Macie about it. “You know,” he says to her, +“whenever Hank’s loaded and in hollerin’ distance +of a town, you can shore bet some one’s +goin’ t’ git hurt.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_185'></a>185</span>Mace, she looked a little bit nervous. But she +just said, “I reckon Alec can take keer of hisself.” +Then off she goes to pick out a trunk at +Silverstein’s.</p> + +<p>I reckon, though, that ole Silverstein ’d heerd +about the trouble, too. So when Mace come back +to the eatin’-house, she sit down and writ me a +letter. “<i>Friend Alec,</i>” it said, “<i>I want to see +you fer a minute right after supper. Macie Sewell.</i>”</p> + +<p>It was four o’clock then. Supper was a good +two hours off. Say! how them two hours drug!</p> + +<p>But all good things come to a’ end–as the +feller said when he was strung up on a rope. And +the hands of my watch loped into they places +when they couldn’t hole back no longer. Then, +outen the door on the track side of the eatin’-house, +here she come!</p> + +<p>My little gal! I was hungry t’ talk to her, and +git holt of one of her hands. But whilst I watched +her walk toward me, I couldn’t move, it seemed +like; and they was a lump as big as a baseball +right where my Adam’s apple oughta be.</p> + +<p>“Macie!”</p> + +<p>She stopped and looked straight at me, and I +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_186'></a>186</span> +seen she’d been cryin’. “Alec,” she says, “I +didn’t mean t’ give in and see you ’fore I went. +But they tole me you and Hank ’d had words. +And–and I couldn’t stay mad no longer.”</p> + +<p>“Aw, honey, thank y’!”</p> + +<p>“I ain’t a-goin’ away t’ stay,” she says. +“Leastways, I don’t <i>think</i> so. But I want a try +at singin’, Alec,–a chanst. Paw’s down on me +account of that. And he don’t even come in town +no more. Wal, I’m sorry. But–<i>you</i> understand, +Alec, don’t y’?”</p> + +<p>“Yas, little gal. Go ahaid. I wouldn’t hole +you back. I <i>want</i> you should have a chanst.”</p> + +<p>“And if I win out, I want you t’ come to Noo +York and hear me sing. Will y’, Alec?”</p> + +<p>“Ev’ry night, I’ll go out under the cottonwoods, +by the ditch, and I’ll say, ‘Gawd, bless +my little gal.’”</p> + +<p>“I won’t fergit y’, Alec.”</p> + +<p>I turned my haid away. Off west they was +just a little melon-rind of moon in the sky. As I +looked, it begun to dance, kinda, and change +shape. “I’ll allus be waitin’,” I says, after a +little, “–if it’s five years, ’r fifty, ’r the end of +my life.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_187'></a>187</span>“They won’t never be no other man, Alec. +Just you<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“Macie!”</p> + +<p>That second, we both heerd hollerin’ acrosst +the street. Then here come Hairoil, runnin’, and +carryin’ a gun.</p> + +<p>“Cupid,” he says, pantin’, “take this.” (He +shoved the gun into my hand.) “Miss Macie, +git outen the way. It’s Hank!”</p> + +<p>Quick as I could, I moved to one side, so’s +she wouldn’t be in range.</p> + +<p>“<i>Ye-e-e-oop!</i>”</p> + +<p>As Hank rounded the corner, he was staggerin’ +some, and wavin’ his shootin’-iron. “I’m +a Texas bad man,” he yelps; “I’m as ba-a-ad as +they make ’em, and tough as bull beef.” Then, +he went tearin’ back’ards and for’ards like he’d +pull up the station platform. “Hey!” he goes +on. “I’ve put a <i>lot</i> of fellers t’ sleep with they +boots on! Come ahaid if you want t’ git planted +in my private graveyard!”</p> + +<p>Next, and whilst Mace was standin’ not ten +feet back of him, he seen me. He spit on his pistol +hand, and started my way.</p> + +<p>“You blamed polecat,” he hollered, “<i>I’ll</i> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_188'></a>188</span> +learn you t’ shoot off you’ mouth when it ain’t +loaded! You’ hands ain’t mates and you’ feet +don’t track, and I’m a-goin’ t’ plumb lay you +out!”</p> + +<p>I just stayed where I was. “What’s in you’ +craw, anyhow?” I called back.</p> + +<p>He didn’t answer. He let fly!</p> + +<p>Wal, sir, I doubled up like a jack-knife, and +went down kerflop. The boys got ’round me–say! +talk about you’ pale-faces!–and yelled to +Hank to stop. He drawed another gun, and, just +as I got t’ my feet, went backin’ off, coverin’ the +crowd all the time, and warnin’ ’em not t’ mix in.</p> + +<p>They didn’t. But someone else did–Mace. +Quick as a wink, she reached into a buckboard fer +a whip. Next, she run straight up to Hank–and +give him a <i>turrible</i> lick!</p> + +<p>He dropped his pistols and put his two arms +acrosst his eyes. “Mace! don’t!” he hollered. +(It’d sobered him, seemed like.) Then, he turned +and took to his heels.</p> + +<p>That same second, I heerd a yell–Bergin’s +voice. Next, the sheriff come tearin’ ’round the +corner and tackled Hank. The two hit the +ground like a thousand of brick.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_189'></a>189</span>Mace come runnin’ towards me, then. But the +boys haided her off, and wouldn’t let her git +clost.</p> + +<p>“Blood’s runnin’ all down this side of him,” +says Monkey Mike.</p> + +<p>Shore enough, it was!</p> + +<p>“Chub!” yells Buckshot, “git Billy Trowbridge!”</p> + +<p>“Don’t you cry, ner nothin’,” says Hairoil t’ +Mace. And whilst he helt her back, they packed +me acrosst the platform and up-stairs into one of +them rooms over the lunch-counter. And then, +’fore I could say Jack Robinson, they hauled my +coat off, put a wet towel ’round my forrid, and +put me into bed. After that, they pulled down +the curtains, and bunched t’gether on either side +of my pilla.</p> + +<p>“Shucks!” I says. “I’m all right. Let me up, +you blamed fools!”</p> + +<p>Just then, Monkey Mike come runnin’ in with +the parson, and the parson put out a hand t’ make +me be still. “My <i>dear</i> friend,” he says, “I’m +<i>sorry</i> this happened.” And he was so darned +worried lookin’ that I begun t’ think somethin’ +shore <i>was</i> wrong with me, and I laid quiet.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_190'></a>190</span>Next, the door opened and in come Mace!</p> + +<p>The room was so dark she couldn’t see much at +first. So, she stepped closter, walkin’ soft, like +she didn’t want to jar nobody. “Alec!” she says +tearful.</p> + +<p>“Macie!”</p> + +<p>She stooped over me.</p> + +<p>The boys turned they backs.</p> + +<p>Aw, my dear little gal! Her lips was cold, and +tremblin’.</p> + +<p>Wal, then she turned to the bunch, speakin’ +awful anxious. “Is he hurt bad?” she ast, low +like.</p> + +<p>“Naw,” I begun, “I<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>Monkey Mike edged ’twixt me and her, puttin’ +one hand over my mouth so ’s I couldn’t talk. +“We don’t know exac’ly,” he answers.</p> + +<p>“Boys!” she says, like she was astin’ ’em to +fergive her; and, “Alec!”</p> + +<p>Buckshot said afterwards that it <i>shore</i> was a +solemn death-bed scene. The parson was back +agin the wall, his chin on his bosom; I was chawin’ +the fingers offen Mike, and the rest of the fellers +was standin’ t’gether, laughin’ into they hats fit +t’ sprain they faces.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_191'></a>191</span>Billy come in then. “Doc,” says Macie, “save +him!”</p> + +<p>“I’ll do all I can,” promises Billy. “Let’s +hope he’ll pull through.”</p> + +<p>“Aw, Alec!” says Mace, again.</p> + +<p>Hairoil went up to her. “Mace,” he says, +“they’s one thing you can do that’d be a <i>mighty</i> +big comfort t’ pore Cupid.”</p> + +<p>“What’s that?” she ast, earnest as the devil. +“I’ll do <i>any</i>thin’ fer him.”</p> + +<p>“Marry him, Mace,” he says, “and try to nuss +him back t’ health again.”</p> + +<p>I was plumb amazed. “<i>Marry!</i>” I says.</p> + +<p>But ’fore I could git any more out, Mike shut +off my wind!</p> + +<p>Dear little gal! She wasn’t skittish no more: +She was so tame she’d ’a’ et right outen my hand. +“Parson,” she says, goin’ towards him, “will–will +you marry Alec and me–now?”</p> + +<p>“Dee-lighted,” says the parson, “–if he is able +t’ go through the ceremony.”</p> + +<p>“Parson,” I begun, pullin’ my face loose, “I +want<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>Mike give me a dig.</p> + +<p>I looked at him.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_192'></a>192</span>He wunk–<i>hard</i>.</p> + +<p>And then, I tumbled!</p> + +<p>Fer a minute, I just laid back, faint shore +enough, thinkin’ what a all-fired sucker I was. +And whilst I was stretched out that-a-way, Mace +come clost and give me her hand. The parson, he +took out a little black book.</p> + +<p>“<i>Dearly beloved,</i>” he begun, “<i>we are gathered +t’gether<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span></i>”</p> + +<p>It was then I sit up. “Parson, stop!” I says. +And to Mace, “Little gal, I ain’t a-goin’ t’ let +’em take no advantage of you. I <i>wasn’t</i> hit in the +side. It’s my arm, and it’s only just creased a +little.”</p> + +<p>Mace kinda blinked, not knowin’ whether t’ be +glad ’r not, I reckon.</p> + +<p>“And this hull bsuiness,” I goes on, “is a +trick.”</p> + +<p>Her haid went up, and her cheeks got plumb +white. Then, she begun t’ back–slow. “A +trick!” she repeats; “–it’s a trick! Aw, how +mean! how <i>mean!</i> I didn’t think you was like +that!”</p> + +<p>“Me, Mace? It wasn’t<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“A trick!” she goes on. “But I’m glad I +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_193'></a>193</span> +found it out–<i>yas</i>. This afternoon when I was +talkin’ to y’, I wanted t’ stay right here in Briggs–I wanted t’ stay with you. If you’d just said +you wisht I would; if you’d just turned over you’ +hand, why, I’d ’a’ give up the trip. My heart was +achin’ t’ think I was goin’. But now, <i>now–</i>” +And she choked up.</p> + +<p>“Macie!” I says. “Aw, don’t!” Somehow I +was beginnin’ t’ feel kinda dizzy and sick.</p> + +<p>She faced the parson. “And you was in it, +too!–<i>you!</i>” she says.</p> + +<p>“I’d do anythin’ t’ keep you from goin’ t’ Noo +York,” he answers, “and from bein’ a’ actress.”</p> + +<p>She looked at Billy next. “The hull <i>town</i> was +in it!” she went on. “<i>Ev’ry</i>body was ready t’ +git me fooled; t’ make me the josh of the +county!”</p> + +<p>“No, <i>no,</i> little gal,” I answers, and got to my +feet byside the bed. “Not me, honey!”</p> + +<p>She only just turned and opened the door. “I +don’t wonder the rest of you ain’t got nothin’ t’ +say,” she says. “Why, I ain’t never <i>heerd</i> of +anythin’ so–so low.” And haid down, and sobbin’, +she went out.</p> + +<p>I tried t’ foller, but my laigs was sorta wobbley. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_194'></a>194</span> +I got just a step ’r two, and put a’ arm on +Billy’s shoulder.</p> + +<p>The boys went out then, too, not sayin’ a word, +but lookin’ some sneaky.</p> + +<p>“Bring her back,” I called after ’em. “Aw, +I’ve hurt my pore little gal!” I started t’ walk +again, leanin’ on the doc. “Boys!<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>Next thing, over I flopped into Billy’s arms.</p> + +<hr class='tb' /> + +<p>When I come to, a little later on, here was +Billy settin’ byside me, a’ awful sober look on his +face.</p> + +<p>“Billy,” I says to him, “where is she?”</p> + +<p>“Cupid–don’t take it hard, ole man–she’s–she’s gone. Boarded the East-bound not half +a’ hour ago. But, pardner<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>Gone!</p> + +<p>I didn’t answer him. I just rolled over onto +my face.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_195'></a>195</span><a id='link_8'></a>CHAPTER EIGHT<br /><span class='h2fs'>ANOTHER SCHEME, AND HOW IT PANNED OUT</span></h2> + +<p><span class='sc'>Wal</span>, pore ole Sewell! <i>I</i> wasn’t feelin’ dandy +them days, you’d better believe. But, Sewell, he +took Macie’s goin’ <i>turrible</i> bad. Whenever he +come in town, he was allus just as <i>qui-i-et</i>. +Not a cheep about the little gal; wouldn’t ’a’ +laughed fer a nickel; and never’d go anywheres +nigh the lunch-counter. Then, he begun t’ git +peakeder’n the dickens, and his eyes looked as big +as saucers, and bloodshot. Pore ole boss!</p> + +<p>I kept outen his way. He’d heerd all about +that Shackleton business, y’ savvy, and was awful +down on me; helt me <i>re</i>sponsible fer the hull +thing, and tole the boys he never wanted t’ set +eyes on me again. Hairoil went to him and said +I’d been jobbed, and was innocenter’n Mary’s +little lamb. But Sewell wouldn’t listen even, and +said I’d done him dirt.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_196'></a>196</span>A-course, I couldn’t go back t’ my Bar Y +job, then,–and me plumb crazy t’ git to work +and make enough t’ go to Noo York on! But I +didn’t do no mournin’; I kept a stiff upper lip. +“Cupid,” I says to myself, “allus remember +that the gal that’s hard t’ ketch is the best kind +when oncet you’ve got her.” And I sit down and +writ the foreman of the Mulhall outfit. (By +now, my arm was all healed up fine.)</p> + +<p>Wal, when I went over to the post-office a little +bit later on, the post-master tole me that Sewell’d +just got a letter from Macie!–but it hadn’t +seemed t’ chirp the ole man up any. And they +was one fer Mrs. Trowbridge, too, he says; did +I want to look at it?</p> + +<p>“I don’t mind,” I answers.</p> + +<p>It was from her–I’d know her little dinky l’s +<i>anywheres</i>. I helt it fer a minute–’twixt my +two hands. It was like I had her fingers, kinda. +Then, “S’pose they ain’t nothin’ fer me t’day,” +I says.</p> + +<p>“No, Cupid,–sorry. Next time, I reckon.”</p> + +<p>“Wal,” I goes on “would you mind lettin’ me +take this over t’ Rose?”</p> + +<p>“Why, no,–go ahaid.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_197'></a>197</span>I went, quick as ever my laigs could carry me, +the letter tucked inside my shirt.</p> + +<p>Rose read it out loud t’ me, whilst I helt the +kid. It wasn’t a long letter, but, somehow, I never +could recollect afterwards just the exac’ words +that was in it. I drawed, though, that Mace was +havin’ a <i>way</i>-up time. She was seein’ all the +shows, she said, meetin’ slathers of folks, and had +a room with a nice, sorta middle-aged lady, in a +place where a lot of young fellers and gals hung +out t’ study all kinds of fool business. Some of +’em she liked, and some she didn’t. Some took +her fer a greeney, and some was fresh. But she +was learnin’ a pile–and ’d heerd Susy’s Band!</p> + +<p>“Is that all?” I ast when Rose was done.</p> + +<p>“Yas, Cupid.”</p> + +<p>“Nothin’ about me?”</p> + +<p>“No.”</p> + +<p>“Does she give her <i>ad</i>dress?”</p> + +<p>“Just Gen’ral Deliv’ry.”</p> + +<p>“Thank y’, Rose.”</p> + +<p>“Stay t’ dinner, Cupid. I’m goin’ t’ have +chicken fricassee.”</p> + +<p>But I didn’t feel like eatin’. I put the kid +down and come away.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_198'></a>198</span>I made towards Dutchy’s–pretty blue, I was, +a-course. “Cupid,” I says, “bad luck runs in +you’ fambly like the wooden laig.”</p> + +<p>But, mind y’, I wasn’t goin’ with the idear of +boozin’ up, <i>no,</i> ma’am. <i>I</i> figger that if a gal’s +worth stewin’ over any, she’s a hull lot <i>too</i> good +fer a man that gits <i>drunk</i>. I went ’cause I +knowed the boys was there; and them days the +boys was <i>mighty</i> nice to me.</p> + +<p>Wal, this day, I’m powerful glad I went. If +I hadn’t, it’s likely I’d never ’a’ got that bully <i>po</i>-sition, +’r played Cupid again (without knowin’ +it)–and so got the one chanst I was a-prayin’ +fer.</p> + +<p>Now, this is what happened:</p> + +<p>I’d just got inside Dutchy’s, and was a-standin’ +behind Buckshot Milliken, watchin’ him bluff +the station-agent with two little pair, when I +heerd Hairoil a-talkin’ to hisself, kinda. “Dear +me suz!” he says (he was peerin’ acrosst the street +towards the deepot), “what blamed funny things +I see when I ain’t got no gun!”</p> + +<p>A-course, we all stampeded over and took a +squint. “Wal, when did <i>that</i> blow in?” says Bill +Rawson. And, “Say! ketch me whilst I faint!” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_199'></a>199</span> +goes on one of the Lazy X boys, making believe +as if he was weak in the laigs. The rest of just +haw-hawed.</p> + +<p>A young feller we’d never seen afore was +comin’ cater-corners from the station. He was +a slim-Jim, sorta salla complected, jaw clean +scraped, and he had on a pair of them tony pinchbug +spectacles. He was rigged out fit t’ kill–grey +store clothes, dicer same colour as the suit, +sky-blue shirt, socks tatooed green, and gloves. +He passed clost, not lookin’ our <i>di</i>rection, and +made fer the Arnaz rest’rant.</p> + +<p>Just as he got right in front of it, he come short +and begun readin’ the sign that’s over the door–</p> + +<div class='center'> +<p><i>Meals 25c<br /> +Start in and It’s a Habit<br /> +You cain’t Quit.</i></p> +</div> <!-- centered --> + +<p>Then we seen him grin like he was <i>turrible</i> +tickled, and take out a piece of paper t’ set somethin’ +down. Next, in he slides.</p> + +<p>We all dropped back and lined up again.</p> + +<p>“Not a sewin’-machine agent, ’r he’d ’a’ wore +a duster,” says Hairoil.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_200'></a>200</span>“And a patent medicine man would ’a’ had on +a stove-pipe,” adds Bergin.</p> + +<p>“Maype he iss a preacher,” puts in Dutchy, +lookin’ scairt as the dickens.</p> + +<p>“Nixey,” I says. “But if he was a drummer, +he’d ’a’ steered straight fer a thirst-parlour.”</p> + +<p>Missed it a mile–the hull of us. Minute, and +in run Sam Barnes, face redder’n a danger-signal.</p> + +<p>“Boys,” he says, all up in the air, “did y’ +see It? Wal, what d’ you think? It’s from Boston, +and It writes. I was at the Arnaz feed shop, +gassin’ Carlota, when It shassayed in. Said It +was down here fer the first time in a-a-all Its +life, and figgers t’ work this town fer book mawterial. +Gents, It’s a liter’toor sharp!”</p> + +<p>“Of all the <i>gall!</i>” growls Chub Flannagan, +gittin’ hot. “Goin’ t’ take a shy outen us!” And +I seen that some of the other boys felt like <i>he</i> +did.</p> + +<p>Buckshot Milliken spit in his hands. “I’ll go +over,” he says, “and just natu’lly settle that +dude’s hash. I’d <i>admire</i> t’ do it.”</p> + +<p>I haided him off quick. Then I faced the +bunch. “Gents,” I begun, “ain’t you just a little +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_201'></a>201</span> +bit hasty? Now, don’t git in a sweat. <i>Con</i>-sider +this subject a little ’fore you act. Sam, I +thought you <i>liked</i> t’ read liter’toor books.”</p> + +<p>Sam hauled out “Stealthy Steve”–a fav’-rite +of hisn. “Shore I do,” he answers. “But, as +I tole this Boston feller, no liter’toor’s been happenin’ +in Briggs lately–no killin’s, ’r train hole-ups.”</p> + +<p>“<i>That’s</i> right, Sam,” I says, sarcastic; “go +and switch him over t’ Goldstone,–when they +won’t be another book writer stray down this way +fer a coon’s age. Say! You got a haid like a +tack!”</p> + +<p>Sam dried up. I come back at the boys. +“Gents,” I <i>con</i>tinues, “don’t you see this is +Briggs City’s one big chanst?–the chanst t’ git +put in red letters on the railroad maps! T’ git +five square mile of this mesquite staked out into +town lots! You all know how we’ve had t’ take +the slack of them jay-hawk farmers over Cestos +way; and they ain’t such a <i>much,</i> and cain’t raise +nothin’ but shin-oak and peanuts and chiggers. +But they tell how <i>we</i> git all the cyclones and rattlesnakes.</p> + +<p>“Now, we’ll curl they hair. Listen, gents,–Oklahomaw +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_202'></a>202</span> +City’s got element streets, Guthrie’s +got a Carniggie lib’rary, and Bliss’s got the +Hunderd-One Ranch. <i>And we’re a-goin’ t’ cabbage +this book!</i>”</p> + +<p>“Wal, that’s a hoss of another colour,” admits +Chub.</p> + +<p>“Yas,” says Buckshot, “Cupid’s right. We +certainly got to attend to this visitor that’s come +to our enterprisin’ city, and give him a fair +shake.”</p> + +<p>“<i>But,</i>” puts in Sam, “we’re up a tree. Where’s +his mawterial?”</p> + +<p>“Mawterial,” I says, “–I don’t just savvy +what he means by that. But, boys, whatever it +is, we got t’ see that he <i>gits</i> it. Now, s’posin’ I +go find him, and sorta feel ’round a little, and +draw him out.”</p> + +<p>They was agreed, and I split fer the rest’rant. +Boston was there, all right, talkin’ to ole lady +Arnaz (but keepin’ a’ eye peeled towards Carlota), +and pickin’ the shucks offen a tamale. I +sit down and ast fer flapjacks. And whilst I was +waitin’ I sized him up.</p> + +<p>Clost to, I liked his looks. And from the jump, +I seen one thing–they wasn’t <i>no</i> showin’ off to +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_203'></a>203</span> +him, and no extra dawg (’r he wouldn’t ’a’ come +to a joint where meals is only two-bits). He was +a book-writer, but when he talked he didn’t use +no ten-dollar-a-dozen words. And, in place of +seegars, he smoked cigareets–and rolled ’em hisself +with <i>one</i> hand, by jingo!</p> + +<p>Wal, we had a nice, long parley-voo, me gittin’ +the hull sittywaytion as <i>re</i>gards his book, and +tellin’ him we’d shore lay ourselves out t’ help +him–if we didn’t, it wouldn’t be white; him, settin’ +down things ev’ry oncet in a while, ’r whittlin’ +a stick with one of them self-cockin’ jackknives.</p> + +<p>We chinned fer the best part of a’ hour. Then, +he made me a proposition. This was it: “Mister +Lloyd,” he says, “I’d like t’ have you with me +all the time I’m down here,–that’ll be three +weeks, anyhow. You could <i>ex</i>plain things, and–and +be a kinda bodyguard.”</p> + +<p>“Why, my friend,” I says, “<i>you</i> don’t need +no bodyguard in Oklahomaw. But I’ll be glad t’ +<i>ex</i>plain anythin’ I can.”</p> + +<p>“Course, I want t’ pay you,” he goes on; +“’cause I’d be takin’ you’ time<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“I couldn’t take no pay,” I breaks in. “And +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_204'></a>204</span> +if I was t’ have to go, why any one of the bunch +could help you just as good.”</p> + +<p>“Let’s talk business,” he says. “I like you, +and I don’t <i>want</i> you t’ go. Now, what’s you’ +time worth?”</p> + +<p>“I git forty a month.”</p> + +<p>“Wal, that suits me. And you’ job won’t be +a hard one.”</p> + +<p>“Just as you say.”</p> + +<p>So, then, we shook hands. But, a-course, I +didn’t swaller that bodyguard story,–I figgered +that what he wanted was t’ git in with the boys +through me.</p> + +<p>Wal, when I got back t’ the thirst-parlour, I +acted like I was loco. “Boys! boys! <i>boys!</i>” I hollered, +“I got a job!” And I give ’em all a whack +on the back, and I done a jig.</p> + +<p>Pretty soon, I was calmer. Then, I says, “I +ain’t a-goin’ t’ ride fer Mulhall,–not <i>this</i> month, +anyhow. This liter’toor gent’s hired me as his +book foreman. As I understand it, they’s some +things he wants, and I’m to help corral ’em. He +says that just now most folks seem t’ be takin’ a +lot of interest in the West. He don’t reckon the +fashion’ll keep up, but, a-course a book-writer +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_205'></a>205</span> +has t’ git on to the band-wagon. So, it’s up t’ me, +boys, to give him what’s got to be had ’fore the +<i>ex</i>citement dies down.”</p> + +<p>Hairoil come over t’ me. “Cupid,” he says, +“the hull kit and boodle of us’ll come in on this. +We want t’ help, that’s the reason. We <i>owe</i> it to +y’, Cupid.”</p> + +<p>“Boys,” I answers, “I appreciate what you +mean, and I <i>ac</i>cept you’ offer. Thank y’.”</p> + +<p>“What does this feller want?” ast Sam.</p> + +<p>“Wal,” I says, “he spoke a good bit about +colour<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“They’s shore colour at the Arnaz feed shop,” +puts in Monkey Mike; “–them strings of red +peppers that the ole lady keeps hung on the walls. +And we can git blue shirts over to Silverstein’s.”</p> + +<p>“No, Mike,” I says, “that ain’t the idear. Colour +is <i>Briggs,</i> and <i>us.</i>”</p> + +<p>“Aw, punk!” says Sam. “What kind of a +book is it goin’ t’ be, anyhow, with us punchers +in it!”</p> + +<p>“Wait till you hear what I got t’ <i>do,</i>” I answers. +“To <i>con</i>tinue: He mentioned char<i>ac</i>ters. +Course, I had to <i>ad</i>mit we’re kinda shy on <i>them.</i>”</p> + +<p>“Wisht we had a few Injuns,” says Hairoil. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_206'></a>206</span> +“A scalpin’ makes <i>mighty</i> fine readin’. Now, +mebbe, ’Pache Sam’d pass,–if he was lickered up +proper.”</p> + +<p>“Funny,” I says, “but he didn’t bring up Injuns. +Reckon they ain’t stylish no more. But he +put it plain that he’d got to have a bad man. +Said in a Western book you <i>allus</i> got t’ have a +bad man.”</p> + +<p>“Since we strung up them two Foster boys.” +says Bergin, “Briggs ain’t had what you’d call a +bad man. In view of this writin’ feller comin’, I +don’t know, gents, but what we was a little <i>hasty</i> +in the Foster matter.”</p> + +<p>“Wal,” I says, “we got t’ do our best with +what’s left. This findin’ mawterial fer a book +ain’t no dead open-and-shut proposition. ’Cause +Briggs ain’t big, and it ain’t what you’d call bad. +That’ll hole us back. But let’s dig in and make +up fer what’s lackin’.”</p> + +<p>Wal, we rustled ’round. First off, we togged +ourselves out the way punchers allus look in magazines. +(I knowed that was how he wanted us.) +We rounded up all the shaps in town, with orders +to wear ’em constant–and made Dutchy keep +’em on, too! Then, guns: Each of us carried six, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_207'></a>207</span> +kinda like a front fringe, y’ savvy. Next, one of +the boys loped out t’ the Lazy X and brung in a +young college feller that’d come t’ Oklahomaw a +while back fer his health. It ’pears that he’d +been readin’ a Western book that was writ by a’ +Eastern gent somewheres in Noo Jersey. And, +say! he was the wildest lookin’ cow-punch that’s +ever been saw in these parts!</p> + +<p>We’d no more’n got all fixed up nice when, +“Ssh!” says Buckshot, “here he comes!”</p> + +<p>“Quick, boys!” I says, “we got t’ sing. It’s +expected.”</p> + +<p>The sheriff, he struck up<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span></p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p class='i'>“Paddy went to the Chinaman with only one shirt.</p> +<p class='i'> How’s that?”</p> +</div> + +<p>“<i>That’s tough!</i>” we hollers, loud enough to lift the shakes.</p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p class='i'>“He lost of his ticket, says, ‘Divvil the worse’,</p> +<p class='i'> How’s that?”</p> +</div> + +<p>“<i>That’s tough!</i>”</p> + +<p>Mister Boston stopped byside the door. The +sheriff goes on<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span></p> + +<div class='poetry'> +<p class='i'><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_208'></a>208</span>“Aw, Pat fer his shirt, he begged hard and plead,</p> +<p class='i'>But, ‘No tickee, no washee’, the Chinaman said.</p> +<p class='i'>Now Paddy’s in jail, and the Chinaman’s dead!</p> +<p class='i'> How’s that?”</p> +</div> + +<p>“<i>That’s tough!</i>”</p> + +<p>It brung him. He looked in, kinda edged +through the door, took a bench, and <i>sur</i>veyed +them shaps, and them guns till his eyes plumb +<i>pro</i>truded. “Rippin’!” I heerd him say.</p> + +<p>“‘That's tough,’” repeats Monkey Mike, +winkin’ to the boys. “Wal, I should <i>re</i>mark it +was!–to go t’ jail just fer pluggin’ a Chink. +Irish must ’a’ felt like two-bits.”</p> + +<p>Boston lent over towards me. “What’s two +bits?” he ast.</p> + +<p>“What’s two bits,” says Rawson. “Don’t you +know? Wal, <i>one</i> bit is what you can take outen +the other feller’s hide at one mouthful. <i>Two</i> bits, +a-course, is two of ’em.”</p> + +<p>“And,” says that college feller from the Lazy +X, “go fer the cheek allus–the best eatin’.” (He +was smart, all right.)</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_209'></a>209</span>“Not a Chinaman’s cheek–too tough,” says +the sheriff.</p> + +<p>Boston begun to kinda talk to hisself. “Horrible!” +he says. “Shy Locks, by Heaven!” Then +to me again, speakin’ low and pointin’ at the +sheriff, “Mister Lloyd, what kind of a fambly +did that man come from?”</p> + +<p>“Don’t know a hull lot about him,” I answers, +“but his mother was a squaw, and his father was +found on a doorstep.”</p> + +<p>“A <i>squaw,</i>” he says. “That accounts fer it.” +And he begun to watch the sheriff clost.</p> + +<p>“Gents, what you want fer you’ supper?” ast +the Arnaz boy, comin’ our <i>di</i>rection.</p> + +<p>“I feel awful caved in,” answers Buckshot. +“I’ll take a dozen aigs.”</p> + +<p>“How’ll you have ’em?”</p> + +<p>“Boil ’em hard, so’s I can hole ’em in my +fingers. And say, cool ’em off ’fore you dish ’em +up. I got blistered <i>bad</i> the last time I et aigs.”</p> + +<p>“Rawson, what’ll <i>you</i> have?”</p> + +<p>Rawson, he kinda cocked one ear. “Wal,” he +says, easy like, “give me rattlesnake on toast.”</p> + +<p>Nobody cheeped fer a minute, ’cause the boys +was stumped fer somethin’ to go on with. But +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_210'></a>210</span> +just as I was gittin’ nervous that the conversation +was peterin’ out, Boston speaks up.</p> + +<p>“Rattlesnake?” he says; “did he say <i>rattlesnake?</i>”</p> + +<p>Like a shot, Rawson turned towards him, +wrinklin’ his forrid and wigglin’ his moustache +awful fierce. “<i>That’s</i> what I said,” he answers, +voice plumb down to his number ’levens.</p> + +<p>It give me my show. I drug Boston away. +“Gee!” I says, “on <i>this</i> side of the Mississippi, +you got to be <i>keerful</i> how you go shoot off you’ +mouth! And when you <i>re</i>mark on folks’s eatin’, +you don’t want t’ look tickled.”</p> + +<p>Wal, that was all the colour he got till night, +when I had somethin’ more <i>pre</i>pared. We took +up a collection fer winda-glass, and Chub Flannagan, +who can roll a gun the <i>prettiest</i> you ever +seen, walked up and down nigh Boston’s stoppin’-place, +invitin’ the fellers t’ come out and +“git et up,” makin’ one ’r two of us dance the +heel-and-toe when we showed ourselves, and +shootin’ up the town gen’ally.</p> + +<p>Then, fer a week, nothin’ happened.</p> + +<p>It was just about then that Rose got another +letter from Macie. And it seemed t’ me that the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_211'></a>211</span> +little gal ’d changed her tune some. She said +Noo York took a <i>turrible</i> lot of money–clothes, +and grub, and so forth and so on. Said they was +so blamed little oxygen in the town that a lamp +wouldn’t burn, and they’d got to use ’lectricity. +And–that was all fer <i>this</i> time, ’cause she had t’ +write her paw.</p> + +<p>“I s’pose,” I says to Rose, “that it’d be wastin’ +my breath t’ ast<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“Yas, Cupid,” she answers, “but it’ll be O. +K. when she sees you.”</p> + +<p>“<i>I</i> reckon,” I says hopeful. And I hunted up +my new boss.</p> + +<p>He didn’t give me such a lot t’ do them days–except +t’ show up at the feed-shop three times +reg’lar. That struck me as kinda funny–’cause +he was as flush as a’ Osage chief.</p> + +<p>“Why don’t you grub over to the eatin’-house +oncet in a while?” I ast him. “They got all <i>kinds</i> +of tony things–tomatoes and cucumbers and as-paragrass, +and them little toadstool things.”</p> + +<p>“And out here in the desert!” says Boston. +“I s’pose they bring ’em from other places.”</p> + +<p>“Not on you’ life!” I answers. “They grow +’em right here–in flower pots.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_212'></a>212</span>Out come a pencil. “How pictureskew!” Boston +says,–and put it down.</p> + +<p>End of that first week, when I stopped in at +the Arnaz place fer supper, I says to him, “Wal,” +I says, “book about done?”</p> + +<p>He was layin’ back lazy in a chair,–<i>as</i> usual–watchin’ Carlota trot the crock’ry in. He batted +his eyes. “Done!” he repeats. “<i>No</i>. Why, +I ain’t got only a few notes.”</p> + +<p>“Notes?” I says; “notes?” I was <i>turrible</i> +disappointed. (I reckon I was worryin’ over the +book worse’n <i>he</i> was.) “Why, say, couldn’t you +make nothin’ outen that bad man who was +a-paintin’ the town the other night?”</p> + +<p>“Just a bad man don’t make a book,” says +Boston; “leastways, only a yalla-back. But take +a bad man, and a <i>gal,</i> and you git a story of <i>ad</i>-venture.”</p> + +<p>A gal. Yas, you need a gal fer a book. And +you need <i>the</i> gal if you want t’ be right happy. I +knowed that. Pretty soon, I ast, “Have you +picked on a gal?”</p> + +<p>“Here’s Carlota,” he says. “<i>She’d</i> make a +figger fer a book.”</p> + +<p>Carlota!–the little skeezicks! Y’ see, she’s <i>aw-ful</i> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_213'></a>213</span> +pretty. Hair blacker’n a stack of black cats. +Black eyes, too,–big and friendly lookin’. +(That’s where you git fooled–Carlota’s a blend +of tiger-cat and bronc; she can purr ’r pitch–take +you’ choice.) Her face is just snow white, +with a little bit of pink–now y’ see it, now y’ +don’t see it–on her cheeks, and a little spot of +blazin’ red fer a mouth.</p> + +<p>“But what I’m after most now,” he goes on, +“is a plot.”</p> + +<p>A plot, y’ savvy, is a story, and I got him +the best I could find. This was Buckshot’s:</p> + +<p>“Boston, this is a <i>blamed</i> enterprisin’ country,–almost <i>any</i> ole thing can happen out here. Did +you ever hear tell how Nick Erickson got his +stone fence? No? You could put <i>that</i> in a book. +Wal, you know, Erickson lives east of here. Nice +hunderd and sixty acres he’s got–level, no +stones. Wanted t’ fence it. Couldn’t buy lumber +’r wire. Figgered on haulin’ stone, only stone was +so blamed far t’ haul. Then,–Nature was accommodatin’. +Come a’ earthquake that shook and +shook the ranch. Shook all the stones to the +top. Erickson picked ’em up–and built the +fence.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_214'></a>214</span>But Boston was hard t’ satisfy. So I tried to +tell him about Rose and Billy.</p> + +<p>“No,” he says; “if they’s <i>one</i> thing them +printin’ fellers won’t stand fer it’s a hero<i>ine</i> that’s +hitched.”</p> + +<p>So, then, I branched off on to pore Bud +Hickok.</p> + +<p>“No,” says Boston, again; “<i>that</i> won’t do. +It’s got to end up happy.”</p> + +<p>Wal, it looked as if that book was goin’ fluey. +To make things worse, the boys begun kickin’ +about havin’ t’ pack so many guns. And I had +to git up a notice, signed by the sheriff, which +said that more’n two shootin’-irons on any one +man wouldn’t be ’lowed no more, and that cityzens +was t’ “shed forthwith.”</p> + +<p>I seen somethin’ had got t’ be done pronto. +“Cupid,” I says to myself, “you <i>must con</i>sider +that there book of Boston’s some more. ’Pears +that Boston ain’t gittin’ all he come after. Nothin’ +ain’t happenin’ that he can put into a book. +Wal, it’s <i>got</i> t’ happen. Just chaw on <i>that.</i>”</p> + +<p>Next, I hunted up the boys. “Gents,” I says +to ’em, “help me find a bad man that’ll fit into a +story with a gal.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_215'></a>215</span>“Gal?” they repeats.</p> + +<p>“Yas; every book has got t’ have a gal.”</p> + +<p>“I s’pose,” says Rawson. “Just like ev’ry herd +had got t’ have a case of staggers. But–who’s +the gal?”</p> + +<p>The boys all lent towards me, fly-traps wide +open.</p> + +<p>“Carlota Arnaz,” I answers.</p> + +<p>Some looked plumb eased in they minds–and +some didn’t. Carlota, she’s ace-high with quite a +bunch–all ready t’ snub her up and marry her.</p> + +<p>“The Senorita’ll do,” says Rawson. “She +gen’ally makes out t’ keep <i>some</i> man mis’rable.”</p> + +<p>And fer the bad man, we picked out Pedro +Garcia, the cholo that was mixed up in that mete’rite +business. Drunk ’r sober, fer a hard-looker +Pedro shore fills the bill.</p> + +<p>Next, we hunted ev’ry which way fer a plot. +“I’ll tell y’,” says Californy Jim, that ole prospector +that hangs ’round here; “if the lit’rary +lead has pinched out, why don’t you <i>salt</i>–<i>and +pretend to make a strike?</i>”</p> + +<p>Hairoil pricked up his ears. “Wouldn’t that +be somethin’ like a–a scheme?” he ast; “somethin’ +like that we planned out fer Cupid here?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_216'></a>216</span>“Yas.”</p> + +<p>The hull bunch got plumb pale. Then they +made fer the door.,</p> + +<p>“Wait, boys!” I hollered. “<i>Hole</i> on! Remember +this is a scheme that’s been <i>ast</i> fer.”</p> + +<p>They stopped.</p> + +<p>“And,” I says, “it looks pretty good t’ <i>me.</i>”</p> + +<p>They turned back–shakin’ they haids, though. +“Just as you say, Cupid,” says Rawson. And, +“Long’s it’s fer <i>you,</i>” adds the sheriff. “But +schemes is some dangerous.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll tell y’!” begins Sam Barnes. “We’ll hole +up the dust wagon from the Little Rattlesnake +Mine, all of us got up like Jesse James!”</p> + +<p>Bill Rawson jumped nigh four feet. “You +go soak you’ haid!” he begun, mad’s a hornet. +“Hole up the dust wagon! And whichever of us +mule-skinners happens t’ be bringin’ it in’ll git +the G. B. from that high-falutin’ gent in the +States that owns the shootin’-match. No, <i>ma’am!</i> +And if <i>that’s</i> the kind of plot you-all ’re hankerin’ +after, you can just count me <i>outen</i> this hawg-tyin’!”</p> + +<p>“That’s right–sic ’em, Towser; git t’ fightin’,” +I says. “Now, Bill, <i>work</i> you’ hole-back +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_217'></a>217</span> +straps. I cain’t say as Sam’s plan hit the right +spot with me, neither. ’Cause how could <i>Carlota</i> +figger in that pow-wow? Won’t do.”</p> + +<p>Wal, after some more pullin’ and haulin’, we +fixed it up this way: Pedro’d grab Carlota and +take her away on a hoss whilst Boston and the +passel of us was in the Arnaz place. He was t’ +hike north, and drop her at the Johnson shack +on the edge of town–then go on, takin’ a dummy +in her place, and totin’ a brace of guns filled with +blanks. We’d foller with plenty of blanks, too–and +Boston. How’s that fer high!</p> + +<p>If you want to ast me, I think the hull idear +was just <i>O. K.,</i> and no mistake. Beautiful gal +kidnapped–bra-a-ave posse of punchers–hard +ride–hot fight–rescue of a pilla stuffed with +the best alfalfa on the market. <i>Pro</i>cession files +back, all sand and smiles.</p> + +<p>“Why,” I says to Bergin, “them Eastern +printin’ fellers’ll set ’em up fer Boston so fast +that he’ll plumb float.”</p> + +<p>And the sheriff agreed.</p> + +<p>But it couldn’t happen straight off. Pedro had +t’ be tole about it, and give his orders. Carlota, +the same. I managed this part of the shindig, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_218'></a>218</span> +the boys gittin’ the blanks, the hosses and the hay +lady.</p> + +<p>Wal, I rode down to the section-house and ast +fer Pedro. He come out, about ten pounds of +railroad ballast–more ’r less–spread on to them +features of hisn. (<i>That</i>’d ’a’ been colour fer Boston, +all right.) I tole him what we was goin’ t’ +do, <i>why</i> we was a-doin’ it, and laid out <i>his</i> share +of the job. Then I tacked on that the gal he’d +steal was Carlota.</p> + +<p>Now, as I think about it, I <i>re</i>call that he looked +<i>mighty</i> tickled. Grinned all over and said, “Me +gusta mucho” more’n a dozen times. But <i>then</i> +I didn’t pay no ’tention to how he acted. I was +so glad he’d fall in with me. (The Ole Nick take +the greasers! A’ out-and-out, low-down lot of +sneakin’ coyotes, anyhow! And I might ’a’ +<i>knowed</i><span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>)</p> + +<p>“Pedro,” I says, “they’s no rush about this. +We’ll kinda work it up slow. T’ make the hull +thing seem dead real, you come to town ev’ry +evenin’ fer a while, and hang ’round the rest’rant. +Spend a little spondulix with the ole woman so’s +she won’t kick you out, and shine up t’ Carlota +when Boston’s on the premises. Ketch on?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_219'></a>219</span>Pedro said he did, and I loped back to town t’ +meet up with Carlota and have it out with her–and +that was a job fer a caution!</p> + +<p>Carlota was all bronc that day–stubborn, +pawin’, and takin’ the bit. And if I kept up with +her, and come out in the lead, it was ’cause I’d +had some <i>ex</i>perience with Macie, and I’d learned +when t’ leave a rambunctious young lady have +her haid.</p> + +<p>“Carlota,” I says, “us fellers has fixed up a +mighty nice scheme t’ help out Boston with that +book he’s goin’ to write.”</p> + +<p>“So?” She was all awake–quicker’n scat.</p> + +<p>“Yas,” I goes on. “Y’ know, he’s been +wantin’ somethin’ <i>ex</i>citin’ t’ put in it. We figger +t’ give it to him.”</p> + +<p>“Como?” she ast.</p> + +<p>“With a case of kidnappin’. Man steals gal–we foller with Boston–lots of shootin’–save +the gal<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“What gal?”</p> + +<p>“It’s a big honour–and we choosed you.”</p> + +<p>“So-o-o!”</p> + +<p>Say! that hit her right, <i>I</i> tell y’! But I had to +go put my foot in it, a-course. “Yas, <i>you,</i>” I +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_220'></a>220</span> +goes on. “Mebbe you noticed Boston’s here +pretty frequent?”</p> + +<p>“Si! si! si! señor!”</p> + +<p>“That’s ’cause he’s been studyin’ you–so’s he +could use you fer a book char<i>ac</i>ter.”</p> + +<p>“So!” she said. “<i>That</i> is it! <i>that</i> is why!” +Mad? Golly! Them black eyes of hern just +snapped, and she grabbed a hunk of bread and +begun knifin’ it.</p> + +<p>“Wal,” I says, “you don’t seem t’ ketch on to +the fact that you been handed out a blamed big +compliment. A person in a <i>book</i> is <i>some potatoes.</i>”</p> + +<p>“No! <i>no!</i> señor!”</p> + +<p>Pride hurt, I says to myself. “Now, Carlota,” +I begun, “don’t cut off you’ nose t’ spite +you’ face. Pedro Garcia is turrible tickled that +we ast <i>him.</i>”</p> + +<p>“Pedro–puf!”</p> + +<p>“In the book,” I goes on, “he’s the bad man +that loves you so much he cain’t help stealin’ +you.”</p> + +<p>“I <i>hate</i> Pedro,” she says. “He is like that–bad.”</p> + +<p>“But we ain’t astin’ you t’ <i>like</i> him, and he +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_221'></a>221</span> +don’t <i>git</i> you. He drops you off at Johnson’s +and takes a dummy the rest of the way. We +want t’ make Boston <i>think</i> they’s danger.”</p> + +<p>“So?” All of a suddent, she didn’t seem nigh +as mad–and she looked like she’d just thought +of somethin’.</p> + +<p>I seen my chanst. “That was the way we +fixed it up,” I goes on. “A-course, now you +don’t want t’ be the hero<i>ine,</i> I’ll ast one of the +eatin’-house gals. I reckon <i>they</i> won’t turn me +down.” And I moseyed towards the door.</p> + +<p>“Cupid,” she calls, “come back. You say, he +will think another man loves me so much that he +carries me away?”</p> + +<p>“You got it,” I answers.</p> + +<p>She showed them little nippers of hern. +“Good!” she says. “I do it!”</p> + +<p>“But, Carlota, listen. Boston ain’t to be next +that this is a put-up job. He’s to think it’s genuwine. +Savvy? And he’ll git all the feelin’s of a +real kidnap. Now, to fool him right, you got to +do one thing: Be nice t’ Pedro when Boston’s +’round.”</p> + +<p>Little nippers again. “I do it,” she says.</p> + +<p>I started t’ go, but she called me back. “He +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_222'></a>222</span> +will think another man loves me so much that he +carries me away?” she repeats.</p> + +<p>“<i>Shore,</i>” I says. And she let me go.</p> + +<p>Y’ know, <i>flirtin’</i> was Carlota’s strong suit. +And that very evenin’ I seen her talkin’ acrosst +the counter to Pedro sweeter’n panocha,–with +a takin’ smile on the south end of that cute little +face of hern. But her <i>eyes</i> wasn’t smilin’–and a +Spanish gal’s eyes don’t lie.</p> + +<p>But supper was late, and Boston and me was +at a table clost by,–him lookin’ ugly tempered. +So ole lady Arnaz tole Carlota t’ jar loose. And +pretty soon we was wrastlin’ our corn-beef, and +Pedro was gone.</p> + +<p>Rawson sit down nigh us. “Cupid,” he says +solemn, “reckon we won’t git to play that game +of draw t’-night.” And he give my foot a +kick.</p> + +<p>“Why?” I ast.</p> + +<p>“Account of Pedro bein’ in town. I figger t’ +stay clost to the bunk-house.”</p> + +<p>“So ’ll <i>I</i>,” I says, and begun examinin’ my +shootin’-iron mighty anxious.</p> + +<p>“Who’s this Pedro?” ast Boston.</p> + +<p>“Didn’t y’ see him?” I says. “He’s a greaser, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_223'></a>223</span> +and a’ awful bad cuss t’ monkey with. If you +happen t’ go past him and so much as wiggle a +finger, it’s like takin’ you’ life in you’ hands. +Look at this.” And I showed him a piece that +me and Hairoil ’d fixed up fer the last <i>EyeOpener</i>.</p> + +<p>“<i>Pedro Garcia,</i>” it read, “<i>was found not +guilty by Judge Freeman fer perforatin’ Nick +Trotmann’s sombrero in a street row last Saturday +night week. Proved that Nick got into Pedro’s +way and sassed him. Pedro ’d come to town +consider’ble the worse fer booze and, as is allus +the case</i>–” Then they was a inch ’r two without +no writin’. Under that was this: “<i>As a matter +of extreme precaution, we have lifted the last half +of the above article, havin’ got word that Garcia +is due in town again. Subscribers will please excuse +the gap. I didn’t git no time t’ fill it in. +Editor.</i>”</p> + +<p>“And what’s he doin’ in <i>here?</i>” says Boston, +“–talkin’ to a young gal!”</p> + +<p>“Half cracked about her,” puts in Bill. +“And if she won’t have him, ’r her maw interferes, +I’m feared they’ll be a tragedy.”</p> + +<p>“Low ruffian!” says Boston.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_224'></a>224</span>Later on, about ten o’clock, say, I was passin’ +the rest’rant, and I heerd a man singin’<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span></p> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p class='i'>“Luz de mi alma!</p> +<p class='i'> Luz de mi vida!”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>and that somethin’ was “despedosin’” his heart. +(I savvy the lingo pretty good.)</p> + +<p>Wal, it was that dog-goned cholo,–under +Carlota’s winda, and he had a guitar. Thunderation! +that wasn’t in our pro<i>gram!</i></p> + +<p>“Say, you!” I hollered.</p> + +<p>He shut up and come over, lookin’ kinda as if +he’d been ketched stealin’ sheep, but grinnin’ so +hard his eyes was plumb closed–the mean, little, +wall-eyed, bow-laigged swine!</p> + +<p>“Pedro,” I says, “you’ boss likely wants you. +Hit the ties.” ’Cause, mebbe Carlota ’d git mad +at his yelpin,’ and knock the hull scheme galley-west.</p> + +<p>Talk about you’ cheek! Next night, that +greaser and his guitar was doin’ business at the +ole stand. I let him alone. Carlota seemed t’ like +it. Anyhow, she didn’t hand him out no hot +soap suds through the winda, ’r no chairs and +tables.</p> + +<p>I was glad things was goin’ so nice. ’Cause +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_225'></a>225</span> +lately I’d had t’ worry about Mace a good deal. +Her letters had eased up a hull lot. Seems she’d +been under the weather fer a few days.</p> + +<p>When she writ again though, she said she was +O. K., but a-course Noo York <i>was</i> lonesome +when a person was sick. Op’ra prospects? Aw, +they was <i>fine!</i></p> + +<p>Next thing, I was nervouser’n a cow with the +heel-fly. <i>No</i> letters come from the little gal!–leastways, +none to Rose. And ev’ry day ole man +Sewell snooped ’round the post-office, lookin’ +more and more down in the mouth.</p> + +<p>“How’s Mace?” Rawson ast him oncet.</p> + +<p>“Tol’rable,” he answers, glum as all git out.</p> + +<p>That kidnappin’ was fixed on fer Saturday. +We didn’t tell Carlota that was the day. Her +maw might git wind of the job; ’r the gal ’d go +dress up, which ’d spoil the real look of the hull +thing. Then, on a Saturday, after five, Pedro +was free to come in town–and most allus +showed up with some more of the cholos, pumpin’ +a hand-car.</p> + +<p>This Saturday he come, all right, and went +over to Sparks’s corral fer a couple of hosses. +(Us punchers ’d tied our broncs over in the corral +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_226'></a>226</span> +too, so’s we’d have to run fer ’em when Pedro lit +out with the gal. And I’d picked that strawberry +roan of Sparks’s fer Boston. It was the +fastest critter on four laigs in the hull country. +Y’ see, I wanted Boston t’ lead the posse.)</p> + +<p>Six o’clock was the time named. It ’d give us +more ’n two hours of day fer the chase, and then +they’d be a nice long stretch of dusk–just the +kind of light fer circlin’ a’ outlaw and capturin’ +him, dead ’r alive!</p> + +<p>Wal, just afore the battle, mother, all us cow-punchers +happened into the Arnaz place. And +a-course, Boston was there. Me and him was +settin’ ’way back towards the kitchen-end of the +room. Pretty soon, we seen Pedro pass the front +winda, ridin’ a hoss and leadin’ another. His +loaded quirt was a-hangin’ to his one wrist, and +on his right laig was the gun filled with blanks +that we’d left at Sparks’s fer him. He stopped +at the far corner of the house, droppin’ the +bridle over the broncs’ haids so they’d stand. +Then he came to the side door, opened it about +a’ inch, peeked in at Carlota,–she was behind +the counter–and whistled.</p> + +<p>She walked straight over to him, smilin’–the +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_227'></a>227</span> +little cut-up!–and outen the door! Fer a minute, +no sound. Then, the signal–a screech.</p> + +<p>That screech was so blamed genuwine I almost +fergot to stick out my laig and trip Boston +as he come by me. Down he sprawled, them +spectacles of hisn flyin’ off and bustin’ to smithereens. +The boys bunched at the doors t’ cut off +the Arnaz boy and the ole lady. Past ’em, I +could see them two broncs, with Pedro and Carlota +aboard, makin’ quick tracks up the street.</p> + +<p>“Alas! yon villain has stole her!” says Sam +Barnes, throwin’ up his arms like they do in one +of them the<i>ay</i>ter plays.</p> + +<p>“Come,” yells Rawson. “We will foller and +sa-a-ave her.” Then he split fer the corral,–us +after him.</p> + +<p>When we got to it, we found somethin’ +funny: Our hosses was saddled and bridled all +right–<i>but ev’ry cinch was cut!</i></p> + +<p>Wal, you could ’a’ knocked me down with a +feather!</p> + +<p>That same minute, up come Hank Shackleton +on a dead run. “Boys!” he says, “that greaser +was half shot when he hit town. Got six more +jolts at Dutchy’s.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_228'></a>228</span>Fast as we could, we got some other saddles +and clumb on–Bill and Sam and me and Shackleton, +Monkey Mike, Buckshot Milliken and +the sheriff–and made fer Hairoil’s shack.</p> + +<p><i>No Carlota</i>–but that blamed straw feemale, +keeled over woeful, and a cow eatin’ her hair.</p> + +<p>Shiverin’ snakes! but we was a sick-lookin’ +bunch!</p> + +<p>But we didn’t lose no time. A good way ahaid, +some dust was travellin’. We spurred towards it, +cussin’ ourselves, wonderin’ why Carlota didn’t +turn her hoss, ’r stop, ’r jump, ’r put up one of +her tiger-cat fights.</p> + +<p>“What’s his idear?” says Monkey Mike. +“Where’s he takin’ her?”</p> + +<p>“Bee line fer the reservation,” says Buckshot.</p> + +<p>“Spanish church there. Makin’ her <i>e</i>lope.”</p> + +<p>“Wo-o-ow!” It was Sheriff Bergin. We’d +got beyond the Bar Y ranch-house, and ’d gone +down a slope into a kinda draw, like, and then up +the far side. This ’d brung us out on to pretty +high ground, and we could see, about a mile off, +two hosses gallopin’ side by side. “The gal’s +bronc is lame!” says the sheriff. “And Pedro’s +lickin’ it. We <i>got</i> him! Pull you’ guns.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_229'></a>229</span><i>Guns</i>. I got weaker’n a cat. And, all at the +same time, the other fellers remembered–and +<i>such</i> a howl. We had guns, <i>a-course</i>–<i>but they +was filled with blanks!</i></p> + +<p>We slacked a little.</p> + +<p>“Is that greaser loaded?” ast Bergin.</p> + +<p>“Give him blanks myself,” says Bill.</p> + +<p>Ahaid again, faster ’n ever. Carlota’s hoss +was shore givin’ out–goin’ on three feet, in little +jumps like a jackrabbit. Pedro wasn’t able t’ git +her on to <i>his</i> bronc, ’r else he was feard the critter +wouldn’t carry double. Anyhow, he was behind +her, everlastin’ly usin’ his quirt–and losin’ +ground.</p> + +<p>Pretty soon, we was so nigh we made out t’ +hear him. And when he looked back, we seen his +face was white, fer all he’s a greaser. Then, of a +suddent, he come short, half wheeled, waited till +we was closter, and fired.</p> + +<p>Somethin’ whistled ’twixt me and the sheriff–<i>ping-ng-ng!</i> It was lead, all right!</p> + +<p>And just then, whilst he was pullin’ t’ right +and left, scatterin’ quick, but shootin’ off blanks +(we was so <i>ex</i>cited), that strawberry roan of +Sparks’s come past us like a streak of lightnin’. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_230'></a>230</span> +And on her, with his dicer gone, no glasses, a +ca’tridge-belt ’round his neck, and a pistol in one +hand, was Boston!</p> + +<p>“Hi, you fool,” yells the sheriff, “You’ll git +killed!”</p> + +<p>(Tire Pedro out and then draw his fire was the +best plan, y’ savvy.)</p> + +<p>Boston didn’t answer–kept right on.</p> + +<p>But the run was up. Pedro ’d reached that ole +dobe house that Clay Peters lived in oncet, pulled +the door open, and makin’ Carlota lay flat on her +saddle (<i>she was tied on!</i>) druv in her hoss. Then, +he begun t’ lead in hisn–when Boston brung up +his hand and let her go–bang.</p> + +<p>Say! that greaser got a surprise. He give a +yell, and drawed back, lettin’ go his hoss. Then, +he shut the door to, and we seen his weasel face +at the winda.</p> + +<p>Boston’s gun come up again.</p> + +<p>“Look out,” I hollered. “You’ll hurt the +gal.”</p> + +<p>He didn’t shoot then, but just kept goin’. +Pedro fired and missed. Next minute, Boston +was outen range on the side of the house where +they wasn’t no winda, and offen his hoss; and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_231'></a>231</span> +the cholo was poppin’ at us as we come on, and +yellin’ like he was luny.</p> + +<p>But Boston, it seems, could hear Carlota sobbin’ +and cryin’ and prayin’. And it got in to his +collar. So darned if he didn’t run right ’round +to that winda and smash it in!</p> + +<p>Pedro shot at him, missed; shot again, still +yellin’ bloody murder.</p> + +<p>Boston wasn’t doin’ no yellin’. He was actin’ +like a blamed jack-in-the-box. Stand up, fire +through the winda, duck–stand up, duck<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span></p> + +<p>He got it. Stayed up a second too long oncet–then tumbled back’ards, kinda half runnin’ as +he goes down, and laid quiet.</p> + +<p>Pedro didn’t lean out t’ finish him; didn’t even +take a shot at us as we pulled up byside him and +got off.</p> + +<p>But the gal was callin’ to us. I picked up Boston’s +gun and looked in.</p> + +<p>Pedro was on the dirt floor, holdin’ his right +hand with his left. (No more shovelin’ fer <i>him</i>.)</p> + +<p>Wal, we opened the door, led Carlota’s +hoss out, set the little gal loose, and lifted her +down.</p> + +<p>At first, she didn’t say nothin’–just looked +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_232'></a>232</span> +to where Boston was. Then she found her feet +and went towards him, totterin’ unsteady.</p> + +<p>“Querido!” she calls; “querido!”</p> + +<p>Boston heerd her, and begun crawlin’ t’ meet +her. “All right, sweetheart,” he says, “–all +right. I ain’t hurt much.”</p> + +<p>Then they kissed–and we got <i>another</i> surprise +party!</p> + +<hr class='tb' /> + +<p>That night, as I was a-settin’ on a truck at the +deepot, thinkin’ to myself, and watchin’ acrosst +the tracks to the mesquite, here come Boston +’round the corner, and he set down byside me.</p> + +<p>“Wal, Cupid?” he says, takin’ holt of my +arm.</p> + +<p>“Boston,” I begun. “I–I reckon <i>you</i> don’t +need me no more.”</p> + +<p>“No,” says Boston, “I don’t. And I want t’ +square with y’. Now, the boys say you’re +plannin’ t’ go to Noo York later on–t’ take the +town t’ pieces and see what’s the matter with it, +eh?” And he dug me in the ribs.</p> + +<p>“Wal,” I answers, “I’ve <i>talked</i> about it–some.”</p> + +<p>“It’s a good idear,” he goes on. “But about +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_233'></a>233</span> +my bill–I hope you’ll think a hunderd and fifty +is fair, fer these three weeks.”</p> + +<p>“Boston!” I got kinda weak all to oncet. “I +cain’t take it. It wasn’t worth that.”</p> + +<p>“I got a plot,” he says, “and colour, and a bad +man, and”–smilin’ awful happy–“a gal. So +you get you’ trip right away. And don’t you +come back <i>alone.</i>”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_234'></a>234</span><a id='link_9'></a>CHAPTER NINE<br /><span class='h2fs'>A ROUND-UP IN CENTRAL PARK</span></h2> + +<p>The boys was a-settin’ ’long the edge of the +freight platform, Bergin at the one end of the +line, Hairoil at the other, and all of ’em either +a-chawin’ ’r a-smokin’. I was down in front, +doin’ a promynade back’ards and for’ards, (I +was itchin’ so to git started) and keepin’ one +eye peeled through the dark towards the southwest–fer +the haidlight of ole 202.</p> + +<p>“And, Cupid,” Sam Barnes was sayin’, +“you’ll find a quart of tanglefoot in that satchel +of yourn. Now, you might go eat somethin’ that +wouldn’t agree with you in one of them Eye-talian +rest’rants. Wal, a swaller of that firewater +’ll straighten you out pronto.”</p> + +<p>“Sam, that shore <i>is</i> thoughtful. Use my bronc +whenever you want to–she’s over in Sparks’s +corral. Allus speak t’ her ’fore you go up to her, +though. She’s some skittish.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_235'></a>235</span>“And keep you’ money in you’ boot-laig,” +begun the sheriff. “I’ve heerd that in Noo York +they’s a hull lot of people that plumb wear theyselves +out figgerin’ how t’ git holt of cash without +workin’ fer it.”</p> + +<p>“We’ll miss y’ <i>turrible,</i> Cupid,” breaks in +Hairoil. “I don’t hardly know what Briggs ’ll +do with you gone. Somehow you allus manage +t’ keep the <i>ex</i>citement up.”</p> + +<p>“But if things don’t go good in Noo York,” +adds Hank Shackleton, “why, just holler.”</p> + +<p>“Thank y’, Hank,–thank y’.”</p> + +<p>A little spot was comin’ and goin’ ’way down +the track. The bunch looked that <i>di</i>rection silent. +Pretty soon, we heerd a rumblin’, and the spot +got bigger, and steady.</p> + +<p>The boys got down offen the platform and we +moseyed over t’ where the end car allus stopped.</p> + +<p><i>Too-oo-oot!</i></p> + +<p>Shackleton reached out fer my hand. “Good-bye, +Cupid, you ole son-of-a-gun,” he says almost +squeezin’ the paw offen me.</p> + +<p>“Take keer of you’self,” says the sheriff.</p> + +<p>“Don’t let them fly Noo York dudes git you +scairt none” (this was Chub).</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_236'></a>236</span>“<i>That</i> ain’t you’ satchel, Cupid, that’s the +mail-bag.”</p> + +<p>“Wal, we’d rattle <i>any</i>body.”</p> + +<p>“Here’s Boston, <i>he</i> wants t’ say good-bye.”</p> + +<p>“Wave t’ the eatin’-house gals,–cain’t you see +’em at that upper winda?”</p> + +<p>“Cupid,”–it was Hairoil, and he put a’ arm +acrosst my shoulder–“<i>hope</i> you fergive me fer +puttin’ up that shootin’-scrape.”</p> + +<p>“Why, a-<i>course,</i> I do.”</p> + +<p>Then, whisperin’, “<i>She</i> was the gal I tole you +about that time, Cupid: The one I <i>said</i> I’d marry +you off to.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t mean it!”</p> + +<p>“I do. So–the best <i>kind</i> of luck, ole socks!”</p> + +<p>“Aw, <i>thank</i> y’, Hairoil.”</p> + +<p>Next, pushin’ his way through the bunch, I +seen Billy Trowbridge, somethin’ white in his +hand. “Cupid,” he says,–into my ear, so’s the +others couldn’t ketch it–“if the time ever +comes when the little gal makes a big success +back there in Noo York, ’r if the time comes +when she’s thinkin’ some of startin’ home t’ +Oklahomaw again, open this. It’s that other +letter of Up-State’s.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_237'></a>237</span>“I will, Doc–I will.”</p> + +<p>I clumb the steps of the end car and looked +round me. On the one side was the mesquite, all +black now, and quiet. Say! I hated t’ think it +didn’t stretch all the way East! Here, on the +other side was the deepot, and Dutchy’s, and +the bunk-house, and the feed-shop, and Silverstein’s, +and the post-office<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span></p> + +<p>“So long, Cupid!”–it was all-t’gether, gals +and fellers, too. Then, “Yee-ee-ee-oop!”–the +ole cow-punch yell.</p> + +<p>“So long, boys!” I waved my Stetson.</p> + +<p>Next thing, Briggs City begun t’ slip +back’ards–slow at first, then faster and faster. +The hollerin’ of the bunch got sorta fadey; the +deepot lights got littler and littler. Off t’ the +right, a new light sprung up–it was the lamp +in the sittin’-room at the Bar Y.</p> + +<p>“Boss,” I says out loud, “they’s a little, empty +rockin’-chair byside yourn t’-night. Wal, I’ll +never come back this way no more ’less you’ baby +gal is home at the ranch-house again t’ fill it.”</p> + +<p>Then, I picked up my satchel and hunted the +day-coach.</p> + +<p>A-course, when I reached Chicago, the first +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_238'></a>238</span> +thing I done was to take a fly at that railroad on +stilts. Next, I had t’ go over and turn my lanterns +on the lake. Pretty soon I was so all-fired +broke-in that I could stand on a street corner +without bein’ hitched. But people was a-takin’ +me fer Bill Cody, and the kids had a notion to +fall in behind when I walked any. So I made +myself look cityfied. I got a suit–a nice, kinda +brownish-reddish colour. I done my sombrero up +in a newspaper and pur<i>chased</i> a round hat, black +and turrible tony. I bought me some sateen +shirts,–black, too, with turn-down collars and +little bits of white stripes. A white satin tie last +of all, and, say! I was fixed!</p> + +<p>Wal, after seein’ Chicago, it stands t’ reason +that Noo York cain’t git a feller scairt so awful +much. Anyhow, it didn’t <i>me</i>. The minute I got +offen the train at the Grand Central, I got my +boots greased and my clothes breshed; then I +looked up one of them Fourth of July hitchin’-posts +and had my jaw scraped and my mane cut.</p> + +<p>“Pardner,” I says t’ the barber feller, “I +want t’ rent a cheap room.”</p> + +<p>“Look in the papers,” he <i>ad</i>vises.</p> + +<p>’Twixt him and me, we located a place afore +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_239'></a>239</span> +long, and he showed me how t’ git to it. Wal, sir, +I was settled in a jiffy. The room wasn’t bigger +’n a two-spot, and the bed was one of them jack-knife +kind. But I liked the looks of the shebang. +The lady that run it, she almost fell over when I +tole her I was a cow-punch.</p> + +<p>“Why!” she says, “are y’ shore? You’re tall +enough, but you’re a little thick-set. I thought +all cow-boys was very slender.”</p> + +<p>“No, ma’am,” I says; “we’re slender in books, +I reckon. But out in Oklahomaw we come in all +styles.”</p> + +<p>“Wal,” she goes on, “they’s something <i>else</i> +I want to ast. Now, you ain’t a-goin’ to shoot +’round here, are y’? Would you just as lief put +you’ pistols away whilst you’re in my house?”</p> + +<p>I got serious then. “Ma’am,” I says, “sorry +I cain’t oblige y’. But the boys tole me a gun is +plumb needful in Noo York. When it comes to +killin’ and robbin’, the West has got to back +outen the lead.”</p> + +<p>You oughta saw her face!</p> + +<p>But I didn’t want to look fer no other room, +so I pretended t’ knuckle. “I promise not to +blow out the gas with my forty-five,” I says, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_240'></a>240</span> +“and I won’t rope no trolley cars–if you’ll +please tell me where folks go in this town when +they want t’ ride a hoss?”</p> + +<p>“Why, in Central Park,” she answers, “on the +bridle path.”</p> + +<p>“Thank y’, ma’am,” I says, and lit out.</p> + +<p>A-course, ’most any person ’d wonder what +I’d ast the boardin’-house lady <i>that</i> fer. Wal, I +ast it ’cause I knowed Macie Sewell good enough +to lay my money on <i>one</i> thing: She was too all-fired +gone on hosses to stay offen a saddle more’n +twenty-four hours at a stretch.</p> + +<p>I passed a right peaceful afternoon, a-settin’ +at the bottom of a statue of a man ridin’ a big +bronc, with a tall lady runnin’ ahaid and wavin’ +a feather. It was at the beginnin’ of the park, +and I expected t’ see Mace come lopin’ by any +minute. Sev’ral gals <i>did</i> show up, and one ’r two +of ’em rid off on bob-tailed hosses, follered by +gezabas in white pants and doctor’s hats. Heerd +afterwards they was grooms, and bein’ the gals’ +broncs was bob-tailed, they had to go ’long to +keep off the flies.</p> + +<p>But Mace, she didn’t show up. Next day, I +waited same way. Day after, ditto. Seemed t’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_241'></a>241</span> +me ev’ry blamed man, woman and child in the +hull city passed me but her. And I didn’t know +a <i>one</i> of ’em. A Chink come by oncet, and when +I seen his pig-tail swingin’, I felt like I wanted +to shake his fist. About that time I begun to git +worried, too. “If she ain’t ridin’,” I says to myself, +“how ’m I ever goin’ to locate her?”</p> + +<p>Another day, when I was settin’ amongst the +kids, watchin’, I seen a feller steerin’ my way. +“What’s this?” I says, ’cause he didn’t have the +spurs of a decent man.</p> + +<p>Wal, when he came clost, he begun to smile +kinda sloppy, like he’d just had two ’r three. +“Why, hello, ole boy,” he says, puttin’ out a +bread-hooker; “I met you out West, didn’t I? +How are y’?”</p> + +<p>I had the sittywaytion in both gauntlets.</p> + +<p>“Why, yas,” I answers, “and I’m tickled to +sight a familiar face. Fer by jingo! I’m busted. +Can you loan me a dollar?”</p> + +<p>He got kinda sick ’round the gills. “Wal, the +fact is,” he says, swallerin’ two ’r three times, +“I’m clean broke myself.”</p> + +<p>Just then a gal with a pink cinch comes +walkin’ along. She was one of them Butte-belle +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_242'></a>242</span> +lookin’ ladies, with blazin’ cheeks, and hair that’s +a cross ’twixt <i>mo</i>lasses candy and the pelt of a +kit-fox. She was leadin’ a dog that looked +plumb ashamed of hisself.</p> + +<p>“Pretty gal,” says the mealy-mouthed gent, +grinnin’ some more. “And I know her. Like t’ +be interdooced?”</p> + +<p>“Don’t bother,” I says. (Her hay was a little +too weathered fer <i>me</i>.)</p> + +<p>“Nice red cheeks,” he says, rubbin’ his paws +t’gether.</p> + +<p>“Ya-a-as,” I says, “<i>mighty nice</i>. But you +oughta see the squaws out in Oklahomaw. They +varies it with yalla and black.”</p> + +<p>He give me a kinda keen look. Then he +moseyed.</p> + +<p>It wasn’t more ’n a’ hour afterwards when +somebody passed that I knowed–in one of them +dinky, little buggies that ain’t got no cover. +Who d’ you think it was?–that Doctor Bugs!</p> + +<p>I was at his hoss’s haid ’fore ever he seen me. +“Hole up, Simpson,” I says, “I want t’ talk to +you.”</p> + +<p>“Why, Alec Lloyd!” he says.</p> + +<p>“That’s my name.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_243'></a>243</span>“How ’d <i>you</i> git here?” He stuck out one of +them soft paws of hisn.</p> + +<p>“Wal, I got turned this way, and then I just +follered my nose.” (I didn’t take his hand. I’d +as soon ’a’ touched a snake.)</p> + +<p>“Wal, I’m glad t’ see you.” (That was a +whopper.) “How’s ev’rybody in Briggs?”</p> + +<p>“Never you mind about Briggs. I want t’ ast +<i>you</i> somethin’: Where’s Macie Sewell?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know.”</p> + +<p>“Don’t tell me that,” I come back. “I know +you’re lyin’. When you talked that gal into +the op’ra business, you had ’a’ ax t’ grind, yas, +you did. Now, <i>where is she?</i>”</p> + +<p>He looked plumb nervous. “I tell y’, I don’t +know,” he answers; “<i>honest,</i> I don’t. I’ve saw +her just oncet–the day after she got here. I offered +t’ do anythin’ I could fer her, but she +didn’t seem t’ appreciate my kindness.”</p> + +<p>“All right,” I says. “But, Simpson, listen: +If you’ve said a word t’ that gal that you oughtn’t +to, ’r if you’ve follered ’round after her any +when she didn’t want you should, you’ll hear from +<i>me</i>. Salt <i>that</i> down.” And I let him go.</p> + +<p>Meetin’ <i>him</i> that-a-way, made me feel a heap +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_244'></a>244</span> +better. If I could run into the only man I +knowed in the city of Noo York, then, sometime, +I’d shore come acrosst <i>her</i>.</p> + +<p>That was the last day I set on the steps of the +statue. About sundown, I ast a police feller if +anybody could ride in the park without me seein’ +’em from where I was. “Why, yas,” he says, +“they’s plenty of entrances, all right. This is +just where a few comes in and out. The best +way to see the riders is to go ride you’self.”</p> + +<p>Don’t know why I didn’t think of that <i>afore</i>. +But I didn’t lose no time. Next mornin’, I was +up turrible early and makin’ fer a barn clost to +the park. I found one easy–pretty frequent +thereabouts, y’ savvy,–and begun t’ dicker on +rentin’ a hoss. Prices was high, but I done my +best, and they led out a nag. And what do you +think? It had on one of them saddles with no +horn,–a shore enough <i>muley</i>.</p> + +<p>Say! that was a hard proposition. “I ast +fer a saddle,” I says, “not a postage stamp.” +But the stable-keeper didn’t have no other. So I +got on and rode slow. When I struck the timber, +I felt better, and I started my bronc up. +She was one of them kind that can go all day on +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_245'></a>245</span> +a shingle. And her front legs acted plumb +funny–jerked up and down. I figgered it was +the spring halt. But pretty soon I seen other +hosses goin’ the same way. So I swallered it, like +I done the saddle.</p> + +<p>But they was one thing about my cayuse made +me hot. She wouldn’t lope. No, ma’am, it was +trot, trot, trot, trot, till the roots of my hair was +loose, and the lights was near shook outen me. +You bet I was mighty glad none of the outfit +could see me!</p> + +<p>But if they’d ’a’ thought <i>I</i> was funny, they’d +’a’ had a duck-fit at what I seen. First a passel +of men come by, all in bloomers, humpin’ fast,–<i>up</i> +and down, <i>up</i> and down–Monkey Mike, +shore’s you live! None of ’em looked joyful, and +you could pretty nigh hear they knees squeak! +Then ’long come a gal, humpin’ just the same, +and hangin’ on to the side of her cayuse fer dear +life, lookin’ ev’ry step like she was goin’ to +avalanche. And oncet in a while I passed a feller +that was runnin’ a cultivator down the trail,–to +keep it nice and soft, I reckon, fer the ladies +and gents t’ fall on.</p> + +<p>But whilst I was gettin’ kinda used to things, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_246'></a>246</span> +I didn’t stop keepin’ a’ eye out. I went clean +’round the track twicet. No Macie. I tell y’, I +begun to feel sorta caved-in. Then, all of a suddent, +just as I was toppin’ a little rise of ground, +I seen her!</p> + +<p><i>She</i> wasn’t hangin’ on to the side of her hoss, +no, ma’am! She was ridin’ the prettiest <i>kind</i> of +a bronc, fat and sassy. And she was settin’ +a-straddle, straight and graceful, in a spick-and-span +new suit, and a three-cornered hat like +George Washington.</p> + +<p>I let out a yell that would ’a’ raised the hair +of a reservation Injun. “Macie Sewell!” I +says–just like that. I give my blamed little nag +a hit that put her into her jerky trot. And I +come ’longside, humpin’ like Sam Hill.</p> + +<p>She pulled her hoss down to a standstill; and +them long eye-winkers of hern lifted straight +up into the air, she was so surprised. “Alec!” +she says.</p> + +<p>“Yas, Alec,” I answers. “Aw, dear little gal, +is y’ glad t’ see me?”</p> + +<p>“Wal, what ’re <i>you</i> doin’ here!” she goes on. +“I cain’t hardly believe what I see.”</p> + +<p>I was so blamed flustered, and so happy, and +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_247'></a>247</span> +so–so scairt, that I had t’ go say the <i>one</i> thing +that was plumb foolish. “I’m on hand t’ take +you back home if you’re ready,” I answers. +(Hole on till I give myself another good, ten-hoss-power +kick!)</p> + +<p>Up till now, her look ’d been all friendly +enough. But now of a suddent it got cold and +offish. “Take me home!” she begun; “<i>home!</i> +Wal, I like that! Why, I’m just about t’ make +a great, big success, <i>yas</i>. And I’ll thank you not +t’ spoil my chanst with any more of you’ tricks.” +She swung her bronc round into the trail.</p> + +<p>“Macie! Spoil you’ chanst!” I answers. +“Why, honey, I wouldn’t do that. I only want +t’ be friends<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>Her eyes can give out fire just like her paw’s. +And when I said that, she give me one turrible +mad stare. Then, she throwed up her chin, +spurred her bronc, and went trottin’ off, +a-humpin’ the same as the rest of the ladies.</p> + +<p>I follered after her as fast as I could. +“Macie,” I says, “talk ain’t goin’ t’ show you +how I feel. And I’ll not speak to you again till +you want me to. But I’ll allus be clost by. And +if ever you need me<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_248'></a>248</span>She set her hoss into a run then. So I fell behind–and +come nigh pullin’ the mouth plumb +outen that crow-bait I was on. “Wal, Mister +Cupid,” I says to myself, “that Kansas cyclone +the boss talked about seems t’ be still a-movin’.”</p> + +<p>I wasn’t discouraged, though,–I wasn’t discouraged.</p> + +<p>“One of these times,” I says, “she’ll come t’ +know that I only want t’ help her.”</p> + +<p>Next mornin’, I started my jumpin’-jack +business again. And <i>that</i> whack, I shore got a +rough layout: ’Round and ’round that blamed +park, two hunderd and forty-’leven times, without +grub, ’r a drink, ’r even water! And me +a-hirin’ that hoss <i>by the hour!</i></p> + +<p>Just afore sundown, she showed up, and +passed me with her eyes fixed on a spot about +two miles further on. A little huffy, yet, y’ +might say!</p> + +<p>I joked to that three-card-monte feller, you +recollect, about bein’ busted. Wal, it was beginnin’ +t’ look like no joke. ’Cause that very +next day I took some stuff acrosst the street to +a pawnbroker gent’s, and hocked it. Then I sit +down and writ a postal card t’ the boys. “<i>Pass +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_249'></a>249</span> +’round the hat,</i>” I says on the postal card, “<i>and +send me the collection. Bar that Mexic. Particulars +later on.</i>”</p> + +<p>Wal, fer a week, things run smooth. When +Mace seen it was no use to change the time fer +her ride, she kept to the mornin’. It saved me a +pile. But she wouldn’t so much as look at me. +Aw, I felt fewey, just <i>fewey</i>.</p> + +<p>One thing I didn’t figger on, though–that +was the <i>po</i>lice. They’re white, all right (I mean +the <i>po</i>lice that ride ’round the park). Pretty +soon, they noticed I was allus ridin’ behind +Macie. I guess they thought I was tryin’ to +bother her. Anyhow, one of ’em stopped me one +mornin’. “Young feller,” he says, “you’d better +ride along Riverside oncet in a while. Ketch +on?”</p> + +<p>“Yas, sir,” I says, salutin’.</p> + +<p>Wal, I <i>was</i> up a stump. If I was to be druv +out of the park, how was I ever goin’ to be on +hand when Macie ’d take a notion t’ speak.</p> + +<p>But I hit on a plan that was somethin’ <i>won</i>-derful. +I follered her out and found where she +stalled her hoss. Next day, I borraed a’ outfit +and waited nigh her barn till she come in sight. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_250'></a>250</span> +Then, I fell in behind–<i>dressed like one of them +blamed grooms.</i></p> + +<p>I thought I was slick, and I <i>was</i>–fer a week. +But them park <i>po</i>lice is rapid on faces. And the +first one that got a good square look at me and +my togs knowed me instant. He didn’t say +nothin’ to me, but loped off. Pretty soon, another +one come back–a moustached gent, a right +dudey one, with yalla tucks on his sleeves.</p> + +<p>He rides square up to me. “Say,” he says, +“are you acquainted with that young lady on +ahaid?”</p> + +<p>I tried to look as sad and innocent as a stray +maverick. But it was no go. “Wal,” I answers, +“our hosses nicker to each other.”</p> + +<p>He pulled at his moustache fer a while. “<i>You</i> +ain’t no groom,” he says fin’lly. “Where you +from?”</p> + +<p>“I’m from the Bar Y Ranch, Oklahomaw.”</p> + +<p>“That so!” It seemed to plumb relieve him. +All of a suddent, he got as friendly as the devil. +“Wal, how’s the stock business?” he ast. And I +says, “Cows is O. K.” “And how’s the climate +down you’ way? And how’s prospects of the +country openin’ up fer farmers?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_251'></a>251</span>After that, I shed the groom duds, and not a +<i>po</i>lice gent ever more ’n nodded at me. That +Bar Y news seemed to make ’em shore easy in +they conscience.</p> + +<p>But that didn’t help me any with <i>her</i>. She +was just as offish as ever. Why, one day when it +rained, and we got under the same bridge, she +just talked to her hoss all the time.</p> + +<p>I went home desp’rate. The boys ’d sent me +some cash, but I was shy again. And I’d been to +the pawnbroker feller’s so many times that I +couldn’t look a Jew in the face without takin’ +out my watch.</p> + +<p>That night I mailed postal number two. +“Take up a collection,” I says again; and added, +“Pull that greaser’s laig.”</p> + +<p>I knowed it couldn’t allus go on like that. +And, by jingo! seems as if things come my way +again. Fer one mornin’, when I was settin’ in a +caffy eatin’ slap-jacks, I heerd some fellers +talkin’ about a herd of Texas hosses that had +stampeded in the streets the night back. Wal, I +ast ’em a question ’r two, and then I lit out fer +Sixty-four Street, my eyes plumb sore fer a +look at a Western hoss with a’ ingrowin’ lope.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_252'></a>252</span>When I got to the corral, what do you think? +Right in front of my eyes, a-lookin’ at the herd, +and a-pointin’ out her pick, was–Macie Sewell!</p> + +<p>I didn’t let her see me. I just started fer a +harness shop, and I bought a pair of spurs. +“<i>Pre</i>pare, m’ son,” I says to myself; “it’ll all +be over soon. They’s goin’ to be trouble, Cupid, +trouble, when Mace tries to ride a Texas bronc +with a city edication that ain’t complete.”</p> + +<p>She didn’t show up in the park that day. I +jigged ’round, just the same, workin’ them +spurs. But early next mornin’, as I done time on +my postage stamp, here Mace huv in sight.</p> + +<p>Shore enough, she was on a new hoss. It was +one of them blue roans, with a long tail, and a +roached mane. Gen’ally that breed can go like +greased lightnin’, and outlast any other critter +on four laigs. But this one didn’t put up much +speed that trip. She’d been car-bound seventeen +days.</p> + +<p>Clost behind her, I come, practicin’ a knee +grip.</p> + +<p>Nothin’ happened that mornin’. Ev’ry time +she got where the trail runs ’longside the wagon-road, +none of them locoed bull’s-eye Simpson +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_253'></a>253</span> +vehicles was a-passin’. When she went to go into +her stable, Mace slowed her down till the street +cars was gone by. The blue roan was meeker ’n +a blind purp.</p> + +<p>But I knowed it couldn’t <i>last</i>.</p> + +<p>The next afternoon the roan come good and +ready. She done a fancy gait into the park. +Say! a J. I. C. bit couldn’t a’ helt her! ’Twixt +Fifty-nine and the resservoyer, she lit just <i>four +times;</i> and ev’ry time she touched, she kicked +dirt into the eyes of the stylish <i>po</i>lice gent that +was keepin’ in handy reach. A little further +north, where they’s a hotel, she stood on her hind +laigs t’ look at the scenery.</p> + +<p>I begun to git scairt. “Speak ’r <i>no</i> speak,” +I says to myself, “I’m goin’ to move up.”</p> + +<p>That very minute, things come to a haid!</p> + +<p>We was all three turned south, when ’long +come a goggle-eyed smarty in one of them +snortin’ Studebakers. The second the smarty +seen Mace was pretty, he blowed his horn to +make her look at him. Wal! that roan turned +tail and come nigh t’ doin’ a leap-frog over me. +The skunk in the buzz-wagon tooted again. And +we was off!</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_254'></a>254</span>We took the return trip short cut. First we +hit the brush, Mace’s hoss breakin’ trail, mine a +clost second, the <i>po</i>lice gent number three. Then +we hit open country, where they’s allus a lot of +young fellers and gals battin’ balls over fly-nets. +The crowd scattered, and we sailed by, +takin’ them nets like claim-jumpers. I heerd a +whistle ahaid oncet, and seen a fat <i>po</i>liceman +runnin’ our way, wavin’ his arms. Then we went +tearin’ on,–no stops fer stations–’round the +lake, down a road that was thick with keerages,–beatin’ ev’rybody in sight–then into timber +again.</p> + +<p>It was that takin’ to the woods the second time +that done it. In Central Park is a place where +they have ducks and geese (keep the Mayor in +aigs, I heerd). Wal, just to east, like, of that +place, is a butte, all rocks and wash-outs. The +blue roan made that butte slick as a Rocky +Mountain goat. (We’d shook off the <i>po</i>lice +gent.) At the top, she pitched plumb over, losin’ +Mace so neat it didn’t more ’n jar her. My hoss +got down on his knees, and I come offen <i>my</i> +perch. Then both broncs went on.</p> + +<p>I was winded, so I didn’t speak up fer a bit. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_255'></a>255</span> +Fact is, I didn’t exac’ly know what to <i>re</i>mark. +Oncet I thought I’d say, “You ridin’ a diff’rent +hoss t’day, Mace?” ’r “That roan of yourn can +lope some.” But both bein’ kinda personal, I +kept still.</p> + +<p>But pretty soon, I got a hunch. “I just +<i>knowed</i> that blamed muley saddle ’d butt me off +some day,” I says. “It was shore accomodatin’, +though, to let me down right here.”</p> + +<p>She didn’t say nothin’. She was settin agin a +tree, another of them two-mile looks in her eyes, +and she was gazin’ off west.</p> + +<p>I lent her way just a little. “What you +watchin’, honey?” I ast.</p> + +<p>She blushed, awful cute.</p> + +<p>I could feel my heart movin’ like a circular +saw–two ways fer Sunday. “Honey, what +you watchin’?” This time I kinda whispered it.</p> + +<p>She reached fer her George Washington, and +begun fixin’ to go. “The sky,” she says, some +short.</p> + +<p>I sighed, and pretended t’ watch the sky, too. +It looked yalla, like somebody ’d hit it with a +aig.</p> + +<p>After while, I couldn’t stand it no longer–I +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_256'></a>256</span> +started in again. “Give me a fair shake, Macie,” +I says. I was lookin’ at her. Say! they wasn’t +no squaw paint on <i>her</i> cheeks, and no do-funny, +drug-store stuff in that pretty hair of hern. And +them grey eyes<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>!</p> + +<p>But she seemed a hull county off from me, +and they was a right cold current blowin’ in my +<i>di</i>rection.</p> + +<p>“Mace,” I begun again, “since you come t’ +Noo York you ain’t got you’self promised, ’r +nothin’ like that, have you? If you have, I’ll go +back and make that Briggs City bunch look like +a lot of colanders.”</p> + +<p>She shook her haid.</p> + +<p>“Aw, Mace!” I says, turrible easied in my +mind. “And–and, little gal, has that bug doc +been a-holdin’ down a chair at you’ house of +Sunday nights?”</p> + +<p>“No,–he come just oncet.”</p> + +<p>“Why just oncet, honey?”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t want him t’ come no more.”</p> + +<p>“He said somethin’ insultin.’ <i>I</i> know. And +when I see him again<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>She looked at me square then, and I seen a +shine in them sweet eyes. “Alec,” she says, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_257'></a>257</span> +“you ast me oncet t’ cut that man out. Wal, +when I got here, it was the only thing I could do +fer–fer you.”</p> + +<p>“My little gal!–and nobody else ain’t been +visitin’ you. Aw! I’m a jealous critter!”</p> + +<p>“Nobody else. People ain’t very sociable +here.” Her lip kinda trembled.</p> + +<p>That hurt me, and I run outen talk, fer all I +had a heap t’ say. They was a lot of twitterin’ +goin’ on overhaid, and she was peekin’ up and +’round, showing a chin that was enough t’ coop +the little birds right outen the trees.</p> + +<p>I lent closter. “Say, Mace,” I begun again, +“ain’t this park O. K. fer green grass? I reckon +the Bar Y cows ’d like to be turned loose here.”</p> + +<p>She smiled a little, awful tender. “Bar Y!” +she says, pullin’ at her gauntlets.</p> + +<p>It give me spunk. “Mace,” I says again, “if +I’d ’a’ been mean, I’d ’a’ let the parson go on +marryin’ us, wouldn’t I? Did you ever think of +that, little gal?”</p> + +<p>She looked down, blinkin’.</p> + +<p>I reached over and got holt of one of her +hands. I was breathin’ like pore Up-State. +“Honey,” I says, “honey, dear.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_258'></a>258</span>She looked square at me. “Alec,” she says, +“you didn’t understand me. I ain’t the kind of a +gal that can be roped and hobbled and led on a +hackamore.”</p> + +<p>“And you ain’t the kind t’ dance with greasers,” +I says, “–if you’re thinkin’ back to our first +little fuss. <i>No,</i> you <i>ain’t</i>. You’re too darned +nice fer such cattle.”</p> + +<p>By then, I was shakin’ like I had the buck-fever. +“Macie,” I goes on, “ain’t you goin’ t’ +let me come and see you?”</p> + +<p>“Wal–wal<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>I got holt of her other hand. “Aw, little +gal,” I says, “nobody wants you t’ win out more +’n I do. <i>I’</i>m no dawg-in-the-manger, Macie. +You got a’ <i>awful</i> fine voice. Go ahaid–and be +the biggest singer in Amuricaw. But, honey,–that +needn’t t’ keep you from likin’ me–from +likin’ ole Alec, that cain’t live without his dear +little gal<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“I <i>do</i> like y’! And didn’t I allus say you was +t’ come on when I made a success?”</p> + +<p>She come into my arms then. And, aw! I +knowed <i>just</i> how lonesome she’d been, pore little +sweetheart! by the way she clung t’ me.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_259'></a>259</span>“Alec!–my Alec!”</p> + +<p>“Never mind! honey dear, never mind! I’m +here t’ take keer of y’.”</p> + +<p>Pretty soon, I says, “Macie, I bought somethin’ +fer you a while back.” (I felt in my vest +pocket.) “Here it is. Will you look at it?”</p> + +<p>She looked. And her pretty face got all smiles +and blushes, and her eyes tearful. “Alec!” she +whispered. “Aint it <i>beau</i>tiful!” And she +reached out her left hand t’ me.</p> + +<p>I took it in both of mine–clost, fer a second. +Then I sorted out that slim third finger of hern,–and slipped on my little brandin’-iron.</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_260'></a>260</span><a id='link_10'></a>CHAPTER TEN<br /><span class='h2fs'>MACIE AND THE OP’RA GAME</span></h2> + +<p><span class='sc'>The</span> street Mace lived on was turrible narra. +Why, if a long-horn had ’a’ been druv through it, +he could ’a’ just give a wiggle of his haid and +busted all the windas in the block. And her +house! It was nigh as dark as the inside of a cow, +and I <i>judged</i> they was a last-year’s cabbage +a-wanderin’ ’round somewheres. Wal, never mind. +Two shakes of a lamb’s tail, and I’d clumb about +a hunderd steps and–</p> + +<p>“How are y’, little gal?”</p> + +<p>“Alive and kickin’, Alec.”</p> + +<p>She ast me in. A kinda ole lady was over to +one side, cookin’. At a table was two gents, the +one young, with a complexion like the bottom-side +of a watermelon; the other about fifty, with +a long coat, a vest all over coffee, and no more +chin’n a gopher.</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Whipple,” says Macie, “Mister +Lloyd.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_261'></a>261</span>“Ma’am, I’m tickled t’ death.”</p> + +<p>“Hair Von” (somethin’-r’-other), “Mister +Lloyd.” (Don’t wonder she called him “<i>Hair.</i>” +By thunder! he had a mane two feet long!) +“And Mister Jones.” (I ketched <i>that</i> name +O. K.)</p> + +<p>“Mister Lloyd,” says the ole lady, “will you +have some breakfast?”</p> + +<p>I felt like sayin’ they ’d likely be blamed little +fer <i>me,</i> ’cause them two gezabas was just a-<i>hoppin’</i> +it in to ’em. But I only answers, “Thank y’, +I just et in one of them bong-tong rest’rants +that’s down in a cellar, and so, ma’am, my breadbasket’s +plumb full.”</p> + +<p>I sit down on a trunk (it had a tidy over it, but +I knowed it was a <i>trunk</i> all right), and Macie, +she sit down byside me.</p> + +<p>“Alec,” she begun,–say! she looked mighty +sweet!–“t’-night is a’ awful important night +in my life. I been a-studyin’ with Hair Von” +(you know), “and now I’m a-goin’ to have a +<i>re</i>cital. And what d’ you think? Seenyer” (I +fergit who, this minute), “the grea-a-at impressyroa, +is comin’ to hear me. And he’s goin’ to put +me into grand op’ra.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_262'></a>262</span>“You don’t say!”</p> + +<p>“Yas,” says Long-hair, swellin’ up. “The +Seenyer is my friend, and any favour<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>I turned and looked clost at Macie. Her face +was all alive, she was so happy, and her eyes was +dancin’. “You’re a-goin’ t’ make you’ big stab +t’-night,” I says. “Wal, I shore wish you luck.”</p> + +<p>Then I took another look at that Perfessor–and +of a suddent I begun to wonder <i>if all the +cards was on the table.</i> ’Cause he was too oily to +be genuwine. And I’d saw his stripe afore–“even +up on the red and white, five to one on the +blue, and ten to one on the numbers.”</p> + +<p>“She’ll be a second Patty,” he says, puttin’ +out a bread-hooker fer more feed.</p> + +<p>“I’ll take another slice of toast,” says Melon-face, +“and a’ aig and a third cup–it’s <i>so</i> good, +Miss Sewell, I’m really <i>ashamed,</i> yas, I <i>am.</i>”</p> + +<p>After that, I didn’t say much–just plumb +petryfied watchin’ them two gents shovel. Talk +about you’ grizzly in the springtime! And you +bet they was no gittin’ shet of ’em till they couldn’t +hole no more.</p> + +<p>But, fin’lly, they moseyed, and me and Macie +and the ole lady had a chin. It come out that +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_263'></a>263</span> +Long-hair (<i>and</i> his friend) showed up ev’ry +mornin’.</p> + +<p>“And allus gits his breakfast,” I says.</p> + +<p>“Wal, in Noo York, folks drop ’round that–a-way,” she answers. “It’s Bohemia.”</p> + +<p>“Bohemia–you mean a kinda free hand-out.”</p> + +<p>“Alec! <i>No!</i> Bohemians divvy with each +other.”</p> + +<p>“Seem’s t’ me Macie Sewell does <i>most</i> of the +divvyin’.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t understand,” she says. “People +with artistic temper’ments don’t think about such–such common things.”</p> + +<p>“No? Just the same, that artistic team of +yourn was shore stuck on boiled aigs.”</p> + +<p>That ruffled her up some. “Alec,” she says, +“you mustn’t run down the Perfessor. He’s a +big musician.”</p> + +<p>“Wal,” I answers, “if hair makes a big musician, +’Pache Sam oughta lead the band.”</p> + +<p>“And he’s been awful good to me. Why, he’s +let go dozens and <i>dozens</i> of rich pupils to come +here ev’ry day and give me my lesson.”</p> + +<p>“Fer how much?”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_264'></a>264</span>“What?” She got red.</p> + +<p>“Fer how much?” I ast again.</p> + +<p>“Five dollars,” she answers.</p> + +<p>I snickered.</p> + +<p>“But he charges all the others <i>ten,</i>” she puts +in quick. “He come down in the price ’cause he +was so wrapped up in my <i>ca</i>reer.”</p> + +<p>“Money lastin’?” I ast, and looked at the ole +lady.</p> + +<p>She give me the high sign.</p> + +<p>But Macie answered cheerful. “It’s carried me +good so far,” she says; “and after t’-night I can +stand on my own feet.”</p> + +<p>“Reckon you won’t mind my comin’ t’ hear +you,” I says. (’Cause I’d got a’ idear what I was +goin’ to do.) She said come ahaid. Then I skun +out.</p> + +<p>First off, I hunted one of them sun-bonnet +keeriges. The feller that owned it was h’isted +’way up on top, and he had a face like a cured +ham. I tole him who I was goin’ t’ visit, and ast +him what ’d be the damage if he carted me that +far. He said a two spot ’d do the trick, so I clumb +in, he give his broomtail a lick, and we was off in +a bunch.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_265'></a>265</span>Wal, fer the balance of that day, you can bet +I didn’t let no grass sprout under <i>my</i> moccasins. +And when I turned up, ’twixt eight and nine +o’clock at that <i>re</i>cital, I was a-smilin’ like Teddy–and loaded fer bear!</p> + +<p>It was at Long-Hair’s shebang. He took me +into a big room where they was about a dozen +ladies and gents. But I couldn’t hardly see ’em. +They was plenty of gas fixin’s, only he had ’em +turned ’way down, and little red parasol-jiggers +over ’em. And they was some punk-sticks +a-burnin’ in a corner.</p> + +<p>If you want t’ ast <i>me,</i> I think I hit the funny +spot of that bunch right good and hard. The +women kinda giggled at each other, and the men +cocked they eyes at the ceilin’ and put they hands +to they mouths. But I wasn’t nigh as big a freak +to them as they was t’ <i>me!</i></p> + +<p>“Say!” I says to Macie, ’way low, “where ’d +you round up this passel of what-is-its?”</p> + +<p>“Ssh!” she whispers back. “They’ll hear you! +Most of ’em is big artists.”</p> + +<p>“No!” I got turrible solemn. “Have they +brought they temper’ments with ’em?”</p> + +<p>She laughed.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_266'></a>266</span>“Now, don’t devil me, Alec,” she says. “But +honest, ain’t this Bohemian atmosphere just +grand?”</p> + +<p>“Wal,” I says, sniffin’ it, “it reminds <i>me</i> of a +Chinee wash-house.”</p> + +<p>That wasn’t the worst of it. The men was +tankin’ up like the Ole Harry–right in front of +the women! And on beer! What d’ you think! +<i>Beer!</i></p> + +<p>And the ladies–say! if they was t’ wear +them kind of dresses out our way (not more’n a +pocket-handkerchief of cloth in the waist, that’s +straight), why, they ’d git run in to the cooler +<i>shore</i>. And, by thunder! some of ’em was smokin’! +<i>Smokin’!</i> And they wasn’t a greaser gal +amongst ’em, neither.</p> + +<p>“What kind of a place I got in to?” I ast +Macie. Gee! I felt turrible.</p> + +<p>“Ssh! Long-hair is goin’ to play a pyano piece +he made up a-a-all by hisself.”</p> + +<p>And he done it. First, he goes soft, fingerin’ +up and down, and movin’ from side t’ side like his +chair was hot. Then, he took a runnin’ jump at +hisself and worked harder. But they wasn’t the +sign of a tune–just jiggles. Next, by jingo! it +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_267'></a>267</span> +was help you’self to the gravy! He everlastin’ly +lambasted them keys, and knocked the lights +plumb outen that pore instrument.</p> + +<p>Jumpin’ buffalo! I got t’ laughin’ so I kinda +tipped over again a’ iron thing that was set clost +to the wall, and come blamed nigh burnin’ the +hand offen me.</p> + +<p>When I come to, he was done and down, and a +bleached lady, so whitewashed and painted she +was plumb disguised, was settin’ afore the pyano. +Then up gits a tall gal, skinny, long neck, forrid +like a fish, hair that hadn’t been curried since +week a-fore last.</p> + +<p>She begun t’ sing like a dyin’ calf–eyes shut, +and makin’ faces. But pretty soon, she took a +<i>new</i> holt, and got to goin’ uphill and down, faster +’n Sam Hill; then ’round and ’round, like a dawg +after its tail; then hiccupin’; then–she kinda +shook herself–and let out a last whoppin’ beller.</p> + +<p>“Macie,” I says, “do you have t’ herd with +this outfit <i>reg’lar?</i> Why, say, <i>all</i> the wild Injuns +ain’t out West.”</p> + +<p>She didn’t say nothin’. Pore little gal, she was +watchin’ the door. And Mister Long-hair? He +was wanderin’ ’round, lookin’ powerful oneasy. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_268'></a>268</span> +(He’d ’a’ better, the scale-haid!) ’Fore long, he +goes outside.</p> + +<p>Up gits a short, stumpy feller with a fiddle. +All the rest begun t’ holler and clap. Stumpy, he +bowed and flopped his ears, and then he went at +that little, ole fiddle of hisn like he’d snatch it +bald-haided. Wal, <i>that</i> was bully!</p> + +<p>And now it was Macie they wanted.</p> + +<p>“But <i>he</i> ain’t here yet,” she says.</p> + +<p>Long-hair come back just then. “I <i>re</i>gret to +say, Miss Sewell,” he begun, “that Seenyer” +(the impressyroa) “cain’t run over t’-night. But +he’ll be to my next little <i>re</i>cital a month from +now.”</p> + +<p>“A <i>month,</i>” repeats Macie. Her face fell a +mile, and she got as white as chalk-rock.</p> + +<p>“It’s all right,” says the Perfessor, rubbin’ his +hands. “Go ahaid and sing anyhow.”</p> + +<p>So she stood up, tremblin’ a little. Long-hair +sit down to the pyano, and this was it!</p> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p class='i'>“Oh,</p> +<p class='i'> oh,</p> +<p class='i'> oh,</p> +<p class='i'> sweet</p> +<p class='i'> sing       bird,</p> +<p class='i'><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_269'></a>269</span>Oh,</p> +<p class='i'> oh,</p> +<p class='i'> sweet</p> +<p class='i'> sing       bird,</p> +<p class='i'> ety</p> +<p class='i'> plump    plump<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> +<p class='i'> plump</p> +<p class='i'> plump</p> +<p class='i'> Plump</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>It was a shame. But Macie done her best. +When she ended up, they hollered fer more, and +Long-hair like to break hisself in two, bowin’.</p> + +<p>She just stood there–like she’d been run to +ground. The Perfessor waved his hand. “The +Jew’s song from Fowst,” he calls out.</p> + +<p>I couldn’t stand it no longer. I lent towards +her. “The Mohawk Vale,” I says; “<i>please</i> sing +The Mohawk Vale.”</p> + +<p>The crowd giggled. The Perfessor, he started +to laugh, too–but ketched my eye, and coughed.</p> + +<p>Macie turned towards him. “A’ ole friend; I’d +like to,” she says. And sit down to play fer herself.</p> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p class='i'><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_270'></a>270</span>“Sweet is the vale where the Mohawk gently glides</p> +<p class='i'>On its fair, windin’ way to the sea<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>She helt herself straight, and tried t’ stick it +out. But she couldn’t. I seen her shake a little, +her voice got husky,–and she bent ’way over, +her face in her hands.</p> + +<p>“Why, Miss Sewell!” they exclaims, “why, +what’s the <i>matter?</i>”</p> + +<p>Then, I gits up. “<i>Ex</i>cuse me,” I says, “fer +puttin’ a kibosh on you’ party. But I just want +to say that this Bohemia-artistic-temper’ment +fandango stands <i>ad</i>journed. Ev’rybody please +vamose–’ceptin’ the Perfessor.”</p> + +<p>My goodness! the pow-wow! But they skedaddled +just the same. Then I turned to Long-hair.</p> + +<p>“You’ little game is over,” I begun. “You +don’t flimflam this gal another minute. You +don’t bum offen her fer another meal. You don’t +give her no more of that Patty song-and-dance.”</p> + +<p>Macie come at me. “Alec! that’s insultin’,” +she says.</p> + +<p>The Perfessor starts a-gabblin’.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_271'></a>271</span>“Hole you’ hosses,” I says. “You knowed <i>all</i> +the time that the impressyroa wasn’t goin’ to +show up.”</p> + +<p>“Miss Sewell, this is <i>too</i> much,” says Long-hair, +clawin’ at his mane.</p> + +<p>“They’s more a-comin’,” I says. “Macie, I +was shore somethin’ was skew-gee about this +mealy-mouth here, so I had a talk with that +Seenyer this afternoon.”</p> + +<p>That give Long-hair a jolt. “Impossible!” +he yells; “the secretaries<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“They <i>was</i> about eight, not to mention some +office kids,” I says; “but when I give ’em some +straight ole Oklahomaw, I went in O. K.”</p> + +<p>Long-hair backed off, plumb kaflummuxed.</p> + +<p>“The Seenyer said he’d heerd of this gent,” I +goes on, “and wouldn’t let him learn a <i>cow</i> of +hisn to sing. Friend? any little favour? come +here? <i>Nixey.</i>”</p> + +<p>I walks over to him. “Acknowledge the corn, +you polecat,” I says.</p> + +<p>He seen the jig was up. But he made his bluff.</p> + +<p>“Miss Sewell, this coarse feller<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>Macie cut in. “It’s all so,” she says. “You’ve +put me off and <i>put</i> me off. All my money’s +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_272'></a>272</span> +gone. I’d banked on t’-night. And now–what +am I goin’ to do!” She dropped on to a chair, +her face in her hands again.</p> + +<p>“My pore little gal!”</p> + +<p>She sit up. “No, Alec,” she says, “I <i>ain’t</i> +pore. I’ve got you, and the best paw a gal <i>ever</i> +had, and my home–aw, the <i>dear</i> ole Bar Y! +And, Alec, I’m goin’.”</p> + +<p>“Goin’ where, little gal?”</p> + +<p>She come over and stood in front of me, and +put her two hands on my arm. “Alec,” she says, +tears and smiles all to oncet, “I’m goin’ t’ start +home to Oklahomaw.”</p> + +<p>“Start home to Oklahomaw”–them words +made me think, of a suddent, about what Billy ’d +said t’ me at the train. I reached into my inside +coat-pocket. “Wait, little gal,” I says, “we must +read <i>this</i> first. It’s that other letter of Up-State’s.”</p> + +<p>She opened it, her fingers all thumbs, she was +so <i>ex</i>cited. And standin’ there byside me, with +the Perfessor a-watchin’ us from a corner, she +begun:</p> + +<p>“<i>‘Dear Alec Lloyd<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span></i>’Why, it ain’t fer <i>me,</i> +Alec.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_273'></a>273</span>“Go right on, honey.”</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p>“<i>Dear Alec Lloyd, you’ll git this after Macie’s +gone to Noo York. Alec, you know now +the trip was needful. Do you think you could +’a’ helt her if she didn’t have her try? Mebbe. +But you wouldn’t ’a’ been happy. All her life +she ’d ’a felt sore about that career she give up, +and been longin’ and longin’.</i></p> + +<p>“<i>And, Macie, ’cause you’ll read this, too–now +you know they was somethin’ else you +wanted more ’n a singin’ chanst, and you won’t +hole it agin me fer sayin’ I knowed you wouldn’t +make no go of it. The op’ra game at its best is +a five-hunderd-to-one shot. A turrible big herd +plays it, the foreigners git the main prizes, and +the hull thing’s fixed crooked by all kinds of inside +pull.</i></p> + +<p>“<i>’Sides, you’ voice don’t match with crowded +streets and sapped-out air. It fits the open +desert. Mebbe so many won’t listen to it out here, +but they’ll even things up by the way they’ll +feel. And this letter is to tell you how I thank y’ +fer singin’ The Mohawk Vale. Gawd bless y’, +little gal!</i></p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_274'></a>274</span>“<i>And, Alec, all kinds of good luck to you. +What’s in this letter ain’t much, but it’ll be a +nest-aig.</i>”</p> +</div> <!-- block quote --> + +<p>Mace peeked inside the envelope. “Why, +here’s a bill!” she says. “Alec!” And she +drawed it out.</p> + +<p>“A bill?” I turned it over. “Why–why, it’s +fer five hunderd dollars! Macie!”</p> + +<p>Long-Hair got up and started our way, +grinnin’.</p> + +<p>“But <i>you</i> don’t git a cent of it,” I says, +turnin’ on him quick.</p> + +<p>He dodged.</p> + +<p>“You’d <i>better</i> be keerful,” I says. Then, to +Macie, “Honey, here’s another chanst t’ make +a try. You can git a <i>good</i> teacher, <i>this</i> time–yas, +that’s what I said, Perfessor, <i>a good teacher</i>–and you’ll be the biggest singer in Amuricaw +<i>yet.</i>” And I helt the bill out to her.</p> + +<p>The only answer she give was t’ run to the +door and pull at one of them round thing-um-a-jigs +that brings a telegraph kid. Next, she come +back to a table, found a piece of paper and writ +somethin’ on it.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_275'></a>275</span>“Here, Alec,” she says, “here. Read this.”</p> + +<p>It said:</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p>“<i>Manager Harvey Eatin’-House, Briggs +City, Oklahomaw. Please telephone paw that +I’m comin’ home, and Alec wants back his job.</i>”</p> +</div> <!-- block quote --> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_276'></a>276</span><a id='link_11'></a>CHAPTER ELEVEN<br /><span class='h2fs'>A BOOM THAT BUSTED</span></h2> + +<p><span class='sc'>Say!</span> wouldn’t you ’a’ figgered, after I’d brung +Mace back t’ the ole Bar Y, and made her paw +so happy that the hull ranch couldn’t hole him, +and he had t’ go streak up t’ town and telephone +Kansas City fer a grand pyano and a talkin’-machine–now +<i>wouldn’t</i> you ’a’ figgered that he’d +’a’ treated me A1 when I come to ast him fer the +little gal?</p> + +<p>Wal,–listen t’ this!</p> + +<p>’Fore ever I spoke to him, I says to myself, +“It ain’t no use, when you want to start up a +mule, to git behind and push ’r git in front and +pull. No, ma’am. The only way is to hunt a +pan of feed ’r a pick-axe.</p> + +<p>“Now, Sewell’s shore one of them long-eared +critters–hardmouthed, and goin’ ahaid like +blazes whenever you wanted him to come short; +then, again, balkin’ till it’s a case of grandfather’s +clock, and you git to thinkin’ that ’fore +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_277'></a>277</span> +he’ll move on he’ll plumb drop in his tracks. So +no drivin’. Coaxin’ is good enough fer you’ +friend Cupid.”</p> + +<p>The first time I got a good chanst, I took in +my belt, spit on my hands, shassayed up to the +ole man, and sailed in–dead centre.</p> + +<p>“Boss,” I begun, “some fellers marry ’cause +they git plumb sick and tired of fastenin’ they +suspenders with a nail, and some fellers +marry<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“Wal? wal? wal?” breaks in Sewell, offish +all of a suddent, and them little eyes of hisn +lookin’ like two burnt holes in a blanket. “What +you drivin’ at? Git it out. Time’s skurse.”</p> + +<p>“Puttin’ it flat-footed, then,” I says, “I come +to speak to you about my marryin’ Macie.”</p> + +<p>He throwed up his haid–same as a long-horn’ll +do when she’s scairt–and wrinkled his +forrid. Next, he begun to jingle his cash (<i>ba-a-ad</i> +sign). “So <i>that’s</i> what?” (He’d guessed as +much a’ready, I reckon.) “Wal,–I’m a-listenin’.”</p> + +<p>Then I got a <i>turrible</i> rush of words to the +mouth, and put the case up to him right strong. +Said they was no question how I felt about Mace, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_278'></a>278</span> +and that this shore was a life-sentence fer me, +’cause I wasn’t the kind of a man to want to +ever slip my matreemonal hobbles. And I tacked +on that the little gal reckoned <i>she</i> knowed her +own mind.</p> + +<p>“No gal ever <i>lived</i> that knowed her own +mind,” puts in Sewell, snappy as the dickens, +and actin’ powerful oneasy.</p> + +<p>“But Mace ain’t the usual brand,” I says. +“She’s got a good haid–a <i>fine</i> haid. She’s like +<i>you,</i> Sewell.”</p> + +<p>“You can keep you’ compliments to home,” +says the boss. Then, after a little bit, “S’pose +you been plannin’ a’ready where you’d settle.” +(This sorta inquirin’.)</p> + +<p>“Ya-a-as,” I says, “we’ve talked some of that +little house in Briggs City which Doc Trowbridge +lets–the one over to the left of the +tracks.”</p> + +<p>That second, I seen a look come over his face +that made me plumb goose-flesh. It was the +sorta look that a’ ole bear gives you when you’ve +got him hurt and into a corner–some appealin’, +y’ savvy, and a hull lot mad.</p> + +<p>“Gosh!” I says to myself, “I put my foot in +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_279'></a>279</span> +it when I brung up Billy’s name. Sewell recollects +the time I stuck in my lip.”</p> + +<p>“You plan t’ live in Briggs,” he says. He +squz his lips t’gether, and turned his face towards +the ranch-house. Mace was inside, goin’ +back’ards and for’ards ’twixt the dinin’-room +and the kitchen. She looked awful cute and +pretty from where we was, and was callin’ sassy +things to the Chinaman. Sewell watched her and +watched her, and I <i>re</i>called later on (when I +wasn’t so all-fired anxious and <i>ex</i>cited), that +the ole man’s face was some white, and he was +kinda all lent over.</p> + +<p>“Ya-a-as,” I continues (some trembley, +though), “that place of Billy’s ’d suit.”</p> + +<p>Two seconds, and Sewell come round on me +like as if he’d chaw me into bits. “What you +goin’ to rent on?” he ast. “What you goin’ to +live on?”</p> + +<p>“Wal,” I answers, sorta took back, “I got +about three hunderd dollars left of the money +Up-State give me. Wal, that’s my nest-aig. +And I can make my little forty a month–<i>and</i> +grub–<i>any</i> ole day in the week.”</p> + +<p>Sewell drawed his breath in, deep. (Look out +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_280'></a>280</span> +when a man takes up air that-a-way: Somethin’s +shore a-comin’!) “Forty a month!” he says. +“Forty a month! That just about keeps you in +ca’tridges! Forty a month!–and you without a +square foot of land, ’r a single, solitary horned +critter, ’r more’n a’ Injun’s soogin’ ’twixt you +and the floor! Do y’ think you can take that little +baby gal of mine into a blank shack that ain’t +got a stick of anythin’ in it, and turn her loose +of a Monday, like a Chink, to do the wash?”</p> + +<p>“Now, ease up, boss,” I says. “I reckon I +think <i>al</i>most as much of Mace as you do. And +I’m figgerin’ to make her life just as happy as +I <i>can.</i>”</p> + +<p>Wal, then he walked up and down, up and +down (this all happened out by the calf-corral), +and blowed and blowed and blowed. Said that +him and his daughters had allus made the Bar +Y ranch-house seem like home to the Sewell +punchers, and they was men in the outfit just +low-down mean enough to take advantage of it. +Said he’d raised his gal like a lady–and now +she was goin’ to be treated like a squaw.</p> + +<p>If it’d ’a’ been any other ole man but Mace’s, +I’d ’a’ made him swaller ev’ry one of them words +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_281'></a>281</span> +’fore ever he got ’em out. As it stood, a-course, +I couldn’t. So I just helt my lip till he was over +his holler. (By now, y’ savvy, I’d went through +enough–from sayin’ the wrong thing back when +Paw Sewell ’r his daughter was a-talkin’–t’ +learn me that the best <i>I</i> could do was just t’ keep +my blamed mouth shut.)</p> + +<p>Pretty soon, I says, “You spoke of land, Mister +Sewell,” I says, politer’n pie, and as cool as +if I had the hull of Oklahomaw up my sleeve. +(Been a beefsteak, y’ savvy, fer him to git the +idear he had me anxious any.) “Wal, how much +land do you figger out that you’ next son-in-law +oughta have?”</p> + +<p>He looked oneasy again, got red some, and +begun workin’ his nose up and down like a rabbit. +“Aw, thunder!” he says, “what you astin’ +<i>that</i> fer? A man–<i>any</i> man–when he marries, +oughta have a place big enough so’s his chickens +can kick up the dirt ’round his house without its +fallin’ into somebody else’s yard. Out here, where +the hull blamed country’s land–just land fer +miles–a man oughta have a piece, say–wal, as +big as–as that Andrews chunk of mine.” (When +Billy married Rose, Sewell bought over the Andrews’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_282'></a>282</span> +ranch, y’ savvy. Wanted it ’cause it laid +’twixt hisn and town, and had a fine water-hole +fer the stock. But a good share of the hunderd +acres in it wasn’t much to brag on–just crick-bottom.)</p> + +<p>“The Andrews place?” I says, smooth and +easy. “Wal, Sewell, I’ll keep that in mind. And, +now, you spoke of cows<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“Fifty ’r so,” puts in the ole man, quick, like +as if he was ’shamed of hisself. (His ranges is +plumb <i>alive</i> with cattle.) “A start, Cupid,–just +a start.”</p> + +<p>Wal, a-course, whatever he said went with <i>me</i>. +If he’d ’a’ <i>ad</i>vised walkin’ on my hands as far +as Albuquerque, you’d ’a’ saw me a-startin’, +spurs in the air!</p> + +<p>“So long,” I says then, and walked off. When +I turned round, a little bit later, Sewell was +standin’ there yet, haid down, shoulders hunched +over, arms a-hangin’ loose at his sides, and all +his fingers twitchin’. As I clumb on to that pinto +bronc of mine and steered her outen the gate, I +couldn’t help but think that, all of a suddent, +seems like, the boss looked a mighty lot <i>older</i>.</p> + +<p>“Maud,” I says, as I loped fer town, “Maud, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_283'></a>283</span> +I’m shore feazed! I been believin’, since I got +back from Noo York, that it was settled I was +to marry Mace. And here, if I don’t watch out, +that Injun-giver’ll take her back. I was a +blamed idjit to give him any love-talk. The only +thing he cares fer is money–money!” Wal, +some men ’re like that–and tighter’n a wood-tick. +When they go to pay out a dollar, they +hole on to it so hard they plumb pull it outen +shape, yas, ma’am. Why, I can recollect seein’ +dollars that looked like the handle of a jack-knife.</p> + +<p>But if I was brash in front of Sewell, I caved +in all right when I got to Briggs City. Say! did +you ever have the blues–so bad you didn’t want +to eat, and you didn’t want to talk, and you +didn’t want to drink, but just wanted to lay, +nose in the pilla, and think and think and think? +Wal, fer three days, that was me!</p> + +<p>And I was still sullin’ when Sheriff Bergin +come stompin’ in with a copy of the Goldstone +<i>Tarantula</i>. “Here’s bum luck!” he growls. +“A-course <i>Briggs</i> couldn’t hump herself none; +but that jay town down the line has to go have +a boom.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_284'></a>284</span>“A boom?” I says, settin’ up.</p> + +<p>“Reg’lar rip-snorter of a Kansas boom. +Some Chicago fellers with a lot of cash has +turned up and is a-buyin’ in all the sand. +Wouldn’t it make y’ <i>sick?</i>”</p> + +<p>I reached fer that paper with both fists. Yas, +there it was–a piece about so long. “<i>Goldstone +offers the chanst of a lifetime,</i>” it read. “<i>Now +is when a little money’ll make a pile. Land is +cheap t’-day, but later on it’ll bring a big price.</i>”</p> + +<p>I got on to my feet. They was about a quarter +of a’ inch of stubble on my face, and I was +as shaky as a quakin’ asp. But I had my spunk +up again. “Ain’t I got a little money,” I says, +“–that nest-aig? Wal, I’ll just drop down to +Goldstone, and, if that boom is bony fido, and +growin’, <i>I’ll git in on it.</i>”</p> + +<p>Next mornin’, I went over to the deepot, borraed +some paper from the agent, and writ Mace +a note. “<i>Little gal,</i>” I says in the letter, “<i>don’t +you go back on me. I’m prepared to work my +fingers down to the first knuckle fer you, and it’s +only right you’ paw should want you took care +of good.</i>”</p> + +<p>Then Number 201 come in and I hopped +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_285'></a>285</span> +abroad. “It’s land ’r no lady,” I says to myself, +puttin’ my little post-card photo of Macie into +my pocket as the train pulled out; “–land ’r no +lady.”</p> + +<p>But when I hit Goldstone, I plumb got the +heart-disease. The same ole long street was +facin’ the track; the same scatterin’ houses was +standin’ to the north and south; and the same +bunch of dobe shacks was over towards the +east, where the greasers lived. The town wasn’t +changed none!</p> + +<p>Another minute, and I felt more chipper. +West of town, two ’r three fellers was walkin’ +’round, stakin’ out the mesquite. And nigh the +station, ’twixt them and me, was a brand-new, +hip-roofed shanty with a long black-and-white +sign acrosst it. The sign said “Real Estate.” +Wal, <i>that</i> looked like <i>business!</i></p> + +<p>I bulged in. They was a’ awful dudey feller +inside, settin’ at a table and makin’ chicken-tracks +on a big sheet of blue paper. “Howdy,” +I says, “you must be one of them Chicago +gents?”</p> + +<p>He jumped up and shook hands. “Yas, I am,” +he says; “but only a land-agent, y’ savvy. They’s +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_286'></a>286</span> +three others in town that’s got <i>capital</i>. The one +that lives over yonder at the hotel is a millionaire. +Then they’s a doctor (left a <i>fine</i> practice to +come), and a preacher. But the preacher ain’t +just one of you’ <i>ord’nary</i> pulpit pounders.”</p> + +<p>I stooped over to git a look at that sheet of +blue paper. It had lines all criss-cross on it, same +as a checker-board, and little, square, white spots +showin’ now and again.</p> + +<p>“<i>Ex</i>cuse me fer astin’,” I says, “but what’s +this?”</p> + +<p>“This is the new map of Goldstone,” he says, +“and drawed two mile square. Here”–pointin’ +to a white spot–“’ll be the Normal College, and +here”–pointin’ to another–“the Merchants’ +<i>Ex</i>change. Then, a-course, the Pavilion fer Indus’tral +<i>Ex</i>hibitions<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“Pardner,” I broke in, “if Goldstone was in +the middle ’r east part of Oklahomaw, where +crops is allus fine, this boom wouldn’t surprise +me a <i>little</i> bit. But out <i>this</i> way, where they’s +only a show fer cattle, I cain’t just understand +it. Now, they must be some <i>reason.</i>”</p> + +<p>The real estate agent, he smiled awful sly +like, and wunk. “Mebbe,” he says.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_287'></a>287</span>Later on, I seen the gent that was stoppin’ at +the hotel. He was tonier’n the other. Wore +one of them knee coats that’s got a wedge outen +it, right in front, and two buttons fastened in +the small of the back. He was walkin’ up and +down the porch and smokin’ a seegar. Rich? +Wal, I guess! Had the finest room in the house, +and et three six-bit meals a day! About fifty, he +was, and kinda porky; not a tub, y’ savvy, but +plenty fat.</p> + +<p>That same day, a new <i>Tarantula</i> come out. +In it was a piece haided “<i>More Capital Fer +Goldstone.</i>” It went on like this: “<i>Our City has +lately acquired four new citizens whose confidence +and belief in her future ’d put some of +the old hangers-on and whiners to the blush if +they faces wasn’t made of brass, and didn’t know +how to blush. Wake up,</i>” goes on the <i>Tarantula, +“wake up, Goldstone, and shake you’self. And +gents, here’s a hearty welcome! Give us you’ +paw!</i>”</p> + +<p>Goldstone was woke up, all right, all right. +She was as lively and <i>ex</i>cited as a chicken with +its haid cut off. That real-estate feller ’d bought +up two big tracts just north of town, gittin’ +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_288'></a>288</span> +’em cheap a-course; <i>awful</i> cheap, in fact, +’cause no one ’d smelt a boom when he +first showed up. (Wal, <i>first</i> come, first <i>served</i>.) +Porky ’d bought, too, and owned some lots +’twixt them tracts and the post-office. To the +east, right where the nicest houses is, the parson +was plannin’ to import his fambly. More’n that, +them four gun-shy gents stood ready to buy +all the time. And Goldstone fellers that would +’a’ swapped they lots fer a yalla dawg, and then +shot the dawg, was holdin’ out fer fifty plunks.</p> + +<p>Wal, I had that three hunderd. But I helt +back. What I wanted to know was <i>the why behind +the boom.</i></p> + +<p>I just kinda happened past that real-estate +corn-crib. The land-agent was to home, and +I ast him to come over and have one with me. +He said O. K., that suited <i>him</i>. So we greased +our hollers a few times. And, when he was feelin’ +so good that he could make out to talk, I drawed +from him that Goldstone was likely to stand +’way up yonder at the haid of her class account +of “natu’al developments.”</p> + +<p>“Natu’al developments,” I says. “Wal, +pardner, when it comes to them big, dictionary +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_289'></a>289</span> +words, I shore am a slouch. And you got me all +twisted up in my picket-rope.”</p> + +<p>But I had to spend another dollar ’fore he’d +talk some more. Then he begun, <i>turrible</i> confidential: +“I been sayin’ nothin’ and sawin’ wood, +Lloyd. I ain’t let <i>no</i> man git information outen +<i>me</i>. But I like you, Lloyd, and, say! I’m a-goin’ +to tell you. Natu’al developments is <i>coal</i> and <i>oil</i> +and <i>gas.</i>”</p> + +<p>Same as the Tusla country! Wal, I was plumb +crazy. “Blamed if it ain’t <i>likely,</i>” I says to myself. +“Wal, that settles things fer <i>me.</i>”</p> + +<p>I got shet of that real-estate feller quick as +I could (didn’t want him to remember that he’d +talked in his sleep), and hunted up the post-master. +The postmaster was one of the china-eyed, +corn-silk Swedes, and he owned quite a bit +of Goldstone. I tole him I wanted to buy a +couple of lots ’cause I was goin’ to be married, +and figgered to build. (That wasn’t no lie, +neither.) Said I didn’t want to live in the part +of town where the greasers was fer the reason +that I’d rather settle down in a Sioux Camp in +August <i>any</i> day than amongst a crowd of blamed +<i>cholos</i>.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_290'></a>290</span>The postmaster wasn’t anxious to sell. Said +he didn’t have more’n a block left, and he wanted +a big price fer that. “’Cause this boom is <i>solid,</i>”–he kinda half whispered it. “How do I know? +Wal, I pumped one of them suspender-cityzens +this mornin’.”</p> + +<p>That showed me I’d got to hump myself. If +that real-estate feller blabbed any more, I +wouldn’t be able to buy. The station-agent +owned some lots. I hiked fer the deepot.</p> + +<p>When I looked into the ticket-office through +the little winda, I seen that agent–one hand +on the tick-machine, other holdin’ his haid–with +his mouth wide open, like a hungry wall-eye.</p> + +<p>“Lloyd,” he says, pantin’ hard, “I ain’t got +no right to tell, but I can’t hole it in. Them Chicago +fellers, Lloyd, are a Standard Oil bunch. +Look a-here!” And he pushed out a telegram.</p> + +<p>I wouldn’t ’a’ believed it if I hadn’t saw it +writ down in black and white. But there it was, +haided Chicago, addressed to Porky, and as plain +as day: “<i>Buy up all that’s possible. Price no +object. Rockafeller.</i>”</p> + +<p>Say! I come nigh lettin’ out a yell. Then, +knowin’ they was no use to ast the agent to sell, +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_291'></a>291</span> +I split fer the liv’ry-stable. And when I got back +into town late that night, I’d been down to a +ranch below Goldstone and handed over my nest-aig +fer a quarter-section just south of town.</p> + +<p>Next mornin’, they was a nice pile of stakes +throwed out on to that sand patch of mine, all +them stakes white on the one end and sharp on +the other. And they was a big sign onloaded, too. +Yas, ma’am. It said, “The Lloyd Addition.”</p> + +<p>And that <i>same</i> noon, Number 201 brung me a +letter from little Macie!</p> + +<p>I didn’t cut up my quarter into lots straight +off. Made up my mind it’d be best to see that +real-estate feller first, ast his <i>ad</i>vice, and see if +he’d handle the property. So I made fer his +office in a <i>turrible</i> sweat.</p> + +<p>Heerd awful loud talkin’ as I come nigh, and +seen they was a big crowd ’round the door. And +here was Porky and the parson, just <i>havin’</i> it–up and down!</p> + +<p>“The idear!” the parson was sayin’, “–the +idear of you’ thinkin’ you can go stick a pavilion +where licker’ll be sold right next to the Cathedral!” +(He was madder ’n all git out!)</p> + +<p>Porky shrug his shoulders. “My dear <i>sir,</i>” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_292'></a>292</span> +he says, “I got to use my own <i>land</i> in my own +<i>way.</i>”</p> + +<p>“Aw!” answers the parson, solemn, “–aw! +my friend, give you’ heart a housecleanin’. Think +not so muchly about worldly <i>po</i>ssessions, but +<i>see</i>cure a lot in the New Jerusalem!”</p> + +<p>Then Porky flew up. Said the parson ’d insulted +him. “And,” he almost yelled, “this is +how it stands. Either you got to buy the block +where the pavilion’s goin’ to be, ’r I’ll buy the +Cathedral property.”</p> + +<p>“I ain’t got you’ means at my command,” +says the parson.</p> + +<p>“Never mind. I’ll take the church lots. Name +you’ figger.”</p> + +<p>“Three thousand.”</p> + +<p>Porky pulled out his check-book and begun to +scribble with one of them squirt-gun pens. “The +matter is settled,” he says.</p> + +<p>Say! the feller who’d sole that property to +the parson fer a hunderd–we had to prop him +up!</p> + +<p>Just afterwards, I had my chin with the real-estate +dude, and I tell you it made me pretty +blue. “Sorry, Lloyd,” he says; “you know <i>I</i> +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_293'></a>293</span> +never tole you to buy <i>south</i> of town. And I don’t +keer to bother with you’ Addition. ’Cause Goldstone +is goin’ to grow to the north and east.”</p> + +<p>Porky was there, and he said the very same +thing. And a few minutes later on, when the +doc come in, I couldn’t git him to even <i>con</i>sider +lookin’ over my buy. But fer a lot on the north +side, belongin’ to the parson, he put down the +good, hard <i>coin</i>.</p> + +<p>North and east was the hull talk now, and them +Goldstone fellers who’d sole out cheap in that +end of town felt some pale. But the Chicago +gents was as pert as prairie-dawgs, and doin’ a +thunderin’ lot of buyin’. Now, the doc owned +sev’ral lots east of Porky’s tract. “New drug-store +here,” he says, “and a fine town hall over +it. I’ll put ten thousand into the buildin’.” And +the parson bought next to the site fer the Normal +College. “The city,” he says, “’ll want a spot +fer its High School.”</p> + +<p>All the time this was goin’ on, I was livin’ on +nothin’, you might say, and not even spendin’ +a cent fer a shave. My haid had a crop of hay +on it that would ’a’ filled a pilla; I had a Santy +Claus beard, and if I couldn’t afford to grub at +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_294'></a>294</span> +the hotel, I wasn’t mean enough to use they +soap. So, far as looks goes, I was some changed.</p> + +<p>Then–the <i>Tarantula</i> showed up with the hull +story about coal and oil and gas! Say! the cat +was outen the bag. And Goldstone come nigh +havin’ a fit and fallin’ in. Here it’d been over +a gold-mine, and didn’t know it! And here it’d +gone and sole itself out to a passel of strange +ducks!</p> + +<p>“<i>Feller citizens,</i>” says the paper, “<i>this beautiful +city of yourn is destined to rival South McAlester +and Colgate.</i>”</p> + +<p>That was on a Thursday, if I recollect right. +Wal, say! fer the next two days, more things +happened in that there town than’d ever happened +in the hull <i>county</i> afore. Ev’rybody that +could rake, scrape, beg ’r borra was a-doin’ it–so’s they could buy. Friday, the postmaster +got a big block from the real-estate gent; same +day, kinda as a favour, the doc sold the ticket-agent +two ’r three lots. I felt blamed sore ’cause <i>I</i> +didn’t have no money to git in on some good deals. +But I hung on to the “Lloyd Addition”–I +wouldn’t let <i>that</i> git outen my hands. Aw, I +ain’t a-goin’ to lie–I had the boom-fever bad +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_295'></a>295</span> +as <i>any</i>body. Fact is, I had it <i>worse</i>. And who +wouldn’t–when gettin’ that little gal depended +on it?</p> + +<p>Saturday, Goldstone went plumb crazy. They +was buyin’ and sellin’ back’ards and for’ards, +this way and that way, in circles and cater-corners. +From sun-up on, that real-estate shanty had +half a dozen fellers in it all the time; more was +over to the hotel, dickerin’ with Porky; and a +lot of others trailed up the parson and the doc. +Nobody et ’cause they was too blamed <i>ex</i>cited. +Nobody drunk ’cause they wouldn’t spare the +cash. The sun went down, and they kept on +a-buyin’. And at midnight, the town went to +bed–<i>rich!</i></p> + +<p>The day afterwards was Sunday. And I hope +I may die if I ever fergit that Sunday!</p> + +<p>When the sun come up, as a story-book’d +put it, Goldstone lay as calm and peaceful as a +babe, ’cept where some poor devil of a cow-punch +was gittin’ along towards his bunk when +he oughta been comin’ outen it. But all else was +O. K. Weather fine, ev’rybody well, thank y’, +and land so high it’s a wonder the temper’ture +wasn’t gittin’ low.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_296'></a>296</span>But ain’t it funny how quick things can +change?</p> + +<p>First off, some of us boys went over to that +real-estate hogan–and found the door open and +the place stripped. Yas, ma’am; duds gone, pictures +gone. Only the bench and the table left.</p> + +<p>“What struck <i>him?</i>” ast the postmaster, who +was comin’ by.</p> + +<p>“I guess,” says a feller, careless, “–I guess +he’s moved into a better office, mebbe.”</p> + +<p>“I reckon,” agrees the postmaster. Then, his +voice gittin’ holler, like, “But ain’t that the map +of Goldstone, with a rip in it?”</p> + +<p>It was–tore clean in two!</p> + +<p>We wasn’t anxious any. Just the same, we +drifted over to the hotel. When we got to the +door, we met the clerk comin’ out. “Where’s +you’ millionaire friend this mornin’?” we ast +him.</p> + +<p>“Started fer Chicago last night.”</p> + +<p>“What–what’s that?”</p> + +<p>“Gone to raise more capital, I guess,” says +the clerk. “’Cause he didn’t settle–is comin’ +back right off.”</p> + +<p>Without nobody sayin’ nothin’ more, we all +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_297'></a>297</span> +made up the street to the doctor’s, the crowd +growin’ as we went along. Even after bein’ +knocked plumb flat with a sledge-hammer, we +didn’t know <i>yet</i> what’d bit us. But they was another +whopper a-comin’–the <i>doc</i> wasn’t to be +found.</p> + +<p>“I think,” says the postmaster, swallerin’ hard, +“that if we ast the parson<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>Up pipes a kid. “The parson wasn’t to Sunday +school this mornin’.”</p> + +<p>Fer a spell, we all just looked at each other. +Then, the <i>pro</i>cession formed and moved east–towards +the parson’s.</p> + +<p>A square table was inside. On it was a lot of +bottles and glasses and a pack of cards–nothin’ +more.</p> + +<p>Ole sin-killer, too!</p> + +<p>I spoke up: “They’s gone, boys,–but what +about they <i>land?</i>”</p> + +<p>“Wal,” answers one feller, “I don’t think +the doc <i>had</i> none. ’Cause I bought the Merchants’ +<i>Ex</i>change site offen him yesterday.”</p> + +<p>“And I bought the Normal School block offen +the parson,” says Number Two.</p> + +<p>“And what I got from the real-estate feller +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_298'></a>298</span> +last night,” adds the hotel clerk, “must ’a’ come +nigh to cleanin’ <i>him</i> out.”</p> + +<p>Another spell of quiet. Then<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span></p> + +<p>“I wonder,” <i>re</i>marks the station-agent, “if +that Rockafeller telegram was <i>genuwine.</i>”</p> + +<p>The postmaster throwed up his hands. “We’re +it!” he says. “We sole our sand fer a song, and +we bought it back at a steep figger.”</p> + +<p>“With all that money,” adds the hotel clerk, +“they must ’a’ had to walk bow-laigged.”</p> + +<p>“My friends,” says the station-agent, “the +drinks is on us!”</p> + +<hr class='tb' /> + +<p>And me? Wal, I wandered ’round fer a while–like I was plumb loco. When I landed up at +last, I seen somethin’ white in front of me. It +was a sign, and it said, “The Lloyd Addition.”</p> + +<p>I sit down on my little pile of stakes, and +pulled out the last letter I’d got from Macie.</p> + +<div class='bquote'> +<p>“<i>Dear Alec,” it begun, “I’m so glad you got +you’ land<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span></i>”</p> +</div> <!-- block quote --> + +<p>I didn’t read no further. I looked off acrosst +the mesquite in the <i>di</i>rection of Briggs City. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_299'></a>299</span> +“The land ain’t no good,” I says. “And all my +money’s gone.” And I laid my haid down on my +arms.</p> + +<p>Just then, outen a bunch of grass not far off, +I heerd the spunky little song of a lark!</p> + +<p>I riz up.</p> + +<p>“Anyhow,” I says, “I’m goin’ home. Mebbe +I look like a bum; but I’m goin’ back where I +got some friends! I’m goin’ back where they +call me Cupid!”</p> + +<hr class='pb' /> +<h2><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_300'></a>300</span><a id='link_12'></a>CHAPTER TWELVE<br /><span class='h2fs'>AND A BOOM AT BRIGGS</span></h2> + +<p><span class='sc'>I got</span> back all right. It takes two dollars and +six-bits to git from Goldstone to Briggs City +on the Local. But if you happen to have a little +flat bottle in you’ back pocket, you ride in the +freight caboose fer nothin’. I <i>had</i> a flat bottle. +I swapped “The Lloyd Addition” fer it.</p> + +<p>When I hit ole Briggs City, she looked all +right t’ <i>me,</i> I can tell y’. And so did the boys. +And by noon I was plumb wored out, I’d gassed +so much.</p> + +<p>Wal, I went over and sit down on the edge of +Silverstein’s porch to rest my face and hands. +Pretty soon, I heerd a hoss a-comin’ up the street–<i>clickety, clickety, clickety, click.</i> It stopped at +the post-office, right next me. I looked up–and +here was Macie!</p> + +<p>Say! I felt turrible, ’cause I hadn’t slicked up +any yet. But she didn’t seem to notice. She +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_301'></a>301</span> +knowed they was somethin’ gone wrong though, +’fore ever I said a word. She just helt out one +soft little hand. “Never you mind, Alec,” she +says; “never you mind.”</p> + +<p>My little gal!</p> + +<p>“It means punchin’ cows fer four years at +forty per, Macie,” I says to her.</p> + +<p>“I’ll wait fer you, Alec,” she answers.</p> + +<p>She’d gone, and I was turnin’ back towards +Silverstein’s, when–I’m a son-of-a-gun if I +didn’t see, a-comin’ acrosst from the deepot, one +of them land-sharks! It was Porky, with that +wedge-coat of hisn, and a seegar as big as a +corn-cob!</p> + +<p>Say! I duv under the porch so quick that I +clean scairt the life outen six razorbacks and +seventeen hens that was diggin’ ’round under it. +And when I come out where the back door is, I +skun fer Hairoil Johnson’s shack to borra a dif-f’rent +suit of clothes offen the parson. Next, I +had my Santy Claus mowed at the barber-shop.</p> + +<p>But, when I looked in the glass, I wasn’t satisfied, +’cause I wasn’t changed enough. “What’ll +I <i>do?</i>” I ast the barber.</p> + +<p>“Wash,” he says.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_302'></a>302</span>Wal, I’ll be dog-goned!–the <i>dis</i>guise was +complete!</p> + +<p>Just then, in come Hank Shackleton. +“Hank,” I says, “what do y’ think?–that fat +Chicago millionaire I was a-tellin’ you of is +<i>here!</i>”</p> + +<p>“You don’t say so!” he answers, beginnin’ +to grin. “That shore <i>is</i> luck!”</p> + +<p>“How so?” ast the barber.</p> + +<p>“Why,” I says, “just think what we can <i>do</i> +to him!”</p> + +<p>Hank just lent back and haw-hawed like he’d +bust his buttons off. “Aw, <i>don’t</i> make me +laugh,” he says; “my lip’s cracked!”</p> + +<p>They ain’t no use talkin’–we fixed up a proposition +that was a <i>daisy</i>.</p> + +<p>“And it’ll work like yeast,” says Shackleton. +“A-course, whatever <i>I</i> make outen it, Cupid, you +git a draw-down on–yas, you do.”</p> + +<p>“Nobody from Goldstone’ll speak up and +spoil the fun, neither,” I says. “Not by a jugful! +That passel of yaps down there is jealous +of Briggs, and ’d just <i>like</i> to see her done. +What’s more, they got a heap of little, mean +pride, and ’d never own up <i>they</i> been sold.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_303'></a>303</span>It was shore funny, but from that <i>very</i> minute, +and all by <i>itself</i> kinda, Briggs City begun +to boom! Billy Trowbridge put a barb-wire fence +’round a couple of vacant lots next his house. +Bergin dug a big hole behind that ole vacant +shack of hisn, and buried about a ton of tin cans. +Hairoil turned some shoats into a rock patch he +owned and cleaned out the rattlesnakes. And all +over town, sand got five times as high as it’d +ever been afore.</p> + +<p>So when my dudey friend, the real-estate feller, +struck our flourishin’ city, and hired a’ empty +shanty fer his office, he didn’t find no one anxious +to sell him a slice of land. “Say! property’s +up here,” he <i>re</i>marked, whilst he put down +the stiff price that Bill Rawson ’d ast fer a lot. +He seemed sorta bothered in his mind. (But he +had to have land–to start his game on.)</p> + +<p>“And <i>climbin’,</i>” says Bill, pocketin’ the spondulix. +(Later on, Bill says to <i>me,</i> “I ain’t +a-goin’ to do another lick of hard work this +year!”)</p> + +<p>Same day, here was Sam Barnes, walkin’ up +and down on that acre of hisn and holdin’ to a +forked stick. Wouldn’t tell Porky <i>why,</i> though +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_304'></a>304</span> +he hinted that whenever a forked stick dipped +<i>three</i> times, <i>it meant somethin’ more ’n water.</i></p> + +<p>“But I ain’t got the cash to do no investigatin’,” +says Sam, sad-like.</p> + +<p>Porky got turrible inter<i>est</i>ed. “Say,” he says +t’ Shackleton, “what you think of that land +of Barnes’s?”</p> + +<p>“Wal,” answers Hank, “I’ll tell y’: Oncet +I seen another strip that looked <i>just</i> like hisn +on top. And it was rich in gold. It was so blamed +rich in the colour that when the feller who owned +it (he was as lazy as a government mule)–when +that feller wanted more t’bacca, ’r some spuds, +’r a piece of pig, why, he’d just go out into the +yard and roll. Then he’d hike to town, and when +he’d get into the bank, he’d shake hisself–good–pick up what fell to the floor, git it weighed, +and the payin’-teller would hand him out what +was comin’ t’ him.”</p> + +<p>Porky peeled his eyes. (It was plain he didn’t +swaller it all.) But, after talkin’ with that real-estate +feller, he hunted up Sam and bought +ev’ry square inch he had. “’Cause it’s dollars +to doughnuts,” he says, “that Briggs City’ll +grow this way.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_305'></a>305</span>“Wal, I don’t know,” says Sam. “Bergin is +powerful strong in pollytics, and he figgers to +git the Court House <i>er</i>ected on the other side +of town–where his wife’s got some land.”</p> + +<p>The new parson and the doc showed up that +same afternoon. And I reckon they liked that +Court House idear, ’cause they took the north +half of the Starvation Gap property straight +off.</p> + +<p>“The City Park,” they says, “should allus +be next the public buildin’s.”</p> + +<p>“The City Park,” says Buckshot Milliken, +“will likely be further north, right agin the +University. I <i>know</i>–fer the reason that they +was a meetin’ of the University <i>di</i>rectors last +night. Then, the Farmers’ and Merchants’ Bank +is goin’ to be located facin’ the Park, and so is +the Grand Op’ra House.”</p> + +<p>Porky gave Buckshot a’ awful sharp look. But +Buckshot’s a’ Injun when it comes to actin’ innocenter’n +a kitten. So then the millionaire gent +looked <i>tickled</i> (’cause, just think!–if we was +<i>ex</i>cited a’ready about a boom, what a pile of +trouble it’d save him and his pardners!) Wal, he +waddled off and hunted ’em up. And that night +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_306'></a>306</span> +they pur<i>chased</i> ’most all of them north lots–payin’ +good.</p> + +<p>It was the next mornin’ that they got holt of +ole man Sewell and bought the Andrews place. +Sewell wasn’t <i>on</i>–he hadn’t been into town since +I come from Goldstone. But the real-estate gent +was used to puttin’ up a good figger by now, and +the boss made a fair haul.</p> + +<p>Right off, the Andrews chunk was laid out +in fifty-foot lots. It was just rows and <i>rows</i> of +white stakes, and when the West-bound was +stopped at the deepot fer grub, I seen Bill Rawson +pointin’ them stakes out to two poor ole +white-haired women. “Ladies,” he says, “that’s +the battlefield where Crook fit the Kiowas. +Ev’ry stake’s a stiff.”</p> + +<p>As the train pulled out, she was tipped all to +one side kinda, and runnin’ on her off wheels, +’cause the pass’ngers was herded along the west +side of the cars, lookin’ at that big graveyard.</p> + +<p>When Hank’s next <i>Eye-Opener</i> come out, one +hull side of it was covered with a map of Briggs +City–drawed three mile square, so’s to take +in what Mrs. Bergin had left. Under the map +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_307'></a>307</span> +it said, “<i>The left-hand cross marks the position +of the West Oklahomaw Observatory, which is +to be built on top of Rogers’s Butte, and the cross +in the Andrews Addition marks the spot where +the great Sanatarium’ll stand.</i>” (Say! it was +gittin’ to be a cold day in Briggs when somebody +didn’t start a grand, new institootion!) “<i>Why,</i>” +goes on Shackleton, in that piece of hisn, +“<i>breathin’ that fine crick-bottom air, and on a +plain diet–say, of bread and clabbered milk, a +sick person oughta git cured up easy, and a +healthy person oughta live more’n a hunderd +years.</i>” (Wal, as far as <i>I’</i>m concerned, if I had to +eat clabbered milk a hunderd years, I’d ruther +<i>die!</i>)</p> + +<p>Next thing, two ’r three of the boys got into +a reg’lar jawin’-match over some property. +Chub Flannagan wanted to start a new paper +called the <i>Rip-Saw</i>. Shackleton, a-course, didn’t +want he should. Right in front of that real-estate +feller’s, Chub drawed a gun on Hank. +And Monkey Mike had to interfere ’twixt them.</p> + +<p>“I got a right to do what I please on my own +land,” yells Chub.</p> + +<p>“Wal, I’ll buy you’ blamed lots,” says +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_308'></a>308</span> +Shackleton, “but I don’t stand fer compytition. +Here, agent, what’s Chub’s block worth?”</p> + +<p>The dude reckoned it was worth five hunderd. +And Shackleton dug down like a man!</p> + +<p>The rest of us done a turrible lot of buyin’ +and sellin’ right after that–one to the other. +The sheriff sold to Sam Barnes (fer a chaw of +t’bacca); Bill Rawson, he sold to me (on tick); +Hairoil Johnson to Dutchy, and so forth. ’R, +it’d be like this: “Bet you a lot I can jump the +furth’est.” “Bet you cain’t.” Then real estate ’d +change hands, and the <i>Tarantula</i> ’d talk about +“a lively market.”</p> + +<p>A-course, the dude and Porky, and the doc +and the new parson was doin’ some buyin’, too. +’Fore long, they owned all Bergin had, and +Shackleton’s, and Chub’s, and Rawson’s, and +Johnson’s, and mine. And they picked out a +place fer the Deef, Dumb, and Blind Asylum; +and named ole man Sewell fer President of the +Briggs City Pott’ry works.</p> + +<div class='figcenter'> +<a id='link_i4'></a><img src='images/illus-308.jpg' alt='' /> +<p class='center caption'> +“<i>I’ll buy you blamed lots, but I don’t stand fer compytition</i>” +</p> +</div> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_309'></a>309</span>Pretty soon, havin’ all the land they wanted, +they begun, steady by jerks, to sell each other, +notice of them sales appearin’ in the <i>Eye-Opener</i> +at two-bits apiece. Next, they got to sellin’ +faster. Then, it was dawg eat dawg. Lickin’ +things into a’ <i>ex</i>citin’ pass, them lots of theirn +flew back’ards and for’ards till the air was plumb +full of sand. When the sun went down that +never-to-be-fergot evenin’ (as the speaker allus +says at a <i>po</i>litical pow-wow), ole Briggs City was +the colour of mesquite. But the pockets of the +punchers was so chuck full that, as the hours +drug by, our growin’ city got redder ’n a section-house, +’cause the boys was busy paintin’ it. (But +count <i>me</i> out–I had my draw-down, and I was +a-hangin’ <i>on</i> to it.) Whilst over at the real-estate +shack, them gun-shy gents was havin’ a +quiet, little business talk, gittin’ ready fer they +onloadin’ campaign next day.</p> + +<p>About ten o’clock, I stopped by they shebang +and knocked. When the door was opened, here +they all sit, makin’ out more deeds ’n you could +shake a stick at. I didn’t go in. I figgered I’d +be gittin’ married soon; and no feller wants his +face spotted up like a Sioux chief’s on his weddin’ +day.</p> + +<p>“Gents,” I says, “the boys sent me over to +thank you all fer pur<i>chasin’</i> property hereabouts +in such a blamed gen’rous way. And it’s shore too +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_310'></a>310</span> +bad that <i>they</i> feel they cain’t invest. But they +plan to wait a year, and buy in what you got +fer taxes.”</p> + +<p>Fer as long as you could count ten, not a’ one +of ’em said a word. Then the doc stood up. +“Who in thunder are <i>you?</i>” he ast, voice like a +frog.</p> + +<p>“Why,” I answers, “don’t you recollect <i>me?</i> +I’m Cupid here; but, down at Goldstone, I was +the owner of the Lloyd Addition.”</p> + +<p>They jumped like they’d been stuck with a +pin. “The Lloyd Addition!” they kinda hisses.</p> + +<p>“Yas,” I goes on. “So I reckon you realise +that it wouldn’t be no use fer Mister Real-Estate +Agent, here, to git three-sheets-in-the-wind, and +then let out his grand natu’al development secret; +’r fer our millionaire friend to go send hisself +a telegram from Rockafeller. Gent’s you’ +little Briggs City boom is busted.”</p> + +<p>Say! next minute the hull quartette of ’em +was a-swearin’ to oncet, so’s it sounded like a +tune–nigger chords and all.</p> + +<p>Next, Porky begun a solo. Said if they hadn’t +all been plumb crazy, they’d ’a’ knowed they was +a screw loose in Briggs. And now here they was +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_311'></a>311</span> +stripped cleaner’n a whistle by a set of ornery +cow-punchers<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span></p> + +<p>I cut him short. “We know how to cure a +dawg of suckin’ aigs,” I says. “We give him all +he wants of ’em–red hot. Wal, you gents had +the boom disease, and you had it bad. But I +reckon now you’ve got just about all the land +you can hole.”</p> + +<p>They nodded they haids. It was a show-down, +and no mistake, and they was plumb offen they +high hoss. Blamed if I didn’t come nigh feelin’ +sorry fer ’em! But I goes on, “I’m feard you-all’re +<i>just</i> a little bit ongrateful to me–<i>con</i>sider-in’ +that I come here t’-night to help y’.”</p> + +<p>“Help?” they says. (Quartette again.)</p> + +<p>“Why, yas. Don’t you think, about this time, +that Chicago ’d look pretty good to you?”</p> + +<p>“Chicago!” says Porky, low and wistful, like +he didn’t never expect to see the place again.</p> + +<p>“And hittin’ the ties, fer two dudes like the +agent, here, and the parson<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> + +<p>“Parson be hanged!” says the last named +gent, ugly as the dickens.</p> + +<p>“I hope not,” I goes on, “but you never can +tell what the boys’ll do.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_312'></a>312</span>The doc was standin’ up. As I said that, he +come down kerplunk onto a bench, like as if a +spring ’d give way in his laigs.</p> + +<p>“Lloyd,” he says, “we–we–we’re willin’ to +go, but we ain’t got no money.”</p> + +<p>“You’re what I’d call land-poor,” I says.</p> + +<p>“You need four tickets–wal, now, you own that +Andrews chunk, don’t y’?”</p> + +<p>“Lloyd,” says the real-estate feller, “you’ve +got the dead wood on us, ole man.” He picked +up one of them deeds from the table. “Git us +the tickets,” he says, “and here’s the Andrews +property.”</p> + +<p>“A up-freight goes by in twenty minutes,” I +says. And started fer the station.</p> + +<p>“Lloyd!” calls Porky after me, “think you +could spare us a’ extra twenty fer grub?–<i>you</i> +don’t want us to starve, Lloyd. And–and +mebbe you could use the rest of these deeds.”</p> + +<p>I come back.</p> + +<p>“Twenty?” I says; “I’ll make it fifty fer +luck.”</p> + +<p>They was tears in that fake parson’s eyes. +“Lloyd,” he says, “if I really <i>was</i> a preacher, +I’d pick you fer a saved man.”</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_313'></a>313</span>Later on, when I walked into Dutchy’s thirst-parlour, +the boys was on hand, waitin’ patient. +As they ketched sight of me, they hollered +some.</p> + +<p>“My friends,” I says, “this is where I stand +treat. But it ain’t licker this tune, <i>no,</i> ma’am; +I’m presentin’ hunderd-foot lots.” So out I +drawed my little bunch of deeds and handed one +to each feller. Bergin got the Observatory site +and the City Park; Rawson, the University +grounds; Hairoil, the Farmers’ and Merchants’ +Bank block; Chub, the Court House; Sam +Barnes, the spot fer the Grand Op’ra House, +and Billy Trowbridge, the land fer the Deef, +Dumb and Blind Asylum. Then I slid.</p> + +<p>Ten minutes, and my pinto bronc was a-kitin’ +fer the Bar Y ranch-house. Turnin’ in at the +gate, I seen a light in the sittin’-room winda. I +dropped the reins over Maud’s haid and hoofed +it up onto the porch. And inside, there was +Macie, a-settin’ in her rocker in front of the +fire. On the other side was the President of the +Briggs City Pott’ry Works.</p> + +<p>“Boss,” I says, as I shook hands with him, +“Boss, I’ve come fer you’ little gal.” +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_314'></a>314</span> +Say! it took him quick, like a stitch in the side. +“Fer my gal?” he kinda stammers.</p> + +<p>“Why–why, Alec,<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>” she whispers to me.</p> + +<p>“Sewell,” I goes on, “when I ast you fer her, +a while back, you said, ‘Git a piece of land as +big as the Andrews chunk.’ Wal,” (I handed out +my deed) “would you mind lookin’ at this?”</p> + +<p>“It’s yourn!” The ole man put his hands to +his haid.</p> + +<p>“Also,” I says, rattlin’ the little stack of +twenties in my right-hand britches pocket, “I’m +fixed t’ git some cows; fifty ’r so–a start, boss, +just a start.”</p> + +<p>“How’d you do it! Why, I’m plumb knocked +silly!”</p> + +<p>“But you’ ain’t the man to go back on you’ +word, Sewell. I can take good keer of Mace +now–and I want to be friends with the man +that’s goin’ to be my paw.”</p> + +<p>He begun to look at me, awful steady and +sober, and he looked and he looked–like as if +he hadn’t just savvied. Next, he sorta talked to +hisself. “My little Macie,” he kept sayin’; “my +little Macie.”</p> + +<p>She put her arms ’round him then, and he +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_315'></a>315</span> +clean broke down. “Aw, I <i>cain’t</i> lose my little +gal,” he says. “I don’t keer anythin’ about land +’r cattle. But Macie–she’s all I got left. <i>Don’t</i> +take her away from me!”</p> + +<p>So <i>that</i> was it! (And I’d said that all Sewell +keered fer was money.) “Boss,” I says, “you +mean you’d like us to live here–with you?”</p> + +<p>He come over to me, tremblin’ like he had the +ague. “Would y’, Cupid?” he ast. “I’d never +interfere with you two none. <i>Would</i> y’?”</p> + +<p>“Aw, daddy!” says Mace, holdin’ to him +tight.</p> + +<p>“Why, bless you’ heart, Sewell,” I answers, +“what do I want to live any <i>other</i> place fer? +<i>Mace</i> is what I want–just Mace. And, say! +you take back you’ little ole crick-bottom.”</p> + +<p>“Got more land’n I want <i>now.</i>”</p> + +<p>“Boss,”–I helt out my hand–“here’s where +you git a new son-in-law, and a foreman fer +keeps on cow-punch pay. Shake!”</p> + +<p>He give one hand to Mace, and he give me +the other. “Not by a long shot, Cupid!” he says. +“Here’s where I git a half-<i>pardner.</i>”</p> + +<hr class='tb' /> + +<p>So here I am–settled down at the ole Bar Y. +<span class='pagenum pncolor'><a id='page_316'></a>316</span> +And it’d take a twenty-mule team t’ pull me +offen it. Of a evenin’, like this, the boss, he sits +on the east porch, smokin’; the boys ’re strung +along the side of the bunk-house t’ rest and gass +and laugh; and, out yonder, is the cottonwoods, +same as ever, and the ditch, and the mesquite, +leveler’n a floor; and–up over it all–the moon, +white and smilin’.</p> + +<p>Then, outen the door nigh where the sun-flowers +’re growin’, mebbe she’ll come–a slim, +little figger in white. And, if it’s plenty warm, +and not too late, why, she’ll be totin’ the smartest, +cutest<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span></p> + +<p>Listen! y’ hear that?</p> + +<table summary='poetry' class='poetry'><tr><td> +<p class='i'>“Sweet is the vale where the Mohawk gently glides</p> +<p class='i'>On its fair, windin’ way to the sea<span style='white-space: nowrap'>––</span>”</p> +</td></tr></table> + +<p>That’s my little wife,–that’s Macie, now–a-singin’ +to the kid!</p> + +<p class='c mt20'>THE END</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Alec Lloyd, Cowpuncher, by Eleanor Gates + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALEC LLOYD, COWPUNCHER *** + +***** This file should be named 33884-h.htm or 33884-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/8/8/33884/ + +Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.fadedpage.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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