Meals 25cStart in and It’s a HabitYou cain’t Quit.
Meals 25cStart in and It’s a HabitYou cain’t Quit.
Then we seen him grin like he wasturribletickled, and take out a piece of paper t’ set somethin’ down. Next, in he slides.
We all dropped back and lined up again.
“Not a sewin’-machine agent, ’r he’d ’a’ wore a duster,” says Hairoil.
“And a patent medicine man would ’a’ had on a stove-pipe,” adds Bergin.
“Maype he iss a preacher,” puts in Dutchy, lookin’ scairt as the dickens.
“Nixey,” I says. “But if he was a drummer, he’d ’a’ steered straight fer a thirst-parlour.”
Missed it a mile–the hull of us. Minute, and in run Sam Barnes, face redder’n a danger-signal.
“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!”
“Of all thegall!” growls Chub Flannagan, gittin’ hot. “Goin’ t’ take a shy outen us!” And I seen that some of the other boys felt likehedid.
Buckshot Milliken spit in his hands. “I’ll go over,” he says, “and just natu’lly settle that dude’s hash. I’dadmiret’ do it.”
I haided him off quick. Then I faced the bunch. “Gents,” I begun, “ain’t you just a littlebit hasty? Now, don’t git in a sweat.Con-sider this subject a little ’fore you act. Sam, I thought youlikedt’ read liter’toor books.”
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.”
“That’sright, 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!”
Sam dried up. I come back at the boys. “Gents,” Icontinues, “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 amuch,and cain’t raise nothin’ but shin-oak and peanuts and chiggers. But they tell howwegit all the cyclones and rattlesnakes.
“Now, we’ll curl they hair. Listen, gents,–OklahomawCity’s got element streets, Guthrie’s got a Carniggie lib’rary, and Bliss’s got the Hunderd-One Ranch.And we’re a-goin’ t’ cabbage this book!”
“Wal, that’s a hoss of another colour,” admits Chub.
“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.”
“But,” puts in Sam, “we’re up a tree. Where’s his mawterial?”
“Mawterial,” I says, “–I don’t just savvy what he means by that. But, boys, whatever it is, we got t’ see that hegitsit. Now, s’posin’ I go find him, and sorta feel ’round a little, and draw him out.”
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.
Clost to, I liked his looks. And from the jump, I seen one thing–they wasn’tnoshowin’ off tohim, 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 withonehand, by jingo!
Wal, we had a nice, long parley-voo, me gittin’ the hull sittywaytion asregards 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.
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 couldexplain things, and–and be a kinda bodyguard.”
“Why, my friend,” I says, “youdon’t need no bodyguard in Oklahomaw. But I’ll be glad t’explain anythin’ I can.”
“Course, I want t’ pay you,” he goes on; “’cause I’d be takin’ you’ time––”
“I couldn’t take no pay,” I breaks in. “Andif I was t’ have to go, why any one of the bunch could help you just as good.”
“Let’s talk business,” he says. “I like you, and I don’twantyou t’ go. Now, what’s you’ time worth?”
“I git forty a month.”
“Wal, that suits me. And you’ job won’t be a hard one.”
“Just as you say.”
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.
Wal, when I got back t’ the thirst-parlour, I acted like I was loco. “Boys! boys!boys!” I hollered, “I got a job!” And I give ’em all a whack on the back, and I done a jig.
Pretty soon, I was calmer. Then, I says, “I ain’t a-goin’ t’ ride fer Mulhall,–notthismonth, 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-writerhas t’ git on to the band-wagon. So, it’s up t’ me, boys, to give him what’s got to be had ’fore theexcitement dies down.”
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. Weoweit to y’, Cupid.”
“Boys,” I answers, “I appreciate what you mean, and Iaccept you’ offer. Thank y’.”
“What does this feller want?” ast Sam.
“Wal,” I says, “he spoke a good bit about colour––”
“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.”
“No, Mike,” I says, “that ain’t the idear. Colour isBriggs,andus.”
“Aw, punk!” says Sam. “What kind of a book is it goin’ t’ be, anyhow, with us punchers in it!”
“Wait till you hear what I got t’do,” I answers. “Tocontinue: He mentioned characters. Course, I had toadmit we’re kinda shy onthem.”
“Wisht we had a few Injuns,” says Hairoil.“A scalpin’ makesmightyfine readin’. Now, mebbe, ’Pache Sam’d pass,–if he was lickered up proper.”
“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 youallusgot t’ have a bad man.”
“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 littlehastyin the Foster matter.”
“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’.”
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,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!
We’d no more’n got all fixed up nice when, “Ssh!” says Buckshot, “here he comes!”
“Quick, boys!” I says, “we got t’ sing. It’s expected.”
The sheriff, he struck up––
“Paddy went to the Chinaman with only one shirt.How’s that?”
“Paddy went to the Chinaman with only one shirt.
How’s that?”
“That’s tough!” we hollers, loud enough to lift the shakes.
“He lost of his ticket, says, ‘Divvil the worse’,How’s that?”
“He lost of his ticket, says, ‘Divvil the worse’,
How’s that?”
“That’s tough!”
Mister Boston stopped byside the door. The sheriff goes on––
“Aw, Pat fer his shirt, he begged hard and plead,But, ‘No tickee, no washee’, the Chinaman said.Now Paddy’s in jail, and the Chinaman’s dead!How’s that?”
“Aw, Pat fer his shirt, he begged hard and plead,
But, ‘No tickee, no washee’, the Chinaman said.
Now Paddy’s in jail, and the Chinaman’s dead!
How’s that?”
“That’s tough!”
It brung him. He looked in, kinda edged through the door, took a bench, andsurveyed them shaps, and them guns till his eyes plumbprotruded. “Rippin’!” I heerd him say.
“‘That's tough,’” repeats Monkey Mike, winkin’ to the boys. “Wal, I shouldremark it was!–to go t’ jail just fer pluggin’ a Chink. Irish must ’a’ felt like two-bits.”
Boston lent over towards me. “What’s two bits?” he ast.
“What’s two bits,” says Rawson. “Don’t you know? Wal,onebit is what you can take outen the other feller’s hide at one mouthful.Twobits, a-course, is two of ’em.”
“And,” says that college feller from the Lazy X, “go fer the cheek allus–the best eatin’.” (He was smart, all right.)
“Not a Chinaman’s cheek–too tough,” says the sheriff.
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?”
“Don’t know a hull lot about him,” I answers, “but his mother was a squaw, and his father was found on a doorstep.”
“Asquaw,” he says. “That accounts fer it.” And he begun to watch the sheriff clost.
“Gents, what you want fer you’ supper?” ast the Arnaz boy, comin’ ourdirection.
“I feel awful caved in,” answers Buckshot. “I’ll take a dozen aigs.”
“How’ll you have ’em?”
“Boil ’em hard, so’s I can hole ’em in my fingers. And say, cool ’em off ’fore you dish ’em up. I got blisteredbadthe last time I et aigs.”
“Rawson, what’llyouhave?”
Rawson, he kinda cocked one ear. “Wal,” he says, easy like, “give me rattlesnake on toast.”
Nobody cheeped fer a minute, ’cause the boys was stumped fer somethin’ to go on with. Butjust as I was gittin’ nervous that the conversation was peterin’ out, Boston speaks up.
“Rattlesnake?” he says; “did he sayrattlesnake?”
Like a shot, Rawson turned towards him, wrinklin’ his forrid and wigglin’ his moustache awful fierce. “That’swhat I said,” he answers, voice plumb down to his number ’levens.
It give me my show. I drug Boston away. “Gee!” I says, “onthisside of the Mississippi, you got to bekeerfulhow you go shoot off you’ mouth! And when youremark on folks’s eatin’, you don’t want t’ look tickled.”
Wal, that was all the colour he got till night, when I had somethin’ moreprepared. We took up a collection fer winda-glass, and Chub Flannagan, who can roll a gun theprettiestyou 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.
Then, fer a week, nothin’ happened.
It was just about then that Rose got another letter from Macie. And it seemed t’ me that thelittle gal ’d changed her tune some. She said Noo York took aturriblelot 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 ferthistime, ’cause she had t’ write her paw.
“I s’pose,” I says to Rose, “that it’d be wastin’ my breath t’ ast––”
“Yas, Cupid,” she answers, “but it’ll be O. K. when she sees you.”
“Ireckon,” I says hopeful. And I hunted up my new boss.
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.
“Why don’t you grub over to the eatin’-house oncet in a while?” I ast him. “They got allkindsof tony things–tomatoes and cucumbers and as-paragrass, and them little toadstool things.”
“And out here in the desert!” says Boston. “I s’pose they bring ’em from other places.”
“Not on you’ life!” I answers. “They grow ’em right here–in flower pots.”
Out come a pencil. “How pictureskew!” Boston says,–and put it down.
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?”
He was layin’ back lazy in a chair,–asusual–watchin’ Carlota trot the crock’ry in. He batted his eyes. “Done!” he repeats. “No. Why, I ain’t got only a few notes.”
“Notes?” I says; “notes?” I wasturribledisappointed. (I reckon I was worryin’ over the book worse’nhewas.) “Why, say, couldn’t you make nothin’ outen that bad man who was a-paintin’ the town the other night?”
“Just a bad man don’t make a book,” says Boston; “leastways, only a yalla-back. But take a bad man, and agal,and you git a story ofad-venture.”
A gal. Yas, you need a gal fer a book. And you needthegal if you want t’ be right happy. I knowed that. Pretty soon, I ast, “Have you picked on a gal?”
“Here’s Carlota,” he says. “She’dmake a figger fer a book.”
Carlota!–the little skeezicks! Y’ see, she’saw-fulpretty. 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.
“But what I’m after most now,” he goes on, “is a plot.”
A plot, y’ savvy, is a story, and I got him the best I could find. This was Buckshot’s:
“Boston, this is ablamedenterprisin’ country,–almostanyole thing can happen out here. Did you ever hear tell how Nick Erickson got his stone fence? No? You could putthatin 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.”
But Boston was hard t’ satisfy. So I tried to tell him about Rose and Billy.
“No,” he says; “if they’sonething them printin’ fellers won’t stand fer it’s a heroinethat’s hitched.”
So, then, I branched off on to pore Bud Hickok.
“No,” says Boston, again; “thatwon’t do. It’s got to end up happy.”
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.”
I seen somethin’ had got t’ be done pronto. “Cupid,” I says to myself, “youmust consider 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’sgott’ happen. Just chaw onthat.”
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.”
“Gal?” they repeats.
“Yas; every book has got t’ have a gal.”
“I s’pose,” says Rawson. “Just like ev’ry herd had got t’ have a case of staggers. But–who’s the gal?”
The boys all lent towards me, fly-traps wide open.
“Carlota Arnaz,” I answers.
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.
“The Senorita’ll do,” says Rawson. “She gen’ally makes out t’ keepsomeman mis’rable.”
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.
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 yousalt–and pretend to make a strike?”
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?”
“Yas.”
The hull bunch got plumb pale. Then they made fer the door.,
“Wait, boys!” I hollered. “Holeon! Remember this is a scheme that’s beenastfer.”
They stopped.
“And,” I says, “it looks pretty good t’me.”
They turned back–shakin’ they haids, though. “Just as you say, Cupid,” says Rawson. And, “Long’s it’s feryou,” adds the sheriff. “But schemes is some dangerous.”
“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!”
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,ma’am!And ifthat’sthe kind of plot you-all ’re hankerin’ after, you can just count meoutenthis hawg-tyin’!”
“That’s right–sic ’em, Towser; git t’ fightin’,” I says. “Now, Bill,workyou’ hole-backstraps. I cain’t say as Sam’s plan hit the right spot with me, neither. ’Cause how couldCarlotafigger in that pow-wow? Won’t do.”
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!
If you want to ast me, I think the hull idear was justO. K.,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.Procession files back, all sand and smiles.
“Why,” I says to Bergin, “them Eastern printin’ fellers’ll set ’em up fer Boston so fast that he’ll plumb float.”
And the sheriff agreed.
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,the boys gittin’ the blanks, the hosses and the hay lady.
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. (That’d ’a’ been colour fer Boston, all right.) I tole him what we was goin’ t’ do,whywe was a-doin’ it, and laid outhisshare of the job. Then I tacked on that the gal he’d steal was Carlota.
Now, as I think about it, Irecall that he lookedmightytickled. Grinned all over and said, “Me gusta mucho” more’n a dozen times. ButthenI 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’knowed––)
“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?”
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!
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 someexperience with Macie, and I’d learned when t’ leave a rambunctious young lady have her haid.
“Carlota,” I says, “us fellers has fixed up a mighty nice scheme t’ help out Boston with that book he’s goin’ to write.”
“So?” She was all awake–quicker’n scat.
“Yas,” I goes on. “Y’ know, he’s been wantin’ somethin’excitin’ t’ put in it. We figger t’ give it to him.”
“Como?” she ast.
“With a case of kidnappin’. Man steals gal–we foller with Boston–lots of shootin’–save the gal––”
“What gal?”
“It’s a big honour–and we choosed you.”
“So-o-o!”
Say! that hit her right,Itell y’! But I had to go put my foot in it, a-course. “Yas,you,” Igoes on. “Mebbe you noticed Boston’s here pretty frequent?”
“Si! si! si! señor!”
“That’s ’cause he’s been studyin’ you–so’s he could use you fer a book character.”
“So!” she said. “Thatis it!thatis why!” Mad? Golly! Them black eyes of hern just snapped, and she grabbed a hunk of bread and begun knifin’ it.
“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 abookissome potatoes.”
“No!no!señor!”
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 asthim.”
“Pedro–puf!”
“In the book,” I goes on, “he’s the bad man that loves you so much he cain’t help stealin’ you.”
“IhatePedro,” she says. “He is like that–bad.”
“But we ain’t astin’ you t’likehim, and hedon’tgityou. He drops you off at Johnson’s and takes a dummy the rest of the way. We want t’ make Bostonthinkthey’s danger.”
“So?” All of a suddent, she didn’t seem nigh as mad–and she looked like she’d just thought of somethin’.
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 heroine,I’ll ast one of the eatin’-house gals. I reckontheywon’t turn me down.” And I moseyed towards the door.
“Cupid,” she calls, “come back. You say, he will think another man loves me so much that he carries me away?”
“You got it,” I answers.
She showed them little nippers of hern. “Good!” she says. “I do it!”
“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.”
Little nippers again. “I do it,” she says.
I started t’ go, but she called me back. “Hewill think another man loves me so much that he carries me away?” she repeats.
“Shore,” I says. And she let me go.
Y’ know,flirtin’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 hereyeswasn’t smilin’–and a Spanish gal’s eyes don’t lie.
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.
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.
“Why?” I ast.
“Account of Pedro bein’ in town. I figger t’ stay clost to the bunk-house.”
“So ’llI,” I says, and begun examinin’ my shootin’-iron mighty anxious.
“Who’s this Pedro?” ast Boston.
“Didn’t y’ see him?” I says. “He’s a greaser,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 lastEyeOpener.
“Pedro Garcia,” it read, “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–” Then they was a inch ’r two without no writin’. Under that was this: “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.”
“And what’s he doin’ inhere?” says Boston, “–talkin’ to a young gal!”
“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.”
“Low ruffian!” says Boston.
Later on, about ten o’clock, say, I was passin’ the rest’rant, and I heerd a man singin’––
“Luz de mi alma!
Luz de mi vida!”
and that somethin’ was “despedosin’” his heart. (I savvy the lingo pretty good.)
Wal, it was that dog-goned cholo,–under Carlota’s winda, and he had a guitar. Thunderation! that wasn’t in our program!
“Say, you!” I hollered.
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!
“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.
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.
I was glad things was goin’ so nice. ’Causelately 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.
When she writ again though, she said she was O. K., but a-course Noo Yorkwaslonesome when a person was sick. Op’ra prospects? Aw, they wasfine!
Next thing, I was nervouser’n a cow with the heel-fly.Noletters 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.
“How’s Mace?” Rawson ast him oncet.
“Tol’rable,” he answers, glum as all git out.
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.
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 corraltoo, 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.)
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!
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.
She walked straight over to him, smilin’–thelittle cut-up!–and outen the door! Fer a minute, no sound. Then, the signal–a screech.
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.
“Alas! yon villain has stole her!” says Sam Barnes, throwin’ up his arms like they do in one of them theayter plays.
“Come,” yells Rawson. “We will foller and sa-a-ave her.” Then he split fer the corral,–us after him.
When we got to it, we found somethin’ funny: Our hosses was saddled and bridled all right–but ev’ry cinch was cut!
Wal, you could ’a’ knocked me down with a feather!
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.”
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.
No Carlota–but that blamed straw feemale, keeled over woeful, and a cow eatin’ her hair.
Shiverin’ snakes! but we was a sick-lookin’ bunch!
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.
“What’s his idear?” says Monkey Mike. “Where’s he takin’ her?”
“Bee line fer the reservation,” says Buckshot.
“Spanish church there. Makin’ herelope.”
“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. Wegothim! Pull you’ guns.”
Guns. I got weaker’n a cat. And, all at the same time, the other fellers remembered–andsucha howl. We had guns,a-course–but they was filled with blanks!
We slacked a little.
“Is that greaser loaded?” ast Bergin.
“Give him blanks myself,” says Bill.
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 tohisbronc, ’r else he was feard the critter wouldn’t carry double. Anyhow, he was behind her, everlastin’ly usin’ his quirt–and losin’ ground.
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.
Somethin’ whistled ’twixt me and the sheriff–ping-ng-ng!It was lead, all right!
And just then, whilst he was pullin’ t’ right and left, scatterin’ quick, but shootin’ off blanks (we was soexcited), that strawberry roan of Sparks’s come past us like a streak of lightnin’.And on her, with his dicer gone, no glasses, a ca’tridge-belt ’round his neck, and a pistol in one hand, was Boston!
“Hi, you fool,” yells the sheriff, “You’ll git killed!”
(Tire Pedro out and then draw his fire was the best plan, y’ savvy.)
Boston didn’t answer–kept right on.
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 (she was tied on!) druv in her hoss. Then, he begun t’ lead in hisn–when Boston brung up his hand and let her go–bang.
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.
Boston’s gun come up again.
“Look out,” I hollered. “You’ll hurt the gal.”
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; andthe cholo was poppin’ at us as we come on, and yellin’ like he was luny.
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!
Pedro shot at him, missed; shot again, still yellin’ bloody murder.
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––
He got it. Stayed up a second too long oncet–then tumbled back’ards, kinda half runnin’ as he goes down, and laid quiet.
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.
But the gal was callin’ to us. I picked up Boston’s gun and looked in.
Pedro was on the dirt floor, holdin’ his right hand with his left. (No more shovelin’ ferhim.)
Wal, we opened the door, led Carlota’s hoss out, set the little gal loose, and lifted her down.
At first, she didn’t say nothin’–just lookedto where Boston was. Then she found her feet and went towards him, totterin’ unsteady.
“Querido!” she calls; “querido!”
Boston heerd her, and begun crawlin’ t’ meet her. “All right, sweetheart,” he says, “–all right. I ain’t hurt much.”
Then they kissed–and we gotanothersurprise party!
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.
“Wal, Cupid?” he says, takin’ holt of my arm.
“Boston,” I begun. “I–I reckonyoudon’t need me no more.”
“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.
“Wal,” I answers, “I’vetalkedabout it–some.”
“It’s a good idear,” he goes on. “But aboutmy bill–I hope you’ll think a hunderd and fifty is fair, fer these three weeks.”
“Boston!” I got kinda weak all to oncet. “I cain’t take it. It wasn’t worth that.”
“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 backalone.”
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.
“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.”
“Sam, that shoreisthoughtful. 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.”
“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.”
“We’ll miss y’turrible,Cupid,” breaks in Hairoil. “I don’t hardly know what Briggs ’ll do with you gone. Somehow you allus manage t’ keep theexcitement up.”
“But if things don’t go good in Noo York,” adds Hank Shackleton, “why, just holler.”
“Thank y’, Hank,–thank y’.”
A little spot was comin’ and goin’ ’way down the track. The bunch looked thatdirection silent. Pretty soon, we heerd a rumblin’, and the spot got bigger, and steady.
The boys got down offen the platform and we moseyed over t’ where the end car allus stopped.
Too-oo-oot!
Shackleton reached out fer my hand. “Good-bye, Cupid, you ole son-of-a-gun,” he says almost squeezin’ the paw offen me.
“Take keer of you’self,” says the sheriff.
“Don’t let them fly Noo York dudes git you scairt none” (this was Chub).
“Thatain’t you’ satchel, Cupid, that’s the mail-bag.”
“Wal, we’d rattleanybody.”
“Here’s Boston,hewants t’ say good-bye.”
“Wave t’ the eatin’-house gals,–cain’t you see ’em at that upper winda?”
“Cupid,”–it was Hairoil, and he put a’ arm acrosst my shoulder–“hopeyou fergive me fer puttin’ up that shootin’-scrape.”
“Why, a-course,I do.”
Then, whisperin’, “Shewas the gal I tole you about that time, Cupid: The one IsaidI’d marry you off to.”
“You don’t mean it!”
“I do. So–the bestkindof luck, ole socks!”
“Aw,thanky’, Hairoil.”
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.”
“I will, Doc–I will.”
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––
“So long, Cupid!”–it was all-t’gether, gals and fellers, too. Then, “Yee-ee-ee-oop!”–the ole cow-punch yell.
“So long, boys!” I waved my Stetson.
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.
“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.”
Then, I picked up my satchel and hunted the day-coach.
A-course, when I reached Chicago, the firstthing 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 purchaseda 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!
Wal, after seein’ Chicago, it stands t’ reason that Noo York cain’t git a feller scairt so awful much. Anyhow, it didn’tme. 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.
“Pardner,” I says t’ the barber feller, “I want t’ rent a cheap room.”
“Look in the papers,” headvises.
’Twixt him and me, we located a place aforelong, 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.
“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.”
“No, ma’am,” I says; “we’re slender in books, I reckon. But out in Oklahomaw we come in all styles.”
“Wal,” she goes on, “they’s somethingelseI 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?”
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.”
You oughta saw her face!
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,“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?”
“Why, in Central Park,” she answers, “on the bridle path.”
“Thank y’, ma’am,” I says, and lit out.
A-course, ’most any person ’d wonder what I’d ast the boardin’-house ladythatfer. Wal, I ast it ’cause I knowed Macie Sewell good enough to lay my money ononething: She was too all-fired gone on hosses to stay offen a saddle more’n twenty-four hours at a stretch.
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 galsdidshow 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.
But Mace, she didn’t show up. Next day, I waited same way. Day after, ditto. Seemed t’me ev’ry blamed man, woman and child in the hull city passed me but her. And I didn’t know aoneof ’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?”
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.
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’?”
I had the sittywaytion in both gauntlets.
“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?”
He got kinda sick ’round the gills. “Wal, the fact is,” he says, swallerin’ two ’r three times, “I’m clean broke myself.”
Just then a gal with a pink cinch comes walkin’ along. She was one of them Butte-bellelookin’ ladies, with blazin’ cheeks, and hair that’s a cross ’twixtmolasses candy and the pelt of a kit-fox. She was leadin’ a dog that looked plumb ashamed of hisself.
“Pretty gal,” says the mealy-mouthed gent, grinnin’ some more. “And I know her. Like t’ be interdooced?”
“Don’t bother,” I says. (Her hay was a little too weathered ferme.)
“Nice red cheeks,” he says, rubbin’ his paws t’gether.
“Ya-a-as,” I says, “mighty nice. But you oughta see the squaws out in Oklahomaw. They varies it with yalla and black.”
He give me a kinda keen look. Then he moseyed.
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!
I was at his hoss’s haid ’fore ever he seen me. “Hole up, Simpson,” I says, “I want t’ talk to you.”
“Why, Alec Lloyd!” he says.
“That’s my name.”
“How ’dyougit here?” He stuck out one of them soft paws of hisn.
“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.)
“Wal, I’m glad t’ see you.” (That was a whopper.) “How’s ev’rybody in Briggs?”
“Never you mind about Briggs. I want t’ astyousomethin’: Where’s Macie Sewell?”
“I don’t know.”
“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,where is she?”
He looked plumb nervous. “I tell y’, I don’t know,” he answers; “honest,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.”
“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 fromme. Saltthatdown.” And I let him go.
Meetin’himthat-a-way, made me feel a heapbetter. If I could run into the only man I knowed in the city of Noo York, then, sometime, I’d shore come acrossther.
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.”
Don’t know why I didn’t think of thatafore. 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 enoughmuley.
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 ona 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.
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!
But if they’d ’a’ thoughtIwas funny, they’d ’a’ had a duck-fit at what I seen. First a passel of men come by, all in bloomers, humpin’ fast,–upand down,upand 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.
But whilst I was gettin’ kinda used to things,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!
Shewasn’t hangin’ on to the side of her hoss, no, ma’am! She was ridin’ the prettiestkindof 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.
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.
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.
“Yas, Alec,” I answers. “Aw, dear little gal, is y’ glad t’ see me?”
“Wal, what ’reyoudoin’ here!” she goes on. “I cain’t hardly believe what I see.”
I was so blamed flustered, and so happy, andso–so scairt, that I had t’ go say theonething 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!)
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; “home!Wal, I like that! Why, I’m just about t’ make a great, big success,yas. And I’ll thank you not t’ spoil my chanst with any more of you’ tricks.” She swung her bronc round into the trail.
“Macie! Spoil you’ chanst!” I answers. “Why, honey, I wouldn’t do that. I only want t’ be friends––”
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.
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––”
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’.”
I wasn’t discouraged, though,–I wasn’t discouraged.
“One of these times,” I says, “she’ll come t’ know that I only want t’ help her.”
Next mornin’, I started my jumpin’-jack business again. Andthatwhack, 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 hossby the hour!
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!
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. “Pass’round the hat,” I says on the postal card, “and send me the collection. Bar that Mexic. Particulars later on.”
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, justfewey.
One thing I didn’t figger on, though–that was thepolice. They’re white, all right (I mean thepolice 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?”
“Yas, sir,” I says, salutin’.
Wal, Iwasup 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.
But I hit on a plan that was somethin’won-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.Then, I fell in behind–dressed like one of them blamed grooms.
I thought I was slick, and Iwas–fer a week. But them parkpolice 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.
He rides square up to me. “Say,” he says, “are you acquainted with that young lady on ahaid?”
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.”
He pulled at his moustache fer a while. “Youain’t no groom,” he says fin’lly. “Where you from?”
“I’m from the Bar Y Ranch, Oklahomaw.”
“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?”
After that, I shed the groom duds, and not apolice gent ever more ’n nodded at me. That Bar Y news seemed to make ’em shore easy in they conscience.
But that didn’t help me any withher. 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.
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.
That night I mailed postal number two. “Take up a collection,” I says again; and added, “Pull that greaser’s laig.”
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.
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!
I didn’t let her see me. I just started fer a harness shop, and I bought a pair of spurs. “Prepare, 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.”
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.
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.
Clost behind her, I come, practicin’ a knee grip.
Nothin’ happened that mornin’. Ev’ry time she got where the trail runs ’longside the wagon-road, none of them locoed bull’s-eye Simpsonvehicles 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.
But I knowed it couldn’tlast.
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 justfour times;and ev’ry time she touched, she kicked dirt into the eyes of the stylishpolice 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.
I begun to git scairt. “Speak ’rnospeak,” I says to myself, “I’m goin’ to move up.”
That very minute, things come to a haid!
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!
We took the return trip short cut. First we hit the brush, Mace’s hoss breakin’ trail, mine a clost second, thepolice 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 fatpoliceman 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.