“Sweet is the vale where the Mohawk gently glides
On its fair, windin’ way to the sea–”
It was Macie Sewell singin’. Ole Number 201 ’d just pulled outen Briggs City, haided southwest with her freight of tenderfeet, and with Ingineer Dave Reynolds stickin’ in his spurs to make up lost time. The passengers ’d had twenty-five minutes fer a good grubbin’-up at the eatin’-house, and now the little gal was help-in’ the balance of the Harvey bunch to clear off the lunch-counter. Whilst she worked, she was chirpin’ away like she’d plumb bust her throat.
I was outside, settin’ on a truck with Up-State. He was watchin’ acrosst the rails, straight afore him, and listenin’, and I could see he was swallerin’ some, and his eyes looked kinda like he’d been ridin’ agin the wind. When I shifted myposition, he turned the other way quick, and coughed–that pore little gone-in cough of hisn.
Wal, I felt pretty bad myself; and I seen somethin’ turrible was wrong with Up-State–I couldn’t just make out what. Pretty soon, I put my hand on his arm, and I says, “I don’t want t’ worm anythin’ outen you, ole man; I just want t’ say I’m you’ friend.”
“Cupid,” he whispers back, “it’s The Mohawk Vale.”
(He allus whispered, y’ savvy; couldn’t talk out loud no more, bein’ so turrible shy on lung.)
“Is that a bony fido place?” I ast, “’r just made up a-purpose fer the song?”
“It’smycountry,” he whispers, slow and husky, and begun gazin’ acrosst to the mesquite again. “And, Cupid, it’s abeautiful country!”
“I reckon,” I says. “It’s likely got Oklahomaw skinned t’ death.”
Up-State, he didn’t answer that–toopolite. Aw, he was a gent, too, same as the parson.
Minute ’r so, Macie struck up again–
“And dearer by far than all charms on earth byside,
Is that bright, rollin’ river to me.”
Up-State lent over, elbows on his knees, face in his hands, and begun tremblin’–Why, y’ know, even ahoss’ll git homesick. Now, I brung a flea-bitten mare from down on the lower Cimarron oncet, and blamed if that little son-of-a-gun didn’t hoof it all the way back, straighter ’n a string! Yas, ma’am. And so, a-course, it’s natu’al fer aman. Wal, I ketched on to how things was with Up-State, and I moseyed.
I was at the deepot pretty frequent them days–waitin’. Macie hadn’t talked to me none yet, and mebbe she wouldn’t. But I was on hand in case the notion ’d strike her.
Her hangin’ out agin me and her paw tickled them eatin’-house Mamies turrible. They thought her idear of earnin’ her own money, and then goin’ East to be a’ op’ra singer, was justgrand.
But the rest of the town felt diff’rent. And behind my back all the women folks and the boys that knowed me was sayin’ it was a darned shame. They figgered that a gal gone loco on the stage proposition wouldn’t makenokind of a wife fer a cow-punch. “Wouldshecamp down in Oklahomaw,” they says, “and cook three meals a day,and wash out blue shirts, when she’s set on gittin’ up afore a passel of highflyers and yelpin’ ‘Marguerite’?Nixey.”
Next thing, one day at Silverstein’s, here come the parson to me, lookin’ worried. “Cupid,” he says, “git on the good side of that gal as quick as ever you can–and marry her. The stage is a’awfulplace fer a decent gal. Keep her offen it if you love her soul. And if I can help, just whistle.”
I said thank y’, but I was feard marryin’ was a long way off.
“But, Alec,” goes on the parson, “that Simpson has gone back t’ Noo York––”
“What?”
“Yas. He put all his doctor truck into his gasoline wagon last night and choo-chooed outen town. Ifhe’sthere, andshegoes, wal,–I don’t like the looks of it.”
“I don’t neither, parson. He’s crooked as a cow-path, that feller. Have you tole her paw?”
“No, but I will,” says the parson.
I went over to the deepot again. Havin’ done a little thinkin’, I wasn’t so scairt about Simpson by now. ’Cause why? Wal, y’ see, I knowed
Mace didn’t have no money; ole Sewell wouldn’t give her none; and she wasn’t the kind of a gal t’ borra. So it was likely she’d be in Briggs fer quite a spell.
I found Up-State settin’ outside the eatin’-house. I sit down byside him. Allus, them days, whenever I come in sight of the station, he was a-hangin’ ’round, y’ savvy. He’d be on a truck, say, ’r mebbe on the edge of the platform. If it was all quiet inside at the lunch-counter, he’d be watchin’ the mesquite, and sorta swingin’ his shoes. But if Macie was singin’, he’d be all scrooched over with his face covered up–and pretty quiet.
When Macie sung, it was The Mohawk Vale ev’ry time. Now, that seemed funny, bein’ she was mad at me and that was my fav’rite song. Then, it didn’t seem so funny. One of the eatin’-house gals tole me, confidential, that Up-State had lots of little chins with Macie acrosst the lunch-counter, and that The Mohawk Vale was “by request.”
Ididn’t keer. Let Up-State talk to her as much as he wanted to.Hecouldn’t make me jealous–not on you’ life! I wasn’t the finestlookin’ man in Oklahomaw, and I wasn’t on right good terms with Mace. But Up-State–wal, Up-State was pretty clost t’ crossin’ the Big Divide.
All this time not a word ’d passed ’twixt Macie and her paw. The ole man was too stiff-necked t’ give in and go to her. (He was figgerin’ that she’d git tired and come home.) And Macie, she wasn’t tired a blamed bit, and she was too stiff-necked t’ give in and go t’ Sewell.
Wal, when the boss heerd about Up-State and Mace, you neverseena man so sore. He said Up-State was aigin’ her on, and no white man ’d dothat.
Y’ see, he had some reason fer not goin’ shucks on the singin’ and actin’ breed. We’d had two bunches of op’ra folks in Briggs at diff’rent times. One come down from Wichita, and was called “The Way to Ruin.” (Wal, it shore looked its name!) The other was “The Wild West Troupe” from Dallas. This last wasn’t West–it was from Noo Yorkdirect–but you can bet you’ boots it waswildall right. By thunder! you couldn’t ’a’ helt nary one of them young ladies with a hoss-hair rope!
But fer a week of Sundays, he didn’t say nothin’ to Up-State. He just boiled inside, kinda. Then one day–when he’d got enough steam up, I reckon,–why, he opened wide and let her go.
“Up-State,” he begun, “I’m sorry fer you, all right, but––”
Up-State looked at him. “Sewell,” he whispers, “I don’t wantnoman’s pity.”
“Listen to me,” says the boss. “Macie’s my little gal–the only child I got left now, and I warn you not to go talkin’ actress to her.”
“Don’t holler ’fore you git hit,” whispers Up-State, smilin’.
The boss got worse mad then. “Look a-here,” he says, “don’t give me none of that. You know you lie––”
Up-State shook his haid. “I’m not a man any more, Sewell,” he whispers. “I’m just what’s left of one. I didn’t used to letnobody hand out things that flat to me.”
I stuck inmylip. (Onemore time couldn’t hurt.) “Now, Sewell,” I says, “put on the brake.”
He got a holt on hisself then. “This ain’t nojosh to me, Cupid,” he says. (He was tremblin’, pore ole cuss!) “What you think I heerd this mornin’? Mace ain’t makin’ enough money passin’ slumgullion to them passenger cattle all day, so she’s a-goin’ over to Silverstein’s ev’ry night after this to fix up his books. I wisht now I’d never sent her t’ business college.”
Just then–
“Sweet is the vale where the Mohawk gently glides
On its fair, windin’ way to the sea–”
Up-State lent over, his elbows on his knees, and his face in his hands.
The boss looked at me. I give a jerk of my haid to show him he’d best go. And he walked off, grindin’ his teeth.
It seemed to me I could hear Up-State whisperin’ into his fingers. I stooped over. “What is it, pardner?” I ast.
“It’s full of home,” he says, “–it’s full of home! Cupid! Cupid!” (Darned if I don’t wisht them lungers wouldn’t come down here, anyhow. They plumb give a feller the misery.)
Doc Trowbridge stopped by just then. “How you makin’ it t’-day, Up-State?” he ast.
Up-State got to his feet, slow though, and put a hand on Billy’s shoulder. “The next sandstorm, ole man,” he says; “the next sandstorm.”
“Up-State,” says Billy, “buck up. You got more lives’n a cat.”
“No show,” Up-State whispers back.
He was funny that-a-way. Now, most lungers fool theyselves. Allus “goin’ to git better,” y’ savvy. But Up-State–he knew.
“Come over to my tent t’-night,” he goes on to Billy. “I got somethin’ I want to talk to you about.”
“All right,” says Billy. “Two haids is better ’n one, if oneisa sheep’s haid.”
After supper, I passed Silverstein’s two ’r three times, and about nine o’clock I seen Macie. She was ’way back towards the end of the store, a lamp and a book in front of her; and she was a-workin’ like a steam-thrasher.
Somehow it come over me all to oncet then that she’d meant ev’ry single word she said, and that, sooner ’r later–she was goin’.Goin’. And I’dbe stayin’ behind. I looked ’round me. Say! Briggs City didn’t show upmuch. “Withouther,” I says, (they was that red-hot-iron feelin’ inside of me again) “–without her, what is it?–the jumpin’-off place!”
Beyond me, a piece, was Up-State’s tent. A light was burnin’ inside it, too, and Doc Trowbridge was settin’ in the moonlight by the openin’. Behind him, I could see Up-State, writin’.
I trailed home to my bunk. But you can understand I didn’t sleep good. And ’way late, I had a dream. I dreamed the Bar Y herd broke fence and stampeded through Briggs, and after ’em come about a hunderd bull-whackers, all a-layin’ it on to them steers with the flick of they lashes-zip, zip, zip, zip.
Next mornin, I woke quick–with a jump, y’ might say. I looked at my nickel turnip. It was five-thirty. I got up. The sun was shinin’, the air was nice and clear and quiet and the larks was just singin’ away. But outside, along the winda-sill, was stretcheda’ inch-wide trickle of sand!
In no time I was hoofin’ it down the street. When I got to Up-State’s tent, Billy Trowbridgewas inside it, movin’ ’round, puttin’ stuff into a trunk, and–wipin’ the sand outen his eyes.
“He was right?” I says, when I goes in, steppin’ soft, and whisperin’–like Up-State ’d allus whispered. Billy turned to me and kinda smiled, fer all he felt so all-fired bad. “Yas, Cupid,” he says, “he was right. One more storm.”
Just then, from the station–
“Sweet is the vale where the Mohawk gently glides
On its fair, windin’ way to the sea–”
Billy walked over to the bed and looked down. “Up-State, ole man,” he says, “you’re a-goin’ back to the Mohawk.”
Up-State left two letters behind him–one fer me and one fer Billy. The doc didn’t show hisn; said it wouldn’t be justprofeshnal–yet. But mine he ast me to read to the boss.
“Dear Cupid,” it run, “ast Mister Sewell not to come down too hard on me account of what I’m goin’ to do fer Macie. The little gal says she wants a singin’ chanst more’n anythin’ else.Wal, I’m goin’ to give it to her. You’ll find a’ even five hunderd in green-backs over in Silverstein’s safe. It’s hern. Tell her I want she should use it to go to Noo York on and buck the op’ra game.”
“Dear Cupid,” it run, “ast Mister Sewell not to come down too hard on me account of what I’m goin’ to do fer Macie. The little gal says she wants a singin’ chanst more’n anythin’ else.Wal, I’m goin’ to give it to her. You’ll find a’ even five hunderd in green-backs over in Silverstein’s safe. It’s hern. Tell her I want she should use it to go to Noo York on and buck the op’ra game.”
Wal, y’ see, the ole man ’d been right all along–Up-Statewassidin’ with Mace. Somehow though,Icouldn’t feel hard agin him fer it. I knowed that she’d go–help ’rnohelp.
But Sewell, he didn’t think like me, and I neverseena man take on the way he done.Crazymad, he was, swore blue blazes, and said things that didn’t sound so nice when a feller remembered that Up-State was face up and flat on his back fer keeps–and goin’ home in the baggage-car.
I tell you, the boys was nice to me that day. “The little gal won’t fergit y’, Cupid,” they says, and “Never you mind, Cupid, it’ll all come out in the wash.”
I thanked ’em, a-course. But with Macie fixed to go (far’s money went), and without makin’ friends with me, neither, what under the shinin’ sun could chirkmeup? Wal,nothin’could.
“Wal, Hairoil,” I says, “I shore am a’ unlucky geezer! Why, d’ you know, I don’t hardly dast go from one room to another these days fer fear I’ll git my lip pinched in the door.”
Hairoil, he clawed thoughtful. “You and the boss had a talk oncet on the marryin’ question,” he begun. “It was out at the Bar Y.” (We was settin’ on a truck at the deepot again, same as that other time.) “A-course, I don’t want t’ throw nothin’ up, but–you tole him then that when it come you’owntime,youwouldn’t have no trouble. Recollect braggin’ that-a-way?”
“Yas,” I answers, meeker’n Moses. “But Hairoil, that was ’fore I met Macie.”
“So it was,” he says. Then, after a minute, “I s’pose nothin’ could keep her in Briggs much longer.”
I shook my haid. “The ole man won’t let herfetch a dud offen the ranch, and so she’s havin’ a couple of dresses made. I figger that whentheygit done, she’ll–she’ll go.”
“How long from now?”
“About two weeks–accordin’ to what Mollie Brown tole me.”
“Um,” says Hairoil, and went on chawin’ his cud. Fin’lly, he begun again, and kinda like he was feelin’ ’round. “Don’t you think Mace Sewell is took up with theromance part of this singin’ proposition?” he ast. “That’smyidear. AndIthink that if she was showed that her and you wasalsoaromance, why, she’d give up goin’ to Noo York. Now, itmightbe possible to–to git her t’ see things right–if they was a little scheme, say.”
I got up. “No, Hairoil,” I says, “no little scheme is a-goin’ t’ be played onMacie. A-course, I done it fer Rose and Billy; but Macie,–wal, Macie is diff’rent. I want t’ win her in the open. And I’ll be jiggered if I stand fer any underhand work.”
“It needn’t t’bewhat you’d call underhand,” answers Hairoil.
“Pardner,” I says, “don’t talk about it nomore. You make me plumb nervous, like crumbs in the bed.”
And so he shut up.
But now when Irecall that conversation of ourn, and think back on what begun t’ happen right afterwards, it seemedblamedfunny that I didn’t suspicion somethin’ was wrong. The parson was mixed up in it, y’ savvy, and the sheriff, and Billy Trowbridge–all them three I’d helped out in one way ’r another. And Hairoil was in it, too–and he’d said oncet that he was a-goin’ t’ marry me off. Sowhydidn’t I ketch on! Wal, I shorewasa yap!
Next day, Hairoil didn’t even speak of Mace. I thought he’d clean fergot about her. He was allexcited over somethin’ else–the ’lection of a sheriff. And ’fore he got done tellin’ me about it, I was someexcited, too–fer all I was half sick account of my own troubles.
The ’lection of a sheriff, y’ savvy, means a’ awful lot to a passel of cow-punchers. We don’t much keer who’s President of the United States. (We been plumbcoveredwith proud flesh these six years, though, ’cause Roos’velt,he’sa puncher.) We don’t much keer, neither, who’sGov’ner of Oklahomaw. But you can bet you’ bottom dollar it makes aheapof diff’rence who’s our sheriff. If you git a friend in office, you can breathe easy when you have a little disagreement; if you don’t, why,yougit ’lected–t’ the calaboose!
Now, what Hairoil come and rep’esented to me was this: That Hank Shackleton, editor ofThe Briggs City Eye-Opener,’d been lickerin’ up somethin’turriblethe last twenty-four hours.
“Hank?” I says to Hairoil, plumb surprised. “Why, I didn’t know he ever took more ’n a glass.”
“Aglass!” repeats Hairoil disgusted. “He ain’t used no glassthistime; he used afunnel. And you oughta see his paper that come out this mornin’. It’s full on the one side, where a story’s allus printed, but the opp’site page looks like somethin’ ’d hit it–O. K. far’s advertisements go, but the news is as skurse as hen’s teeth,and not a word about Bergin.”
“You don’t say! But–what does that matter, Hairoil?”
“What does thatmatter!Why, if Hank gits it into his haid to keep on tankin’ that-a-way (tillhe plumb spills over, by jingo!) theEye-Openerwon’t show up again fer a month of Sundays. Now, we need it, account of this ’lection, and the way Hank is actin’ has come home to roost with ev’ryoneof us. You been worried, Cupid, and you ain’t noticed how this sheriff sittywaytion is. The GoldstoneTarantulais behind theRepublican candidate, Walker––”
“Walker! Thatcritter up fer sheriff?”
“Yas. And, a-course, Hank’s been behind Bergin t’ githimre’lected fer the ’leventh time.”
“Iknow, and Bergin’s got t’win. Why, Bergin’s the only fit man.”
“Wal, now, if our paper cain’t git in and crow the loudest, and tell how many kinds of a swine the other feller is,how’sBergin goin’ t’ win?”
“I don’t know.”
“Neither doI. (You see how ticklish things is?) Wal, here’s Hank innoshape to make any kind of a newspaper fight, but just achin’ t’ use his gun on anybody that comes nigh him. Why, I neverseensuch a change in a man in all my bornlife!”
I was surprised somemore. I didn’t knowHankpackeda gun. He was a darned nice cuss, and ev’rybody shore liked him, and he’d never been laid up ferrepairs account of somethin’ he’d put in his paper. He was square, smart’s a steel-trap, and white clean through. Had a handshake that was hung on a hair-trigger, and a smile so winnin’ that he could coax the little prairie-dawgs right outen they holes.
Hairoil goes on. “I can see Briggs City eatin’ the shucks when it comes ’lection-day,” he says, “and that Goldstone man cabbagin’ the sheriff’s office. Buckshot Milliken tole me this mornin’ that theTarantulacalled Bergin ‘a slouch’ last week; ‘so low-down he'd eat sheep,’ too, and ‘such a blamed pore shot he couldn’t hit the side of a barn.’”
“That’s goin’ too far.”
“SoIsay. I wanted Bergin t’ go over to Goldstone and give ’em a sample of his gun-play that’d interfere with the printin’ of they one-hoss sheet. But Bergin said it was no use–theTarantulaeditor is wearin’ a sheet-iron thing-um-a-jig acrosst his back and his front, and has to use a screw-driver t’ take off his clothes.”
“The idear of Hank actin’ like a idjit when the ’lection depends on him!” I says. “Wal, thingsisouten kilter.”
“Sh-sh-sh!” says Hairoil, lookin’ round quick. “Be awful keerful what you say about Hank. We don’t want no shootin’-scrapehere.”
But I didn’t give a continentalwhoheerd me. I was sore t’ think a reg’lar jay-hawk ’d been put up agin our man! Say, that Walker didn’t know beans when the bag was open. His name shore fit him, ’cause he couldn’t ride a hoss fer cold potatoes. And he was the kind that gals think is a looker, and allus stood ace-high at a dance. Lately, he’d been more pop’lar than ever. When we had that little set-to with Spain, Walker hiked out to the Coast; and didn’t show up again till after the California boys come home from Manila. Then, he hit town, wearin’ a’ army hat, and chuck full of all kinds of stories about the Philippines, and how he’d been inturriblefights. That got the girls travelin’ after him two-forty. Why, at Goldstone, they wasalla-goin’ with him, seems like.
I didn’t wanthimfer sheriff, you bet you’ boots. He wasn’t no friend to us Briggs Cityboys any more ’n we was to him. And then, none of us believed that soldier hand-out. Y’ know, we had a little bunch of fellers from this section that went down t’ Cuba with Colonel Roos’velt and chased the Spanish some. Wal, y’ never heerdthemcrowin’ ’round about what they done. And this Walker, he blowed too much t’ be genuwine.
“If he’s ’lected sheriff, it’s goin’ t’ be risky business gittin’ in to a’ argyment with anybody,” I says. “He’d justliket’ git one of us jugged. Say, what’s goin’ to be did fer Hank?”
“Wal,” answers Hairoil, mouth screwed up anxious, “we’re in a right serious fix. So they’s to be a sorta convention this afternoon, and we’re a-goin’ t’ cut out whisky whilst the session lasts.”
“I’ll come.Walkerfer sheriff!Huh!”
“Good fer you! So long.”
“So long.”
We made fer the council-tent at three o’clock–the bunch of us. The deepot waitin’-room was choosed, that bein’, as the boys put it, “the mostrespectable public place in town that wouldn’t want rent.” Wal, we worked our jaws a lot, goin’ over the sittywaytion from start to finish.“Gents let’s hear what you-all got to say,” begun Chub Flannagan, standin’ up. Doc Trowbridge was next. “I advise you to rope Shackleton,” he says, “and lemme give him some hoss liniment t’ put him on his laigs.” (We was agreed that the hull business depended on theEye-Opener.) But the rest of us didn’t favour Billy’s plan. So we ended by pickin’ a ’lection committee. No dues, no by-laws, no chairman. But ev’ry blamed one of us a sergeant-at-arms with orders t’ keep Hank Shackletonouten the saloons. ’Cause why? If he could buck up, andstaystraight, and go t’ gittin’ out theEye-Opener,Bergin ’d shore win out.
“Gents,” says Monkey Mike, “soon as ever Briggs hears of our committee, we’re a-goin’ t’ git pop’lar with the nice people, ’cause we’re tryin’ t’ help Hank. And we’re also goin’ t’ git a black eye with the licker men account of shuttin’ off the Shackleton trade. A-course, us punchers must try t’ make it up t’ the thirst-parlours fer the loss, though Iadmit it ’ll not be a’ easy proposition. But things isdesp’rate. If Walker gits in, we’ll have a nasty deputy-sheriff sent up here t’ cross us ev’ry time we make amove. We got t’work,gents. You know howIfeel. By thunder! Bergin treated me square all right over that Andrews fuss.” (Y’ see, Mike’s a grateful little devil, if hedoesride like a fool Englishman.)
“Wal,” says Buckshot Milliken, “who’ll be the first sergeant? I call fer a volunteer.”
All the fellers just kept quiet–but they looked at each other, worried like.
“Don’t all speak to oncet,” says Buckshot.
I got up. “I’m willin’ t’ try my hand,” I says.
“Thanky’, Cupid.” It was Buckshot, earnest as the dickens. “But–but we hope you’re goin’ to go slow with Hank. Don’t do nothin’ foolish.”
“What in thunder ’s gotintoyou fellers?” I ast, lookin’ at ’em. “Is Hank got the hydrophoby?”
“You ain’t saw him since he begun t’ drink, I reckon,” says Chub.
“No.”
“Wal,then.”
By this time, I was so all-fired et up with curiosity t’ git a look at Hank that I couldn’t stand it no more. So I got a move on.
Hank is a turrible tall feller, and thin as a ramrod. He’s got hair you could flag a train with, and a face as speckled as a turkey aig. And when I come on to him that day, here he was, stretched out on the floor of Dutchy’s back room, mouth wide open, and snorin’ like a rip-saw.
I give his shoulder a jerk. “Here, Hank,” I says, “wake up and pay fer you’ keep. What’s got into you, anyhow. My goodness me!”
He opened his eyes–slow. Next, he sit up, and fixed a’ awful ugly look on me. “Wa-a-al?” he says.
“My friend,” I begun, “Briggs City likes you, and in the present case it’s a-tryin’ t’ make ’lowances, and not chalk nothin’ agin y’, but––”
“Blankety blank Briggs City!” growls Hank. “Ish had me shober and ish had me drunk, and neither way don’t shoot.”
“Now, ole man, I reckon you’re wrong,” I says. “But never mind, anyhow. Just try t’ realise that they ’s a ’lection comin’, and that you got t’ help.”
“Walkersh a friend of mine,” says Hank, and laid down again.
Wal, I didn’t want t’ be there all day. Iwanted t’ havesometime to myself, y’ savvy, so ’s I could keep track of Mace. So I grabbed him again.
This whack, he got up, straddlin’ his feet out like a mad tarantula, and kinda clawin’ the air. They wasn’t no gun visible on him, but he was loaded, all right. Had a revolver stuck under his belt in front, so ’s the bottom of his vest hid it.
I jerked it out and kicked it clean acrosst the floor. Then I drug him out and started fer the bunk-house with him.Gosh!it was a job!
Wal, the pore cuss didn’t git another swalla of forty-rod that day; and by the next mornin’ he was calm and had a’ appetite. So three of us sergeant-at-arms happened over to see him. Bill Rawson was there a’ready, keepin’ him comp’ny. And first thing y’ know, I was handin’ that editor of ourn great big slathers of straight talk.
“Iknow what you done fer me, Cupid,” says Hank. “And I’m grateful,–yas, I am. But let me tell you that when I git started drinkin’, I cain’tstop–never do till I’m just wored out ’r stone broke. And I git mean, and on the fight, and don’t know what I’m doin’. But,” hecon-tinues (his face was as long as you’ arm), “ifyou-all ’ll fergive me, and let this spree pass, why, I’ll go back t’ takin’ water at the railroad tank with the Sante Fee ingines.”
“Hank,” I says, “you needn’t t’ say nothin’ further. But pack no more loads, m’ son, pack no more loads. Andtryt’ git out anotherEyeOpener. Not only is this sheriff matter pressin’, but the lit’rary standin’ of Briggs City is at stake.”
“That’s dead right,” he says. “And I’ll git up a’ issue of theOpenerpronto–only you boys ’ll have t’ help me out some on the news part. I don’t recollect much that’s been happenin’ lately.”
Wal, things looked cheerfuller. So, ’fore long, I was back at the deepot, settin’ on a truck and watchin’ the eatin’-house windas, and the boys–Bergin and all–was lined up ’longside Dutchy’s bar, celebratin’.
But our work was a long, l-o-n-g way from bein’ done. Hank kept sober just five hours. Then he got loose from Hairoil and made fer a thirst-parlour. And when Hairoil found him again, he was fuller’n a tick.
“I’m blue as all git out about what’s happened,”says Hairoil. “But I couldn’t help it; it was just rotten luck. And I hear that when theTarantulacome out yesterday it had a hull column about that Walker, callin’ him a brave ex-soldier and the next sheriff of Woodward County.”
“And just ten days ’fore ’lection!” chips in Bill Rawson. “Cupid, it’s root hawg ’r die!”
“That’s what it is,” I says. “Wal, I’ll go git after Hank again.”
He was in Dutchy’s, same as afore. But not so loaded, this time, and a blamed sight uglier. Minute heseenme, his back was up! “Here, you snide puncher,” he begun, “you tryin’ to arrestme?Wal, blankety blank blank,” (fill it in the worst you can think of–he was beefin’ somethin’awful) “I’ll have you know that I ain’t never ’lowednoman t’ put the bracelets on me.” And his hand went down and begun feelin’ fer the butt of a gun.
“Look oudt!” whispers Dutchy. “You vill git shooted!”
But I only just walked over and put a’ arm ’round Hank. “Now, come on home,” I says, like I meant it. “’Cause y’ know, day after t’-morraanotherEye-Openerhasgotto rise t’ the top. Hank, think of Bergin!”
He turned on me then, and give me such a push in the chest that I sit down on the floor–right suddent, too. Wal, that rubbed me the wrong way. And the next thingheknowed, I had him by the back of the collar, and was a-draggin’ him out.
I was plumb wored out by the time I got him home, and so Chub, he stayed t’ watch. I went back to the deepot. And I was still a-settin’ there, feelin’ lonesome, and kinda put out, too, when here come Buckshot Milliken towards me.
“I think Hank oughta be ’shamed of hisself,” he says, “fer the way he talks about you. Course, we know why he does it, and that it ain’t true––”
“What’s he got t’ say about me?” I ast, huffy.
“He said you was a ornery hoodlum,” answers Buckshot, “and a loafer, and that he’s a-goin’ t’ roast you in his paper. He’d put Oklahomaw on toyou,he said.”
“Huh!”
“And you beensucha good friend t’ Hank,” goes on Buckshot. “Wal, don’t it go to show!”
“If he puts on singlewordabout me in that paper of hisn,” I says, gittin’ on my ear good and plenty, “I’ll just natu’ally take him acrosst my knee and give him a spankin’.”
“And he’ll put enough slugs in you t’ make a sinker,” answers Buckshot. “Why, Cupid, Hank Shackleton can fight his weight in wildcats.You go slow.”
“Buthecain’t shoot,” I says.
“He cain’tshoot!” repeats Buckshot. “Why, I hear he was a reg’lar gun-fighter oncet, and so blamed fancy with his shootin’ that he could drive a two-penny nail into a plank at twenty yards ev’ry bit as good as a carpenter.”
“Wal,” I says, “I’ll be blasted if that’s gotmescairt any.”
Buckshot shook his haid. “I’m right sorry t’ see any bad blood ’twixt y’,” he says.
Next thing, it was all over town that Hank was a-lookin’ fer me.
Afterwards, I heerd that it was Hairoil tole Macie about it. “You know,” he says to her, “whenever Hank’s loaded and in hollerin’ distance of a town, you can shore bet some one’s goin’ t’ git hurt.”
Mace, she looked a little bit nervous. But she just said, “I reckon Alec can take keer of hisself.” Then off she goes to pick out a trunk at Silverstein’s.
I reckon, though, that ole Silverstein ’d heerd about the trouble, too. So when Mace come back to the eatin’-house, she sit down and writ me a letter. “Friend Alec,” it said, “I want to see you fer a minute right after supper. Macie Sewell.”
It was four o’clock then. Supper was a good two hours off. Say! how them two hours drug!
But all good things come to a’ end–as the feller said when he was strung up on a rope. And the hands of my watch loped into they places when they couldn’t hole back no longer. Then, outen the door on the track side of the eatin’-house, here she come!
My little gal! I was hungry t’ talk to her, and git holt of one of her hands. But whilst I watched her walk toward me, I couldn’t move, it seemed like; and they was a lump as big as a baseball right where my Adam’s apple oughta be.
“Macie!”
She stopped and looked straight at me, and Iseen she’d been cryin’. “Alec,” she says, “I didn’t mean t’ give in and see you ’fore I went. But they tole me you and Hank ’d had words. And–and I couldn’t stay mad no longer.”
“Aw, honey, thank y’!”
“I ain’t a-goin’ away t’ stay,” she says. “Leastways, I don’tthinkso. But I want a try at singin’, Alec,–a chanst. Paw’s down on me account of that. And he don’t even come in town no more. Wal, I’m sorry. But–youunderstand, Alec, don’t y’?”
“Yas, little gal. Go ahaid. I wouldn’t hole you back. Iwantyou should have a chanst.”
“And if I win out, I want you t’ come to Noo York and hear me sing. Will y’, Alec?”
“Ev’ry night, I’ll go out under the cottonwoods, by the ditch, and I’ll say, ‘Gawd, bless my little gal.’”
“I won’t fergit y’, Alec.”
I turned my haid away. Off west they was just a little melon-rind of moon in the sky. As I looked, it begun to dance, kinda, and change shape. “I’ll allus be waitin’,” I says, after a little, “–if it’s five years, ’r fifty, ’r the end of my life.”
“They won’t never be no other man, Alec. Just you––”
“Macie!”
That second, we both heerd hollerin’ acrosst the street. Then here come Hairoil, runnin’, and carryin’ a gun.
“Cupid,” he says, pantin’, “take this.” (He shoved the gun into my hand.) “Miss Macie, git outen the way. It’s Hank!”
Quick as I could, I moved to one side, so’s she wouldn’t be in range.
“Ye-e-e-oop!”
As Hank rounded the corner, he was staggerin’ some, and wavin’ his shootin’-iron. “I’m a Texas bad man,” he yelps; “I’m as ba-a-ad as they make ’em, and tough as bull beef.” Then, he went tearin’ back’ards and for’ards like he’d pull up the station platform. “Hey!” he goes on. “I’ve put alotof fellers t’ sleep with they boots on! Come ahaid if you want t’ git planted in my private graveyard!”
Next, and whilst Mace was standin’ not ten feet back of him, he seen me. He spit on his pistol hand, and started my way.
“You blamed polecat,” he hollered, “I’lllearn you t’ shoot off you’ mouth when it ain’t loaded! You’ hands ain’t mates and you’ feet don’t track, and I’m a-goin’ t’ plumb lay you out!”
I just stayed where I was. “What’s in you’ craw, anyhow?” I called back.
He didn’t answer. He let fly!
Wal, sir, I doubled up like a jack-knife, and went down kerflop. The boys got ’round me–say! talk about you’ pale-faces!–and yelled to Hank to stop. He drawed another gun, and, just as I got t’ my feet, went backin’ off, coverin’ the crowd all the time, and warnin’ ’em not t’ mix in.
They didn’t. But someone else did–Mace. Quick as a wink, she reached into a buckboard fer a whip. Next, she run straight up to Hank–and give him aturriblelick!
He dropped his pistols and put his two arms acrosst his eyes. “Mace! don’t!” he hollered. (It’d sobered him, seemed like.) Then, he turned and took to his heels.
That same second, I heerd a yell–Bergin’s voice. Next, the sheriff come tearin’ ’round the corner and tackled Hank. The two hit the ground like a thousand of brick.
Mace come runnin’ towards me, then. But the boys haided her off, and wouldn’t let her git clost.
“Blood’s runnin’ all down this side of him,” says Monkey Mike.
Shore enough, it was!
“Chub!” yells Buckshot, “git Billy Trowbridge!”
“Don’t you cry, ner nothin’,” says Hairoil t’ Mace. And whilst he helt her back, they packed me acrosst the platform and up-stairs into one of them rooms over the lunch-counter. And then, ’fore I could say Jack Robinson, they hauled my coat off, put a wet towel ’round my forrid, and put me into bed. After that, they pulled down the curtains, and bunched t’gether on either side of my pilla.
“Shucks!” I says. “I’m all right. Let me up, you blamed fools!”
Just then, Monkey Mike come runnin’ in with the parson, and the parson put out a hand t’ make me be still. “Mydearfriend,” he says, “I’msorrythis happened.” And he was so darned worried lookin’ that I begun t’ think somethin’ shorewaswrong with me, and I laid quiet.
Next, the door opened and in come Mace!
The room was so dark she couldn’t see much at first. So, she stepped closter, walkin’ soft, like she didn’t want to jar nobody. “Alec!” she says tearful.
“Macie!”
She stooped over me.
The boys turned they backs.
Aw, my dear little gal! Her lips was cold, and tremblin’.
Wal, then she turned to the bunch, speakin’ awful anxious. “Is he hurt bad?” she ast, low like.
“Naw,” I begun, “I––”
Monkey Mike edged ’twixt me and her, puttin’ one hand over my mouth so ’s I couldn’t talk. “We don’t know exac’ly,” he answers.
“Boys!” she says, like she was astin’ ’em to fergive her; and, “Alec!”
Buckshot said afterwards that itshorewas a solemn death-bed scene. The parson was back agin the wall, his chin on his bosom; I was chawin’ the fingers offen Mike, and the rest of the fellers was standin’ t’gether, laughin’ into they hats fit t’ sprain they faces.
Billy come in then. “Doc,” says Macie, “save him!”
“I’ll do all I can,” promises Billy. “Let’s hope he’ll pull through.”
“Aw, Alec!” says Mace, again.
Hairoil went up to her. “Mace,” he says, “they’s one thing you can do that’d be amightybig comfort t’ pore Cupid.”
“What’s that?” she ast, earnest as the devil. “I’ll doanythin’ fer him.”
“Marry him, Mace,” he says, “and try to nuss him back t’ health again.”
I was plumb amazed. “Marry!” I says.
But ’fore I could git any more out, Mike shut off my wind!
Dear little gal! She wasn’t skittish no more: She was so tame she’d ’a’ et right outen my hand. “Parson,” she says, goin’ towards him, “will–will you marry Alec and me–now?”
“Dee-lighted,” says the parson, “–if he is able t’ go through the ceremony.”
“Parson,” I begun, pullin’ my face loose, “I want––”
Mike give me a dig.
I looked at him.
He wunk–hard.
And then, I tumbled!
Fer a minute, I just laid back, faint shore enough, thinkin’ what a all-fired sucker I was. And whilst I was stretched out that-a-way, Mace come clost and give me her hand. The parson, he took out a little black book.
“Dearly beloved,” he begun, “we are gathered t’gether––”
It was then I sit up. “Parson, stop!” I says. And to Mace, “Little gal, I ain’t a-goin’ t’ let ’em take no advantage of you. Iwasn’thit in the side. It’s my arm, and it’s only just creased a little.”
Mace kinda blinked, not knowin’ whether t’ be glad ’r not, I reckon.
“And this hull bsuiness,” I goes on, “is a trick.”
Her haid went up, and her cheeks got plumb white. Then, she begun t’ back–slow. “A trick!” she repeats; “–it’s a trick! Aw, how mean! howmean!I didn’t think you was like that!”
“Me, Mace? It wasn’t––”
“A trick!” she goes on. “But I’m glad Ifound it out–yas. This afternoon when I was talkin’ to y’, I wanted t’ stay right here in Briggs–I wanted t’ stay with you. If you’d just said you wisht I would; if you’d just turned over you’ hand, why, I’d ’a’ give up the trip. My heart was achin’ t’ think I was goin’. But now,now–” And she choked up.
“Macie!” I says. “Aw, don’t!” Somehow I was beginnin’ t’ feel kinda dizzy and sick.
She faced the parson. “And you was in it, too!–you!” she says.
“I’d do anythin’ t’ keep you from goin’ t’ Noo York,” he answers, “and from bein’ a’ actress.”
She looked at Billy next. “The hulltownwas in it!” she went on. “Ev’rybody was ready t’ git me fooled; t’ make me the josh of the county!”
“No,no,little gal,” I answers, and got to my feet byside the bed. “Not me, honey!”
She only just turned and opened the door. “I don’t wonder the rest of you ain’t got nothin’ t’ say,” she says. “Why, I ain’t neverheerdof anythin’ so–so low.” And haid down, and sobbin’, she went out.
I tried t’ foller, but my laigs was sorta wobbley.I got just a step ’r two, and put a’ arm on Billy’s shoulder.
The boys went out then, too, not sayin’ a word, but lookin’ some sneaky.
“Bring her back,” I called after ’em. “Aw, I’ve hurt my pore little gal!” I started t’ walk again, leanin’ on the doc. “Boys!––”
Next thing, over I flopped into Billy’s arms.
When I come to, a little later on, here was Billy settin’ byside me, a’ awful sober look on his face.
“Billy,” I says to him, “where is she?”
“Cupid–don’t take it hard, ole man–she’s–she’s gone. Boarded the East-bound not half a’ hour ago. But, pardner––”
Gone!
I didn’t answer him. I just rolled over onto my face.
Wal, pore ole Sewell!Iwasn’t feelin’ dandy them days, you’d better believe. But, Sewell, he took Macie’s goin’turriblebad. Whenever he come in town, he was allus just asqui-i-et. Not a cheep about the little gal; wouldn’t ’a’ laughed fer a nickel; and never’d go anywheres nigh the lunch-counter. Then, he begun t’ git peakeder’n the dickens, and his eyes looked as big as saucers, and bloodshot. Pore ole boss!
I kept outen his way. He’d heerd all about that Shackleton business, y’ savvy, and was awful down on me; helt meresponsible fer the hull thing, and tole the boys he never wanted t’ set eyes on me again. Hairoil went to him and said I’d been jobbed, and was innocenter’n Mary’s little lamb. But Sewell wouldn’t listen even, and said I’d done him dirt.
A-course, I couldn’t go back t’ my Bar Y job, then,–and me plumb crazy t’ git to work and make enough t’ go to Noo York on! But I didn’t do no mournin’; I kept a stiff upper lip. “Cupid,” I says to myself, “allus remember that the gal that’s hard t’ ketch is the best kind when oncet you’ve got her.” And I sit down and writ the foreman of the Mulhall outfit. (By now, my arm was all healed up fine.)
Wal, when I went over to the post-office a little bit later on, the post-master tole me that Sewell’d just got a letter from Macie!–but it hadn’t seemed t’ chirp the ole man up any. And they was one fer Mrs. Trowbridge, too, he says; did I want to look at it?
“I don’t mind,” I answers.
It was from her–I’d know her little dinky l’sanywheres. I helt it fer a minute–’twixt my two hands. It was like I had her fingers, kinda. Then, “S’pose they ain’t nothin’ fer me t’day,” I says.
“No, Cupid,–sorry. Next time, I reckon.”
“Wal,” I goes on “would you mind lettin’ me take this over t’ Rose?”
“Why, no,–go ahaid.”
I went, quick as ever my laigs could carry me, the letter tucked inside my shirt.
Rose read it out loud t’ me, whilst I helt the kid. It wasn’t a long letter, but, somehow, I never could recollect afterwards just the exac’ words that was in it. I drawed, though, that Mace was havin’ away-up time. She was seein’ all the shows, she said, meetin’ slathers of folks, and had a room with a nice, sorta middle-aged lady, in a place where a lot of young fellers and gals hung out t’ study all kinds of fool business. Some of ’em she liked, and some she didn’t. Some took her fer a greeney, and some was fresh. But she was learnin’ a pile–and ’d heerd Susy’s Band!
“Is that all?” I ast when Rose was done.
“Yas, Cupid.”
“Nothin’ about me?”
“No.”
“Does she give heraddress?”
“Just Gen’ral Deliv’ry.”
“Thank y’, Rose.”
“Stay t’ dinner, Cupid. I’m goin’ t’ have chicken fricassee.”
But I didn’t feel like eatin’. I put the kid down and come away.
I made towards Dutchy’s–pretty blue, I was, a-course. “Cupid,” I says, “bad luck runs in you’ fambly like the wooden laig.”
But, mind y’, I wasn’t goin’ with the idear of boozin’ up,no,ma’am.Ifigger that if a gal’s worth stewin’ over any, she’s a hull lottoogood fer a man that gitsdrunk. I went ’cause I knowed the boys was there; and them days the boys wasmightynice to me.
Wal, this day, I’m powerful glad I went. If I hadn’t, it’s likely I’d never ’a’ got that bullypo-sition, ’r played Cupid again (without knowin’ it)–and so got the one chanst I was a-prayin’ fer.
Now, this is what happened:
I’d just got inside Dutchy’s, and was a-standin’ behind Buckshot Milliken, watchin’ him bluff the station-agent with two little pair, when I heerd Hairoil a-talkin’ to hisself, kinda. “Dear me suz!” he says (he was peerin’ acrosst the street towards the deepot), “what blamed funny things I see when I ain’t got no gun!”
A-course, we all stampeded over and took a squint. “Wal, when didthatblow in?” says Bill Rawson. And, “Say! ketch me whilst I faint!”goes on one of the Lazy X boys, making believe as if he was weak in the laigs. The rest of just haw-hawed.
A young feller we’d never seen afore was comin’ cater-corners from the station. He was a slim-Jim, sorta salla complected, jaw clean scraped, and he had on a pair of them tony pinchbug spectacles. He was rigged out fit t’ kill–grey store clothes, dicer same colour as the suit, sky-blue shirt, socks tatooed green, and gloves. He passed clost, not lookin’ ourdirection, and made fer the Arnaz rest’rant.
Just as he got right in front of it, he come short and begun readin’ the sign that’s over the door–