“Guess I won’t go in,” he says.
“O. K.,” I answers. (No use to cross him, y’ savvy, it’d only ’a’ made him worse.)
When I knocked, and the widda opened the door, she seen him.
“Why, how d’ you do!” she called out, lookin’ mighty pleased. “Willie, dear, here’s Mister Bergin.”
“How d’ do,” says the sheriff.
Willie come nigh havin’ a duck-fit, he was so happy. And in about two shakes of a lamb’s tail, he was outen the house and a-climbin’ the sheriff.
Inside, I says to Mrs. Bridger, “Them chickens of yourn come, ma’am. And Hairoil Johnson’ll drive ’em down in a’ hour ’r so. The most of ’em looked fat and sassy, but one ’r two has got the pip.”
She didn’t act like she’d heerd me. She was watchin’ the sandpile.
“One ’r two has got the pip,” I repeats.
“What?–how’s that?” she ast.
“Don’t worry about you’ boy,” I says. “Bergin’lllook after him. Y’ know, Bergin is one of the whitest gents in Oklahomaw.”
“Iain’t a-worryin’,” answers the widda. “Iknow Mister Bergin is a fine man.” And she kept on lookin’ out.
“In this wild country,” I begun, voice ’way down to my spurs, “–this wild country, full of rattlesnakes and Injuns and tramps, ev’ry ranch needs a good man ’round it.”
She turned like lightnin’. “What you mean?” she ast, kinda short. (Reckon she thoughtIwas tryin’ t’ spark her.)
“A man like Bergin,” Icontinues.
“Aw,” she says, plumb relieved.
And I left things that-a-way–t’ sprout.
Walkin’ up the track afterwards, I remarked, casual like, that they wasn’tmanywomen nicer ’n Mrs. Bridger.
“They’sonething I like about her,” says the sheriff, “–she’s got eyes like the kid.”
(Dang the kid!)
Wal, me and Macie and them four sparkers wasn’t the only folks that thought the widda was mighty nice. She’d made lots of friends at the section-house since she come. The section-boss’swife said they wasnobody 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 youconsider 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 justworshippedher.
Wal, they got in and done her alotof good turns. Put up a fine chicken-coop, the section-boss overseein’ the job; and, one Sunday, cleaned out her cellar.Thinkof it! (Say! fer a man to appreciate that, he’s got to know what lazy critters greasers is.) Last of all, kinda to wind things up, the cholos went out into the mesquite and come back with a present of a nice black-and-white Poland China hawg.
Wal, shewastickled at that, and so was the kid. (Hairoil Johnson was shy a pig that week, but you bethenever let on!) The gang made a nice little pen, usin’ ties, and ev’ry day theypacked over some feed in the shape of the camp leavin’s.
The widda was settled fine, had half a dozen hens a-settin’ and some castor beans a-growin’ in the low spots next her house, when things begun to come to a haid with the calendar gents. I got it straight from her that in just one solitary week, she collected four pop-the-questions!
She handed out exac’ly that many pairs of mittens–handed ’em out with such a sorry look in them kind eyes of hern, that the courtin’ quartette got worse in love with her ’n ever. Anybody could a’ seenthatwith one eye. They all begun shavin’ twicet a week, most ev’ry one of ’em bought new things to wear, and–best sign ofany–they stopped drinkin’! Ev’ry day ’r so, back they’d track to visit the widda.
She didn’t like that fer a cent. Wasn’t nary one of ’em that suited her, and just when the chickens ’r the cholo gals needed her, here was a Briggs City galoot a-crossin’ the yard.
“Sorry,” she says to Macie, “but I’ll have to give them gents they walkin’-papers. If I don’t, I won’t never git a lick done.”
“Bully fer you!” Mace answers. “It’ll begood riddance of bad rubbish. They’re too gally.” (Somethin’ like that, anyhow.) “Learn ’em to act like they was civylised. But, say, Mrs. Bridger, you–you ain’t a-goin’ to give the rinky-dink to the Sheriff?”
“Mister Bergin,” answers the widda, “ain’t bothered me none.” (Mace was shore they was tears in her eyes.)
“Aw–haw!” I says, when the little gal tole me.Isavvied.
That same afternoon, whilst the widda was a-settin’ on the shady side of the house, sewin’ on carpet-rags, up come Sam Barnes. (It was Monday.)
“Mrs. Bridger,” he begun, “I’m a-goin’ to ast you to think over what I said to you last week. I don’t want to be haidstrong, but I’d like to git a ’yas’ outen you.”
“Mister Barnes,” she says. “I’m feard I cain’t say yas. I ain’t thinkin’ of marryin’. But if I was, it’d be to a man that’s–that’s big, and tall, and has blue eyes.” And she looked out at the sand-pile, and sighed.
“Wal,” says Sam, “I reckon I don’t fit specifications.” And he hiked fer town.
He was plumb huffy when he tole me about it. “Fer a woman,” he says, “that’s got to look after herself, and has a kid on her hands to boot, she’s got more airs’n a windmill.”
Next!
That was Chub.
Now, Chub, he knowed a heap about handlin’ a gun, and I reckon he’d pass as a liv’ry-stable keeper, but he didn’t know much aboutwomen. So, when he went down to ast the widda fer the second time, he put his foot in it by bein’ kinda short t’ little Willie.
“Say, kid,” he says, “you locate over in that rockin’-chair yonder. Young uns of you’ age should be saw and not heerd.”
Mrs. Bridger, she sit right up, and her eye-winkers just snapped. “Mister Flannagan,” she Says, “I’m feard you’re wastin’ you’ time a-callin’ here. If ever I marry again, it’s goin’ t’ be a man that’s fond of childern.”
Wal, ta-ta, Chub!
And, behind, there was the widda at the winda, all eyes fer that sand-pile.
We never knowed what she said to Dutchy’s brother, August. But he come back to townlookin’ madder’n a wet hen. “Huh!” he says, “I don’t vant hernohow.Shecouldn’t vork. She’s pretty fernice,all right, but she’s nichts fer stoudt.”
When ole stingy Curry triedhisluck over, he took his lead from Chub’sexperience. Seems he put one arm ’round the kid, and then he said no man could kick about havin’ to adopt Willie, and he knowed that with Mrs. Bridger it was “love me, love my dawg.” Then he tacked on that the boy was a nice little feller, and likely didn’t eat much.
“And long’s I ain’t a-goin’ to marry you,” says the widda, “why, just think–you won’t have to feed Willie at all!”
But the next day we laughed on the other side of our face. I went down to Mrs. Bridger’s, the sheriff trailin’, (he balked half-way from the sand-pile to the door, this time, and sit down on a bucket t’ play he was Willie’s steam-injine), and I found that the little woman had been cryin’ turrible.
“What’s the matter?” I ast.
“Nothin’,” she says.
“Yas, they is. Didn’t you git a dun t’-day?”
“Wal,” she answers, blushin’, “I bought this place on tick. But,” (brave as the dickens, she was) “I’ll be able t’ pay up all right–what with my chickens and the pig.”
I talked with her a good bit. Then me and the sheriff started back to town. (Had to go slow at first; Bergin’d helt the ingineer on his knee till his foot was asleep.) On the way, I mentioned that dun.
“Curry,” says the sheriff. And he come nigh rippin’ up the railroad tracks.
He made fer Curry’s straight off. “What’s the little balance due on that Starvation Gap property?” he begun.
“What makes you ast?” says Curry, battin’ them sneaky little eyes of hisn.
“I’mprepared t’ settle it.”
“But it happens I didn’t sell toyou. So, a-course, I cain’t take you’ money. Anyhow, I don’t think the widda is worryin’ much. She could git shet of that balance easy.” And he moseyed off.
She could git shet of it by marryin’him,y’ savvy–the polecat!
The sheriff was boilin’. “Here, Cupid,” hesays, “is two hunderd. Now, we’ll go down to Mrs. Bridger’s again, and you offer her as much as she wants.”
“Offer it you’self.”
“No,youdo it, Cupid,–please. But don’t you tell her whose money it is.”
“I won’t. Here’s where we git up The Ranchers’ Loan Fund.”
I coaxed Bergin as far as the front stepthistime. Wasn’t that fine? But, say! Mrs. Bridger wouldn’t touch a cent of that money, no ma’am.
“If I was to take it as a loan,” she says, “I’d have interest to pay. So I’d be worse off ’n I am now. And I couldn’t take it in no other way. Thank y’, just the same. And how’s Miss Sewell t’-day?”
It wasn’t no use fer me to tell her that The Ranchers’ Loan Fund didn’t want no interest. She was as set as Rogers’s Butte.
During the next week ’r two, the sheriff and me dropped down to the widda’s frequent. I’d talk to her–about chicken-raisin’ mostly–whilst Bergin ’d play with the kid. One day I got him to comeas far as the door!But I nevergot him no further. There he stuck, and ’d stand on the sill fer hours, lookin’ out at Willie–like a great, big, scairt, helpless calf.
At first the widda talked to him, pleasant and encouragin’. But when he just said, “Yas, ma’am,” and “No, ma’am,” and nothin’ else, she changed. I figger (’cause women is right funny) that her pride was some hurt. What if hewasbound up in the boy? Didn’t he have no interest inher?It hurt her all the worse, mebbe, ’cause I was there, and seen how he acted. ’Fore long she begun to git plumb outen patience with him. And one day, when he was standin’ gazin’ out, she flew up.
“George Bergin,” she says, “a door is somethin’ else ’cept a place to scratch you back on.” And she shut it–him outside, plumb squshed!
Wal, we’d did our best–both Mace and me–and fell down. But right here is where somethin’ better’n just good luck seemed to take a-holt of things. In the first place,considerin’ what come of it, it shore was fortunatethat Pedro Garcia, one of them trashy section-gang cholos, was just a-passin’ the house as she done that. He heerd the slam. He seen the look on Bergin’s face, too.And he fixed up what was the matter in that crazy haid of hisn.
In the second place, the verynextday, blamed if Curry didn’t hunt Bergin up. “Sheriff,” he begun, “I ain’t been able to collect what’s due me from Mrs. Bridger. She ain’t doin’ nothin’ with the property, neither. So I call on you to put her off.” And he helt out a paper.
Put her off!Say! You oughta saw Bergin’s face!
“Curry,” he says, “in Oklahomaw, a dis-possess notice agin a widda ain’t worth the ink it’s drawed with.”
“Ain’t it?” says Curry. “You mean you won’t act. All right. If you won’t, they’s other folks thatwill.”
“Willthey,” answers the sheriff, quiet. But they was a fightin’ look in his eyes. “Curry, go slow. Don’t fergit that the Gap property ain’t worth such a hull lot.”
The next thing, them cholos in the section-gang ’d heerd what Bergin was ordered to do. And, like a bunch of idjits, ’stead of gittin’ down on Curry, who wasresponsible, they begun makin’ all kinds of brags about what they’d dowhen next they seen the sheriff. And it looked to me like gun-play was a-comin’.
But not just yet. Fer the reason that the sheriff, without sayin’ “I,” “Yas,” ’r “No” to nobody, all of a suddentdisappeared.
“What in the dickens has struck him!” I says t’ Mace.
“Just you wait,” she answers. “It’s got t’ do with Mrs. B. He ain’t down in a cellarthistime.”
Wal, he wasn’t. But we was in the dark as much as the rest of the town, till one evenin’ when the section-boss called me to one side. He had somethin’ t’ tell me, he said. Could I keep a secret–cross my heart t’ die? Yas. Wal, then–what d’ you think it was?The sheriff was camped right back of the widda’s–on Rogers’s Butte!
“Pardner,” I says, “don’t you cheep that to another soul. Bergin is up there t’ keep Curry from puttin’ the widda out.”
The section-boss begun to haw-haw. “It’d take a hull regiment of soldiers to put the widda out,” he says, “–with them greasers of mine so clost.”
“I’ll go down that way on a kinda scout,” I says, and started off. When I got clost to the widda’s,–about as far as from here to that hitchin’-post yonder–I seen a crowd of women and kids a-lookin’ at somethin’ behind the house. I walked up and stretchedmyneck. And there in that tie-pen was a’ even dozen of new little pigs!
“Ma’am,” I says, “thisisgood luck!”
“Good luck?” repeats the widda. “I reckon it’s somethin’ more’n just good luck.” (Them’sexac’lyher words–“Somethin’ more’n just good luck.”)
“Wal,” I goes on, “oncet in a while, a feller’s got toadmit that somethin’ better’n just or-d’nary good luckdoesgit in a whack. Mebbe it’ll be the case of a gezaba that ain’t acted square; first thing you know,hishash is settled. Next time, it’s exac’ly theotherway ’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 goodluck, no,ma’am. Fer the reason that the contrary facts is plumb shoved in you’ face.
“Now, take what happened to Burt Slade.Burt had a lot of potatoes ready to plant–about six sacks of ’em, I reckon. The ground was ready, and the sacks was in the field. Wal, that night, a blamed ornery thief come ’long and stole all them potatoes. (This was in Nebraska, mind y’. Took ’em fifty mile north and planted ’em clost to his house. So far, you might call it justbadluck.But–a wind come up, aturriblewind, 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 seenthey’d been planted in rows!
“They ain’t no doubt about this story bein’true. In the first place, Slade ain’t a man that’d lie; in the second place, ev’rybody knows his potatoes wasstole,and ev’rybody knows that, just the same, he had a powerful big crop that year; and, then, Slade can show you his field any time you happen to be in that part of Nebraska.And no man wants any better proof’nthat.”
“A-course,he don’t,” says the widda. “And I’d call that potato transaction plumb wonderful.”
“It shore was.”
She turned back to the hawgs. “I can almost see these little pigs grow,” she says, “and I’m right fond of ’em a’ready. I–I hope nothin’ bad’ll happen to ’em. I’m a little nervous, though. ’Cause–have you noticed, Mister Lloyd?–they’s just thirteen pigs in that pen.”
“Aw, thirteen ain’t never hurt nobody in Oklahomaw,” I says. And I whistled, and knocked on wood.
“Anyhow, I’m happy,” she goes on, “I’m better fixed than I been fer a coon’s age.”
“The eatin’-house ’ll buy ev’ry one of these pigs at a good price,” I says, leanin’ on the pen till I was well nigh broke in two, “they bein’ pen-fed, and not justcommonrazor-backs. That’ll mean fifty dollars–mebbe more. Why, it’s likefindin’it!”
“These and the chickens,” she says, “’ll pay that balance, and” (her voice broke, kinda,and she looked over to where pore little Willie was tryin’ to play injine all by hisself) “without the help ofnoman.”
I looked up at the Butte. Was that black speck the sheriff? And wasn’t his heart a-bustin’ fer her? Wal, it shore was a fool sittywaytion!
“The section-hands is turrible tickled about these pigs,”continues Mrs. Bridger. “They come over this mornin’ t’ see how the fambly was doin’, and they named the hull litter, beginnin’ with Carmelita, and ending’ with Polky Dot.”
You couldn’t ’a’ blamednobody fer bein’ proud of them little pigs. They was smarter ’n the dickens, playin’ ’round, and kickin’ up they heels, andsquee-ee-eelin’. All black and white they was, too, and favoured they maw strong. Ev’ry blamed one had a pink snoot and a kink in its tail, and reg’lar rolly buckshot eyes. And fat!–say, no josh, them little pigs was so fat they had double chins–just one chin right after another–from they noses plumb back to they hind laigs!
But you never can gamble on t’-morra. Andthe 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’llytookto ownin’ a bunch of hawgs, and she’d ’a’ likely penned ’em closter to the house. Then nothin’ would ’a’ hurt ’em. Again, mebbe itwould–if the hull thing that happened next was accidentally a-purpose. And I reckon that shore was the truth of it.
But I’m a-goin’ too fast.
It was the mornin’ after the Fourth of July. (That was why I was in town.) I was in the Arnaz bunk-house, pullin’ on my coat, just afore daylight, when, all of a suddent, right over Rogers’s Butte, somethin’ popped. Here, acrosst the sky, went a red ball, big, and as bright as if it was on fire. As it come into sight, it had a tail of light a-hangin’ to it. It dropped at the foot of the butte.
First off, I says, “More celebratin’.” Next, I says, “Curry!”–and streaked it fer the widda’s.
’Fore I was half-way, I heerd hollerin’–the scairt hollerin’ of women and kids. Then I heerd the grumble of men’s voices. I yelled myself, hopin’ some of the boys ’d hear me, andfoller. “Help! help!” I let out at the top of my lungs, and brung up in Mrs. Bridger’s yard.
It was just comin’ day, and I could see that section-gang all collected t’gether, some with picks, and the rest with heavy track tools. All the greaser women was there, too, howlin’ like a pack of coyotes. Whilst Mrs. Bridger had the kid in her arms, and her face hid in his little dress.
“What’s the matter?” I screeched–hadt’ screech t’ githeerd.
The cholos turned towards me. (Say! You talk about mean faces!) “Diablo!” they says, shakin’ them track tools.
Wal, it shore looked like the Ole Harry ’d done it! ’Cause right where the pig-pen used to was, I could see the top of a grea-a-at, whoppin’ rock, half in and half outen the ground, andsmokin’ hot. Pretty nigh as big as a box-car, it was. Wal, as big as a wagon,anyhow. But neither hide ’r hair of them pigs!
I walked ’round that stone.
“My friend,” I says to the section-boss, “the maw-pig made just thirteen. It’s a proposition you cain’t beat.”
Them cholos was all quiet now, and actin’ as keerful as if that rock was dynamite. Queer and shivery, they was, about it, and it kinda give me the creeps.
Next, they begun pointin’ up to the top of the Butte!
I seen what was comin’. So I used my haid–quick, so’s to stave off trouble. “Mebbe, boys,” I says, lookin’ the ground over some more, “–mebbe they was a cyclone last night to the north of here, and this blowed in from Kansas.”
The section-boss walked ’round, studyin’. “I’m from Missoura,” he says, “and it strikesmethat this rock looks kinda familiar, like it was part iron. Now, mebbe they’s been a thunderin’ bigexplosion in the Ozark Mountains. But, Mrs. Bridger, as a native son of the ole State, I don’t want toadvise you to sue fer da––”
I heerd them cholos smackin’ they lips. I looked where they was lookin’, and here, a-comin’ lickety-split, was the sheriff!
That section-boss was as good-natured a feller as ever lived, and never liked t’ think bad ofnoman. But the minute he seen Bergin racin’ down offen that Butte, he believed like the peonsdid. He turned t’ me. “By George!” he says–just like that.
Wal, sir, that “By George” done it. Soon as the Mexicans heerd him speak out whattheythought, they set up a Comanche yell, and, with the whites of they eyes showin’ like a nigger’s, they made towards the sheriff on the dead run.
He kept a-comin’. Most men, seein’ a passel of locoed greasers makin’ towards ’em with pickaxes, would ’a’ turned and run, figgerin’ that leg-bail was good enough ferthem. But the sheriff, he wasn’t scairt.
A second, and the Mexicans ’d made a surround. He pulled his gun. They jerked it outen his hand. He throwed ’em off.
I drawedmyweapon.
Just then–“Sheriff! sheriff!” (It was the widda, one hand helt out towards him.)
A great idear come to me then. I put my best friend back into my pocket. “I won’t interfere fer a while yet,” I says to myself. “Mebbe this is where they’ll be a show-down.”
“Cupid,” says Bergin, “what’s the matter?”
I fit my way to him. “They think you throwed this rock, here,” I answers.
“The low-down, ornery, lay-in-the-sun-and-snooze good-fer-nothin’s is likely t’ think ’mostanyole thing,” he says. “Pedro, let go my arm.”
Just then, one of the cholos come runnin’ up with a rope!
The section-boss seen things was gittin’ pretty serious. He begun to wrastle with the feller that had the rope. Next, all the women and kids set up another howlin’, Mrs. Bridger cryin’ the worst. But I wasn’t ready to play my last card. I stepped out in front of the gang and helt up my hand.
“Boys,” I says; “boys! Givethe man a chanst t’ talk. Why, this rock ain’t like the rocks on the Butte.”
“You blamed idjits!” yells Bergin. “Use you’ haids! How couldI’a’ hefted the darned thing?”
“Aw, hecouldn’t’a’ done it!” (This from the widda, mind y’,–hands t’gether, and comin’ clost.)
“Thank y’, little woman,” says the sheriff.
(Say! that wasbetter.)
“He pulled his gun, they jerked it outen his hand”
“He pulled his gun, they jerked it outen his hand”
But the cholos wasn’t a-foolin’–they was in dead earnest. Next minute, part of ’em grabbed Bergin, got that rope ’round him, and begun draggin’ him towards a telegraph pole.
I was some anxious, but I knowed enough to hole back a while more.
“Aw, boys,” begged the widda, droppin’ Willie and runnin’ ’longside, “don’t hurt him!don’t!What does the pigs matter?”
“I’ll discharge ev’ry one of you,” says the section-boss.
“Boys,” I begun again, “whyshould this gent want to harm this lady. Why, I can tell you––”
Pedro Garcia stuck his black fist into my face. “He lof her,” he says, “and she say no. So he iss revenge hisself.” (Say! the grammar they use is plumb fierce.)
“He iss revenge hisself!” yells the rest of the bunch. Then they all looked at the widda.
“Boys,” she sobs, “I ain’tneverrefused him. Fer a good reason–he ain’t never ast me.”
(The cholos, they just growled.)
“What?” I ast, turnin’ on Bergin like I was hoppin’. “You love her, and yet you ain’t never ast her to marry you? Wal, you blamed bottle of ketchup, yououghtadie!”
“HowcouldI ast her?” begun the sheriff. “She plumb hates the sight of me.”
“I don’t! I don’t!” sobs the widda. “Mister Lloyd knows that ain’t so. Willie and me, we–we––”
“Y’see?” I turned to the Mexicans. “He loves her; she loves him. We’re a-goin’ to have a weddin’, not a hangin’.”
“The stone–he iss revenge,” says Pedro.
“The stone,” I answers, “come outen the sky. It’s a mete’rite.”
“I felt it hit!” cries the widda.
Wal, you couldn’t expect a Mexican t’ swallerthat. So we’d no more’n got the words outen our mouths when they begun to dance ’round Bergin again with the halter.
Wal, how do you think it come out?
Mebbe you figger that Mrs. Bridger drawed a knife and sa-a-aved him, ’r I pulled my gun and stood there, tellin’ ’em they ’d only hang the sheriff over my dead body. But that ain’t the way it happened. No, ma’am.Thisis how:
’Round the bend from towards Albuquerque come the pay-car. Now, the pay-car, she stops just one minute fer ev’ry section-hand, and themsection-hands was compelled to git into line and be quick about it, ’r not git they money. So they didn’t have no spare time. They let go of Bergin’s rope and run–the section-boss leadin’.
The sheriff, he slung the rope to one side–and the widda goes into his arms. “Little woman,” he says, lookin’ down at her, “I’ll–I’ll be a good father to the boy.” Then he kissed her.
(Wal, that’s about all you could reas’nably expect fromBergin.)
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 heminded!
Wal, things come outfine. A big museum in Noo York bought that rock (If you don’t believe it, just go to that museum and you’ll see it a-settin’ out in front–big as life.) A-course, Mrs. Bridger got a nice little pile of money fer it, and paid Curry the balance she owed him. Then, the sheriff got Mrs. Bridger!
And the bunch that didn’t git her? Wal, the bunch that didn’t git her just natu’lly gotleft!
Upto the day of the sheriff’s weddin’, I reckon I was about the happiest feller that’s ever been in these parts. Gee! but I was in high spirits! It’d be Macie’s and my turn next, I figgered, and if the ole man didn’t like it, he could just natu’lly lump it. So when I walked through Briggs, why, I hit both sides of the street, exac’ly as if I was three sheets in the wind.
But–this was one time when you’ friend Cupid was just a little bit too previous. And I want to say right here thatnofeller 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 andgit to work. Even when she’s giveall 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, eventhenit’s a toss-up. Yas, ma’am. It took hard knocks t’ learn me that they’s nothin’ dead certain short of the parson’s “amen.”
Y’ see, you can plug a’ Injun, and kick a dawg, and take a club to a mule; but when it’s a gal, and a feller thinks a turrible lot of her, and she’s so all-fired skittish he cain’t manage her, and so eludin’ he cain’t find her no two times in the same place,what’s he goin’ to do?Wal, they ain’t no reg’lar way of proceedin’–ev’ry man has got to blaze his own trail.
But I couldn’t, and that was the hull trouble. I know now that when it come to dealin’ with Mace, I shore was a darned softy. That little Muggins could twist me right ’round her finger–and me not know it! One minute, she’d pallaver me fer further orders, whilst I’d look into them sweet eyes of hern till I was plumb dizzy; the next, she’d be cuttin’ up some dido ’r other and leadin’ me a’ awful chase.
Then, mebbe, I’d git sore at her, and think mighty serious about shakin’ the Bar Y dust offen my boots fer good. “Cupid,” I’d say to myself, “git you’ duds t’gether, and do you’ blankets up in you’ poncho.”
Just about then, here she come lopin’ home from town, her hoss cuttin’ up like Sam Hill, and her a-settin’ so straight and cute. She’d look towards the bunk-house, see me, motion me over with her quirt, and–wal, a-course, I’d go.
I made myfirstbig beefsteak at the very beginnin’. Somehow ’r other, right from the minute we had our confidential talk t’gether back of Silverstein’s, that last night of the Medicine Show. I got it into my fool haid that I as good as had her, and that all they was left to be did was t’ git ’round the ole man. Wal, this idear worked fine as long as we was so busy with Bergin’s courtin’. But when the sheriff was hitched, and me and the little gal got a recess, my!my!but a heap of things begun t’ happen!
They started off like this: The parson wanted money fer t’ buy some hymn-books with. So he planned a’ ice-cream social and entertainment, and ast Mace to go down on the programfera song. She was willin’; I was,too. So far, ev’ry-thin’ smooth as glare-ice.
But fer a week afore that social, they was a turrible smell of gasoline outside the sittin’-room of the Bar Y ranch-house. That’s ’cause Doctor Bugs come out ev’ry day–to fetch a Goldstone woman from the up-train. (That blamed sulky of hisn ’d been stuck t’gether with flour paste by now, y’ savvy, and was in apple-pie order.) After the woman ’d git to the ranch-house, why, the organ ’d strike up. Then you could hear Macie’s voice–doin’, “do, ray, me.” Next, she’d break loose a-singin’. And pretty soon the doc and the woman ’d go.
Wal, I didn’t like it. Y’ see, I’ve allus noticed that if a city feller puts hisself out fer you a hull lot, he expects you t’ give him a drink, ’r vote fer him, ’r loan him some money. And why was Bugsey botherin’ t’ make so many trips to the Bar Y?Iknowed what it was. It was just like Hairoil ’d said–he wanted my Macie.
One night, I says to her, “What’s that Goldstone woman doin’ out here so much, honey?”
“Givin’ me music lessons,” she answers.
“I know,” I says. “But you don’t need nolessons. You sing good enough t’ suit me right now.”
“Wal, I don’t sing good enough t’ suit myself. And bein’ as I’m on that program––”
“Wal, just the same,” I cut in, “I don’t like that Simpson hangin’ ’round here.”
“Alec,” she come back, stiffenin’ right up, “it’s my place to say who comes into this ranch-house, and who don’t.”
“But, look a-here! Folks ’ll think you like him better’n you do me.”
“Aw, that’s crazy.”
“It ain’t. And I won’t have him ’round.”
Then, she gotturrible polite. “I’m sorry, Mister Lloyd,” she says, “but I’m a-goin’ t’ take my lessons.”
Wal, the long and short of it is, she did–right up t’ the very day of the social.
“All right,” I says to myself; “but just wait till this shindig is over.” And when Mace and her paw started fer town that evenin’, I saddled up my bronc and follered ’em.
Simpson was kinda in charge of that social. He got up and made a’ openin’ speech, sayin’ they was lots of ice-cream and cake fer sale, andhe hoped we’d all shell out good. Then, he begun t’ read off the program.
“We have with us t’night,” he says, “one of the finest and best trained voices in this hull United States–a voice that I wouldn’t be surprised if it ’d be celebrated some day.”
I looked over at Mace. She was gittin’ pink. Did he mean her?
“And,” Simpson goes on, “the young lady that owns it is a-goin’ t’ give us the first number.” And he bowed–Shore enough!
Wal, she sung. It was somethin’ about poppies, and it was awful sad, and had love in it. I liked it pretty nigh as good as The Mohawk Vale. But the ole man, he didn’t. And when she was done, and settin’ next him again, he said out loud, so’s a lot of people heerd him, “I’m not stuck on havin’ you singin’ ’round ’fore ev’ry-body. And that Noo York Doc is too blamed fresh.”
“Paw!” she says, like she was ashamed of him.
“Imeanit,” he says, and jerked his haid to one side.
Wal, y’ know, Mace got her temper offenhim, and never handed it back. So all durin’ the social, they had it–up and down. I couldn’t ketch all what they said–only little bits, now and then. “Cheek,” I heard the boss say oncet, and Mace come back with somethin’ about not bein’ “a baby.”
Afterwards, when the ole man was out gittin’ the team, she come over t’ me, lookin’ awful appealin’. “Alec,” she says, like she expected I’d shore sympathise with her, “did you hear what paw said? Wasn’t it mean of him?”
I looked down at my boots. Then, I looked straight at her. “Mace,” I says, “he’s right. Mebbe you’ll git mad at me, too, fer sayin’ it. But that Simpson’s tryin’ t’ cut me out–and so he’s givin’ you all this taffy about your voice.”
“Taffy!” she says, fallin’ back a step. “Then you didn’tlike my singin’.”
“Why, yas, I did,” I answers, follerin’ along after her. “I thought it wasfine.”
But she only shook her haid–like she was hurt–and clumb into the buckboard.
I worried a good deal that night. The more I turned over what Simpson ’d said, the more I wondered if I knowed all they was to his game.What was he drivin’ at with that “celebrated” business? Then, too, it wouldn’t do Mace no good t’ be puffed up so much. She’d been ’lected the prettiest gal. Now she’d been tole she had a way-up voice. ’Fore long, she’d git the big haid.
“Wal, I’ll put a quietus on it,” I says. And, next mornin’, when I seen her, I opened up like this: “Honey, I reckon we’ve waited just about long enough. So we git married Sunday week.”
“That’s too soon,” she answers. “We got t’ git paw on our side. And I ain’t got no new clothes.”
“We’ll splice first and ast him about it afterwards. And when you’re Mrs. Alec, I’ll git you all the clothes you want.” (Here’s where I clean fergot theadvice she give me that time in the sheriff’s case: “In love affairs,” was what she said, “don’t never try t’ drivenobody.”)
“But, Alec,––” she begun.
“Sunday week, Mace,” I says. “We’ll talk about it t’-night.”
But that night Monkey Mike come nigh blowin’ his lungs out; and I waited under the cottonwoods till I was asleep standin’–and no Macie.
Wasn’t it cal’lated t’ make any man lose his temper? Wal, I lost mine. And when we went in town to a party, a night ’r two afterwards, the hull business come to a haid.
I was plumb sorry about the blamed mix-up. Butnofeller wants t’ see his gal dance with a kettle-faced greaser. I knowed she was goin’ to fer the reason that I seen Mexic go over her way, showin’ his teeth like a badger and lettin’ his cigareet singe the hair on his dirty shaps–shaps, mind y’, at a school-house dance! Then I seen her nod.
Our polka come next. And when we was about half done, I says, “They’s lemonade outside, honey. Let’s git a swig.” But outside I didn’t talk no lemonade. “Did Mexic ast you to dance with him?” I begun.
“Wal, he’s one of our boys,” she answers; “and I’m going to give him a schottische.”
“No, youain’t,” I come back. “I won’t stand fer it.”
“Yas, Iam,Alec Lloyd,”–she spoke determined,–“and please don’t try to boss me.”
I shut up and walked in again. Mexic was talkin’ to the school-ma’am–aw, he’s gotgall!I shassayed up and took him a little one side. “Mexic,” I says, soft as hair on a cotton-tail, “it’s gittin’ on towards mornin’ and, natu’lly, Macie Sewell ain’t feelin’ just rested; so I wouldn’t insist on that schottische, if I was you.”
“Why?” he ast.
“I tole you why,” I says; “but I’ll give you another reason: You’ boots is too tight.”
We fussed a little then. Didn’t amount to much, though, ’cause neither of us had a gun. (Y’ see, us punchers don’t pack guns no more ’less we’re out ridin’ herd and want t’ pick off a coyote; ’r ’less we’ve had a little trouble and ’re lookin’ fer some one.) But I managed to change that greaser’s countenance consider’ble, and he bit a chunk outen my hand. Then the boys pulled us separate.
They was all dead agin me when I tole ’em what was the matter. They said the other gals danced with Mexic, and bein’ Macie was the Bar Y gal, she couldn’t give him the go-by if she took the rest of the outfit fer pardners.
Just the same, I made up my mind she wouldn’t dance with thatgreaser. And I says to myself, “This is where you show you’re a-goin’ torun the Lloyd house. She’ll like you all the better if you git the upper hand.” So when I got her coaxed outside again, I led her to where my bronc was tied. She liked the little hoss, and whilst we was chinnin’, I put her into the saddle. Next minute, I was on behind her, and the bronc was makin’ quick tracks fer home.
Wal, sir, she was madder’n a hen in a thunder-shower. She tried to pull in the bronc; she twisted and scolted and cried. Tole me she hated me like arsenic.
“Alec Lloyd,” she says, “after t’night, I’ll never, never speak to you again!”
When we rode up to the corral, I lifted her down, and she went tearin’ away to the house. The ole man heerd her comin’, and thought she was singin’. He slung open the door on the porch.
“Aw, give that calf more rope!” he calls out.
Say! she went by him like a streak of lightnin’, almost knockin’ him down. And the door slammed so hard you could ’a’ heerd it plumb t’ Galveston.
I hung ’round the corral fer as much as half a’ hour, listenin’ to the pow-wow goin’ on at thehouse. But nobody seemed to be a-hollerin’ fer me t’ come in, so I made fer the straw. “Aw, wal,” I says to myself, “her dander ’ll cool off t’-morra.”
But the next day, she passed me by without speakin’. And I, like a sap-head, didn’t speak neither. I was on my high hoss,–wouldn’t speak tillshedid. So off I had t’ go to Hasty Creek fer three days–and no good-bye t’ the little gal.
I got back late one afternoon. At the bunk-house, I noticed a change in the boys. They all seemed just about t’ bust over somethin’–not laughin’, y’ savvy, but anxious, kinda, and achin’ to tell news.
Fin’lly, I went over to Hairoil. “Pardner,” I says, “spit it out.”
He looked up. “Cupid,” he says, “us fellers don’t like t’ git you stirred up, but we think it’s about time someone oughta speak–and put you next.”
“Next about what?” I ast. The way he said it give me a kinda start.
“We’ve saw how things was a-goin’, but we didn’t say nothin’ to you ’cause it wasn’t noneof our funeral. Quite a spell back, folks begun to talk about how crazy Macie Sewell was gittin’ to be on the singin’ question. It leaked out that she’d been tole she had a A1 voice––”
“It ain’t no lie, neither.”
“And that her warblin’ come pretty clost to bein’ as good as Melba’s.”
“It’s a heapbetter’nMelba’s.”
“Also”–Hairoil fidgited some–“you know, a-course, that she’s been tackin’ up photographs of op’ra singers and actresses in her room––”
“Wal, what’s the harm?”
“And–and practicin’ bows in front of a glass.”
I begun t’ see what he was drivin’ at.
“And whilst you was away, she had a talk with the station-agent–about rates East.”
“Hairoil! You don’t mean it!” I says. I tell y’, it was just like a red-hot iron ’d been stuck down my wind-pipe and was a-burnin’ the lower end offen my breast-bone!
“I’m sorry, ole man.” He reached out a hand. “But we thought you oughta know.” And then he left me.
Sothatwas it! And she’d been keepin’ me inthe dark about it all–whilst ev’ry fence post from the Bar Y t’ Briggs knowed what was happenin’! Wal, I was mad cleanthrough.
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’ddruvher to it.
I started fer the house.
As I come clost, acrosst the curtains, back’ards and for’ards, back’ards and for’ards, I could see her shadda pass. But when I rapped, she pulled up; then, she opened the door.
“Honey,” I says, “can I come in?”
Her eyes was red; she’d been cryin’. But, aw! she was just as nice and sweet as she could be. “Yas, Alec, come in,” she says.
“Little gal,” I begun, “I want t’ tell you I done wrong to kick about that greaser, yas, I did. And fetchin’ you home that-a-way wasn’t right.”
“Never mind–I wanted t’ come anyhow.”
“Thank y’ fer bein’ so kind. And I ain’t never goin’ to try to run you no more.”
“I’m glad of that No gal likes t’ be bossed.”
“Just give me another chanst. Just fergive me this oncet.”
She smiled, her eyes shinin’ with tears. “I do,” she says; “Alec, I do.”
The next second, I had her helt clost in my arms, and her pretty haid was agin my breast. Aw, it was like them first days once more. And all the hurt went of a suddent, and the air cleared kinda–as if a storm’d just passed. My little gal!
Pretty soon, (I was settin’ on the organ-stool, and she was standin’ in front of me, me holdin’ her hands) I says, “Theyisone thing–now that I’ve tole you I was wrong–they isjustone thing I’m goin’ to ast you t’ do as a favour. If you do it, things ’ll go smooth with us from now on. It’s this, little gal: Cut out that Doctor Bugs.”
“I know how you don’t like him,” she answers; “and you’re right. ’Cause he shore played you a low-down trick at that Medicine Show. But, Alec, he brings my music-teacher.”
“Wal, honey, what youwantthe teacher fer?”
She stopped, and up went that pert, little haid. “You recollect what Doctor Simpson said aboutmy voice that night at the social?” she begun. “This teacher saysthe same thing.”
Like a flash, Irecalled whatHairoil’d tole me. “Mace,” I says, “I want t’ ast you about that. A-course, I know it ain’t so. But Hairoil says you got pictures of actresses and singers tacked up in you’ room–just one ’r two.”
“Yas,” she answers; “that’s straight. What about it?”
“It’s all right, I guess. But the ole son-of-a-gun got the idear, kinda, that you was thinkin’ some of–of the East.”
“Alec,” she says, frank as could be, “yesterday Doctor Simpson got a letter from Noo York. He’d writ a big teacher there, inquirin’ if I had a chanst t’ git into op’ra–grandop’ra–and the teacher says yas.”
I couldn’t answer nothin’. I just sit there, knocked plumb silly, almost, and looked at a big rose in the carpet.Noo York!
She brung her hands t’gether. “Why not?” she answers. “It’ll give me the chanst I want. If I’m a success, you could come on too, Alec. Then we’d marry, and you could go along with me as my manager.”
I looked at her. I was hurt–hurt plumb t’ the quick, and a little mad, too. “Iseemyself!” I says. “Travel along with you’ poodle. Huh! And you wearin’ circus clothes like that Miss Marvellous Murray, and lettin’ some feller kiss you in the play. Macie,”–and I meant what I said–“you can just put the hull thing right to one side. I–won’t–have–it!”
She set her lips tight, and her face got a deep red.
“Sothisis the way you keep you’ word!” she says. “A minute ago, you said you wasn’t goin’ t’ try to run me no more. Wal,–you wasn’t in earnest. I can see that. ’Cause here’s the same thing over again.”
The door into the ole man’s bedroom opened then, and he come walkin’ out. “You two make a thunderin’ lot of noise,” he begun. “What in the dickens is the matter?”
Mace turned to him, face still a-blazin’. “Alec’s allus tryin’ t’ run me,” she answers, “and I’m gittin’ plumb tired of it.”
Sewell’s mouth come open. “Run you,” he says. “Wal, some while back he done all the runnin’ he’s ever a-goin’ t’ do inthishouse. Andhe don’t do no more of it. By what right is he a-interferin’ now?”
I got to my feet. “Thisright, boss:” I says, “I love Macie.”
He begun to kinda swell–gradual. And if a look could ’a’ kilt me, I’d ’a’ keeled over that second.
“You–love–Macie!” he says slow. “Wal , I’ll be darned if you haven’t gotcheek!”
“Sorry you look at it that way, boss.”
“And so you got the idear into that peanut haid of yourn”–he was sarcastic now–“that you could marry my gal! Honest, I ain’t met a bigger idjit ’n you in ten years.”
“No man but Mace’s paw could say that t’ me safe.”
“Why,” he goes on, “you could just about be President of the United States as easy as you could be the husband of this gal. M’ son, I think I tole you on one occasion that you’d play Cupid just oncet too many.”
“That’s what you did.”
“This isit. And, also, I tole you that the smarty who can allus bring other folks t’gether never can hitch hisself.”
“You got a good mem’ry, Sewell.”
Mace broke in then–feard they’d be trouble, I reckon. “Please let’s cut this short,” she says. “The only thing I want Alec to remember is that I ain’t a-goin’ t’ be bossed bynoman.”
Sewell patted her on the shoulder. “That’s my gal a-talkin’!” he says. “Bully fer you!”
“All right, Mace,” I says, “a-allright.” And I took up my Stetson.
The ole man dropped into a chair and begun t’ laugh. (Could laugh now, thinkin’ it was all up ’twixt Mace and me.) “Haw! haw! haw!” he started off, slappin’ one knee. “Mister Cupid cain’t do nothin’ fer hisself!” Then he laid back and justhollered,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’llbust. MisterCupid! Whew!”
I got hot. “You found a he-he’s aig in a haw-haw’s nest,” I begun. “Wal, I’ll say back to you what you oncet said to me:Just wait.” Then I faced Macie. “All right, little gal,” I says to her, “I s’pose you know best. Pack you’ duds and go East–and sing on the stage in Noo York.”
The ole man ’d stopped laughin’ t’ listen. Now he sit up straight, a hand on each arm of the chair, knees spread, mouth wider open ’n ever, eyes plumb crossed. “Go East!” he repeats, “–sing!–stage!–Noo York!”
Mace showed her sand, all right. “Yas,” she answers; “you got itexac’lyright, paw–Noo York.”
He riz up, face as white as anythin’ so sunbaked can look. “Git that crazy idear outen you’ brain thisminute!” he begun. “I won’t allow you t’ stir astep!The stage! Lawd a-mighty! Why,youain’t got no voice fer the stage. You can only squawk.”
It was mighty pretty t’ see ’em–father and daughter–standin’ out agin each other. Alike in temper as two peas, y’ savvy. And I knowed somethin’ was shore goin’ to pop.
“Squawk!” repeats Mace. (Thatwas 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 youdothink my voice is all taffy. I’ll show youboth!”
“Wal,” Sewell come back, “you don’t usenone ofmymoney fer t’ make you’ show.” He was pretty nigh screechin’.
“Wait till Iastyou fer it,” she says, pert haid up again. “Keepyou’ money. I can earn my own.Iain’t scairt of work.”
And just like she was, in the little, white dress she used t’ meet me in–she up and walked out!
Now, it was the ole man’s turn t’ walk the floor. “Noo York!” he begun, his eyes dartin’ fire. “Did y’ everhearsuch a blamed fool proposition! Doc Simpson isresponsible fer that.”
“It’s been goin’ on fer quite a spell,” I says. “But I didn’t know how far till just afore you come in. Simpson, a-course, is the man.”
That second,clickety–clickety–clickety–click!–a hoss was a-passin’ the house on the dead run. We both looked. It was that bald-faced bronc of Macie’s, makin’ fer the gate like a streak of lightnin’. And the little gal was in the saddle.
“She’s goin’, boss,” I says. (The bald-face was haided towards Briggs.)
“Lether go,” says Sewell. “Let her ride off her mad.”
“Boss,” I says, “I’m t’ blame fer this kick-up. Yas, I am.”
AndIbegun t’ walk the floor.
“Wal, no use bellyachin’ about it,” he answers. “But you’re allus a-stickin’ in that lip of yourn. And–you’llrecall what I oncet said concernin’ the feller that sticks in his lip.” (I could see it made him feel better t’ think he had the bulge on me.)
“She won’t come back,” I goes on. (I felt pretty bad, I can tell y’.) “No, boss, she won’t. I know that gal better’n you do. She’s gone t’ Briggs, and she’ll stay.”
“She’ll be back in a’ hour. Rose cain’t keep her, and––”
But I was outen the room and makin’ fer the bunk-house. When I got there, I begun t’ change my clothes.
Hairoil was inside. (He’d been a-listenin’ to the rumpus, likely.) “Don’t go off half-cocked,” he says to me.
“Cupid’s drunk,” says Monkey Mike. “Somebody’s hit him with a bar-towel.”
But I knowed what I was a-goin’ to do. Two wags of a dawg’s tail, and I was in the houseagain, facin’ the ole man. “Sewell,” I says, “I want my time.”
“Where you goin’, Cupid?” he ast, reachin’ into his britches-pocket.
I took my little forty dollars and run it into my buckskin sack. “I’m a-goin’ into Briggs,” I says, “t’ see if I can talk some sense into that gal’s haid.”
The ole man give a kinda sour laugh. “Mebbe you think you can bring her home on hossback again,” he says. “Wal, just remember, if she turns loose one of her tantrums, that you poured out this drench you’self. It’s like that there feller in Kansas.” And he give that laugh of hisn again. “Ever heerd about him?”
“No,” I says; “no, what about you’ Kansas feller?”
“Wal,”–the boss pulled out a plug of t’bacca,–“he bought a house and lot fer five hunderd dollars. The lot was guaranteed to raise anythin’, and the house was painted the prettiest kind of a green. Natu’lly, he thought he owned ’em. Wal, things went smooth till one night when he was away from home. Then a blamed cyclone come along. Shore enough, that lot of hisn couldraise. It raised plumb into the air, house and all, and the hull business blowed into the neighbourin’ State!
“‘What goes up must come down,’ says the feller. And knowin’ which way that cyclone travelled, he started in the samedirection, hotfoot. He goes and goes. Fin’lly he comes to a ranch where they was a new barn goin’ up. It was a pinto proposition. Part of it wasn’t painted, and some of it was green. He stopped to demand portions of his late residence.
“The man he spoke to quit drivin’ nails just long enough to answer. ‘When you Kansas folks git up one of them baby cyclones of yourn,’ he says, ‘fer Heaven’s sake have sand enough to accept the hand-out it gives y’.’”
“I savvy what you mean,” I says to the ole man, “but you fergit that in this case the moccasin don’t fit. Another man’s behind this, boss. The little gal has ketched singin’-bugs. And when she gits enough cash––”
“How canshegit cash?”
“The eatin’-house is short of, help, Sewell. She can git a job easy–passin’ fancy Mulligan to the pilgrims that go through.”
Say! that knocked all the sarcastic laughin’ outen him. A’ awful anxious look come into his face. “Why–why, Cupid,” he begun. “You don’t reckon she’d go do that!”
Just then,Clickety–clickety–clickety–clicka 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!