CHAPTER FOUR
CONCERIN' THE SHERIFF AND ANOTHER LITTLE WIDDA
AW! them first days out at the Bar Y ranch-house!--them first days!_No_body could 'a' been happier'n I was then.
I hit the ranch on a Friday, about six in the evenin', it was, Ireckon,--in time fer supper, anyhow. The punchers et in a room acrosstthe kitchen from where the fambly et. And I recollect that sometimesdurin' that meal, as the Chink come outen the kitchen, totin' grubto us, I just could ketch sight of Macie's haid in the far room,bobbin' over her plate. And ev'ry time I'd see her, I'd git so blamedflustered that my knife 'd miss my mouth and jab me in the jaw, 'r elseI'd spill somethin' 'r other on to Monkey Mike.
And after supper, when the sun was down, and they was just a kindahalf-light on the mesquite, and the ole man was on the east porch,smokin', and the boys was all lined up along the front of thebunk-house, clean outen sight of the far side of the yard, why, I justsorta wandered over to the calf-corral, then 'round by the barn andthe Chink's shack, and landed up out to the west, where they's a row ofcottonwoods by the new irrigatin' ditch. Beyond, acrosst about ahunderd mile of brown plain, here was the moon a-risin', bigger'na dish-pan, and a cold white. I stood agin a tree and watched it crawlthrough the clouds. The frogs was a-watchin', too, I reckon, fer theybegun to holler like the dickens, some bass and some squeaky. And then,from the other side of the ranch-house, struck up a mouth-organ:
"Sweet is the vale where the Mohawk gently glides On its fair, windin' way to the sea----"
A wait--ten seconds 'r so (it seemed longer); then, the same part ofthe song, over again, and----
Outen the side door of the porch next me come a slim, little figgerin white. It stepped down where some sun-flowers was a-growin' aginthe wall. Say! it was just sunflower high! Then it come acrosst thealfalfa--like a butterfly. And then----
"Don't you want a shawl 'round you' shoulders, honey? It's somechilly."
"No." (Did you ever see a gal that'd own up she needed a wrap?)
"Wal, you got to have _somethin'_ 'round you." And so I helt herclost, and put my hand under her chin t' tip it so's I could see herface.
"You _mustn't,_ Alec!" (She was allus shy about bein' kissed.)
"I tole Mike to give me ten minutes' lee-way 'fore he played thattune. But he must 'a' waited a hull hour." And then, with themouth-organ goin' at the bunk-house (t' keep the ole man listenin',y' savvy, and make him fergit t' look fer Mace), we rambled northbyside the ditch, holdin' each other's hand as we walked, like twokids. And the ole moon, it smiled down on us, awful friendly like, andwe smiled back at the moon.
Wal, when we figgered that Mike 'd blowed hisself plumb outen breath, westarted home again. And under the cottonwoods, the little gal reachedup her two arms t' me; and they wasn't nothin' but love in them sweet,grey eyes.
"You ain't never liked nobody else, honey?"
"No--just you, Alec!--_dear_ Alec!"
"Same here, Macie,--and this is fer keeps."
Wal, 'most ev'ry night it was just like that. And the follerin' day,mebbe I wouldn't know whether I was a-straddle of a hoss, drivin'steers, 'r a-straddle of a steer, drivin' hosses. And it's a blamedgood thing my bronc savvied how t' tend to business without _me_ doin'much!
Then, mebbe, I'd be ridin' line. Maud 'd go weavin' away up the longfence that leads towards Kansas, and at sundown we'd reach the firstline-shack. And there, with the little bronc a-pickin', and my coffeea-coolin' byside me on a bench, I'd sit out under the sky and watchthe moon--alone. Mebbe, when I got home, it 'd be ole man Sewell'slodge-night, so he'd start fer town 'long about seven o'clock, andMace and me 'd have the porch to ourselves--the side-porch, where thesun-flowers growed. But the next night, we'd meet by the ditch again,and the next, and the next. Aw! them first happy days at the ole Bar Y!
And I reckon it was just _'cause_ we was so turrible happy that we gotinter_ested_ in Bergin's case--Mace and me both. (Next t' Hairoil,Bergin's my best friend, y' savvy.) Figgerin' on how t' fix thingsup fer him--speakin' matreemonal--brung us two closter t'gether, andshowed me what a _dandy_ little pardner she was a-goin' t' make.
But I want t' say right here that we wasn't _re_-sponsible fer the waythat case of hisn turned out--and neither was _no other livin' soul.No,_ ma'am. The hull happenstance was the kind that a feller cain't_ex_plain.
It begun when I'd been out at the Sewell ranch about two weeks. (Idisremember the exac' day, but _that_ don't matter.) I'd rid intown fer somethin', and was a-crossin' by the deepot t' git it, whenI ketched sight of Bergin a-settin' on the end of a truck,--all byhisself. Now, that was funny, 'cause they wasn't a man in BriggsCity but liked George Bergin and would 'a' hoofed it a mile to talk tohim. "What's skew-gee?" I says to myself, and looked at him clost;then,--"Caesar Augustus Philabustus Hennery Jinks!" I kinda gasped,and brung up so suddent that I bit my cigareet clean in two and comenigh turnin' a somerset over back'ards.
White as that paper, he was, and nervous, and so all-fired shaky andcaved-in that they couldn't be no question what was the matter. _Thesheriff was scairt._
First off, I wasn't hardly able to believe what I seen with my own_eyes_. Next, I begun to think 'round fer the cause why. Didn't haveto think much. Knowed they wasn't a _pinch_ of 'fraid-cat in Bergin--nocrazy-drunk greaser 'r no passel of bad men, _red_ 'r white, could put_him_ in a sweat, _no,_ sir-_ree_. They was just _one_ thing on earthcould stampede the sheriff. I kinda tip-toed over to him. "Bergin," Isays, "_who is she?_"
He looked up--slow. He's a six-footer, and about as heavy-set as thebouncer over to the eatin'-house. Wal, I'm another if ev'ry squareinch of him wasn't tremblin', and his teeth was chatterin' so hardI looked to see 'em fall out--that's _straight_. Them big, blue eyesof hisn was sunk 'way back in his haid, too, and the rest of his facelooked like it 'd got in the way of the hose. "Cupid," he whispered,"you've struck it! Here--read this."
It was a telegram. Say, you know I ain't got _no_ use fer telegrams.The blamed things _allus_ give y' a dickens of a start, and, nine timesouten ten, they've got somethin' to say that no man wants to hear. ButI opened it up.
"sheriff george bergin," it read,--all little letters, y' savvy. (Say!what's the matter that they cain't send no capitals over the wire?)"briggs city oklahomaw meet mrs bridger number 201 friday phillips."
"Aw," I says, "Mrs. Bridger. Wal, Sheriff, who's this Mrs. Bridger?"
Pore Bergin just wagged his haid. "You'll have to give me a goose-aigon that one," he answers.
"Wal, who's Phillips, then?" I _con_tinued.
"The Sante Fee deepot-master at Chicago."
"Which means you needn't to worry. Mrs. Bridger is likely comin' onto boss the gals at the eatin'-house."
"If that's so, what 'd he telegraph to _me_ fer?"
"Don't know. Buck up, anyhow. I'll bet she's gone _'way_ past thepoll-tax age, and has got a face like a calf with a blab on its nose."
"Cupid," says the sheriff, standin' up, "thank y'. I feel better.Was worried 'cause I've had bad luck lately, and bad luck most allusruns in threes. Last week, my dawg died--remember that one with a bucktooth? I was turrible fond of that dawg. And yesterday----"
He stopped then, and a new crop of drops come out on to his face."Look!" he says, hoarse like, and pointed.
'Way off to the north was a little, dark, puffy cloud. It wasa-travelin' our _di_rection. Number 201!
"Gosh!" says the sheriff, and sunk down on to the truck again.
I didn't leave him. I recollected what happened that time he captured"Cud" and Andy Foster and brung 'em into town, his hat shot off andhis left arm a-hangin' floppy agin his laig. Y' see, next day, abunch of ladies--_ole_ ladies, they was, too,--tried to find him andgive him a vote of thanks. But when he seen 'em comin', he swore in adeputy--_quick_--and vamosed. Day 'r two afterwards, here he comeouten that cellar back of Dutchy's thirst-parlour, his left arm in ared bandaner, a rockin'-chair and a pilla under his right one, and alantern in his teeth!
But _this_ time,
he wasn't a-goin' to _have_ no deputy. I made up mymind to stay right byside him till he'd did his duty. Yas, ma'am.
"Cupid," he begun again, reachin' fer my fist, "Cupid, when it comesto feemales----"
_Too-oo-oot! too-oo-oot!_ Couldn't make him hear, so I just slapped himon the shoulder. Then I hauled him up, and we went down the platform towhere the crowd was.
When the train slowed down, the first thing I seen was the conductorwith a kid in his arms,--a cute kid, about four, I reckon,--a boy. Thenthe cars stopped, and I seen a woman standin' just behind them. Next,they was all out on to the platform, and the woman was holdin' the kidby one hand.
The woman was cute, too. Mebbe thirty, mebbe less, light-complected,yalla-haired, kinda plump, and about so high. Not pretty like Mace 'rCarlota Arnaz, but _mighty_ good t' look at. Blabbed calf? Say! thiswas _awful!_
"Ber-r-gin!" hollers the corn-doc.
"Bergin," I repeats, encouragin'. (Hope I never see a man look worse.He was all blue and green!)
Bergin, he just kinda staggered up. He'd had _one_ look, y' savvy. Wal,he didn't look no more. Pulled off his Stetson, though. Then he smoothedthe cow-lick over his one eye, and sorta studied the kid.
"Sheriff," goes on the corn-doc, "here's a lady that has been_con_signed to you' care. Good-bye, ma'am, it's been a pleasureto look out fer you. Good-bye, little feller," (this to the kid)."Aw-aw-awl abroad!"
As Number 201 pulled out, you can bet you' little Cupid helt on tothat sheriff! "Bergin," I says, under my breath, "fer heaven's sake,remember you' oath of office! And, _boys,_" (they was about a dozencow-punchers behind us, a-smilin' at Mrs. Bridger so hard that theyplumb laid they faces open) "you'll have us all shoved on to the tracksin a minute!"
It was the kid that helped out. He'd been lookin' up at Bergin eversince he hit the station. Now, all to oncet, he reached towards thesheriff with both his little hands--as friendly as if he'd knowed himall his life.
Y' know, Bergin's heart 's as big as a' ox. He's tender and _awful_kind, and kids like him straight off. He likes kids. So, 'fore you couldsay Jack Robinson, that Bridger young un was histed up. I nodded tohis maw, and the four of us went into the eatin'-house, where we allhad some dinner t'gether. Leastways, me and the kid and Mrs. Bridgeret. The sheriff, he just sit, not sayin' a word, but pullin' at thatcow-lick of hisn and orderin' things fer the baby. And whilst wegrubbed, Mrs. Bridger tole us about herself, and how she 'd happened tocome out Oklahomaw way.
Seems she 'd been livin' in Buffalo, where her husband was the boss ofa lumber-yard. Wal, when the kid was three years old, Bridger up anddied, not leavin' much in the way of cash fer the widda. Then she hadto begin plannin' how to git along, a-course. Chicken-ranchin' got intoher haid. Somebody said Oklahomaw was a good place. She got the nameof a land-owner in Briggs City and writ him. He tole her he had a niceforty acres fer sale--hunderd down, the balance later on. She bit--andhere she was.
"Who's the man?" I ast.
The widda pulled a piece of paper outen her hand-satchel. "FrankCurry," she answers.
Bergin give a jump that come nigh to tippin' the table over. (OleSkinflint Curry was the reason.)
"And where's the ranch?" I ast again.
"This is where." She handed me the paper.
I read. "Why, Bergin," I says, "it's that place right here belowtown, back of the section-house--the Starvation Gap Ranch."
The sheriff throwed me a quick look.
"I hope," begun the widda, leanin' towards him, "--I hope they'snothin' _agin_ the property."
Fer as much as half a minute, neither of us said nothin'. The sheriff,a-course, was turrible flustered 'cause she 'd spoke _di_rect to him,and he just jiggled his knee. _I_ was kinda bothered, too, and got somecoffee down my Sunday throat.
"Wal, as a _chicken_ ranch," I puts in fin'lly "it's O. K.,--shore_thing_. On both sides of the house--see? like this," (I took a fork andbegun drawin' on the table-cloth) "is a stretch of low ground,--aswale, like, that keeps green fer a week 'r so ev'ry year, and that'llraise Kaffir-corn and such roughness. You git the tie-houses of thesection-gang plank in front--here. But behind, you' _po_ssessionsrise straight up in to the air like the side of a house. Rogers'sButte, they call it. See it, out there? A person almost has to use aladder to climb it. On top, it's all piled with big rocks. Of amornin', the hens can take a trot up it fer exercise. The fine view'll encourage 'em to lay."
"I'm _so_ glad," says the widda, kinda clappin' her hands. "I canmake enough to support Willie and me easy. And it'll seem awful fineto have a little home all my own! I ain't never lived in the countryafore, but I know it'll be lovely to raise chickens. In pictures, thelittle bits of ones is allus so cunnin'."
Wal, I didn't answer her. What could I 'a' _said?_ And Bergin?--hecome nigh pullin' his cow-lick clean out.
By this time, that little kid had his bread-basket full. So he clumbdown outen his chair and come 'round to the sheriff. Bergin took him onto his lap. The kid lay back and shut his eyes. His maw smiled over atBergin. Bergin smiled down at the kid.
"Wal, folks," I begun, gittin' up, "I'm turrible sorry, but I gotto tear myself away. Promised to help the Bar Y boys work a herd."
"_Cupid!_" It was the sheriff, voice kinda croaky.
"Good-bye fer just now, Mrs. Bridger," (I pretended not t' hear_him_.) "So long, Bergin."
And I skedaddled.
Two minutes afterwards here they come outen the eatin'-house, the widdatotin' a basket and the sheriff totin' the kid. I watched 'em throughthe crack of Silverstein's front door, and I hummed that good ole song:
"He never keers to wander from his own fireside; He never keers to ramble 'r to roam. With his baby on his knee, He's as happy as can be-e-e, Cause they's no-o-o place like home, sweet home."
When I got back to the Bar Y, I was dead leary about tellin' Mace thatI had half a mind t' git Bergin married off. 'Cause, y' see, I'dbeen made fun of so much fer my Cupid business; and I hated t' thinkof doin' somethin' she wouldn't like. But, fin'lly, I managed t'spunk up sufficient, and _de_scribed Mrs. Bridger and the kid, and saidwhat I'd like t' do fer the sheriff.
"Alec," says the little gal, "I been tole (Rose tole me) how you liket' help couples that's in love. It's what made me first like you."
"Honey! Then you'll help me?"
"_Shore,_ I will."
I give her a whoppin' smack right on that cute, little, square chin ofhern. "You darlin'!" I says. And then I put another where it'd dothe most good.
"Alec," she says, when she could git a word in edgeways, "this widdacomin' is mighty fortu-_nate_. Bergin's too ole fer the gals at theeatin'-house. But Mrs. Bridger'll suit. Now, I'll lope down to the Gapright soon t' visit her, and you go back t' town t' see how him goin'home with her come out."
"Mace," I says, "if we _just_ can help such a fine feller t' gitsettled. But it'll be a job--a' _awful_ job. She's a nice,affection_ate_ little thing. Why, he'd be a _blamed_ sight happier.And he likes the kid----"
"Let's not count our chickens 'fore they hatch," breaks in Mace.
Wal, I hiked fer town, and found the sheriff right where he was settin'that mornin'. But, say! _he was a changed man!_ No shakin', no caved-inlook--_nothin'_ of that kind. He was gazin' thoughtful at a knot inthe deepot platform, his mouth was part way open, and they was a sortasickly grin spread all over them features of hisn.
I stopped byside him. "Wal, Sheriff," I says, inquirin'.
He sit up. "Aw--is that you, Cupid?" he ast. (I reckon I know a guiltyson-of-a-gun when I see one!)
I sit down on the other end of the truck. "Did Mrs. Bridger git settledall right?" I begun.
"Yas," he answers; "I pulled the rags outen the windas, and put somepanes of glass in----"
"_Good_ fer you, Bergin! But, thunder! the idear of her thinkin' shecan raise chickens fer a livin'--'way out here. Why, a grasshopperranch ain't _no_ place fer that little woman." (And I watched sidewaysto see how he'd take it.)
"You're right, Cupid," he s
ays. Then, after swallerin' hard, "Didyou happen t' notice how soft and kinda pinky her hands is?"
Was that the _sheriff_ talkin'? Wal, you could 'a' knocked me downwith a feather!
"Yas, Sheriff," I answers, "I noticed her pretty par_tic_ular. Andit strikes me that we needn't to worry--she won't stay on that ranch_long_. Out here in Oklahomaw, _any_ widda is in line fer another husbandif she'll take one. In Mrs. Bridger's case, it won't be just anyole hobo that comes along. She'll be able to pick and choose from agrea-a-at, bi-i-ig bunch. _I_ seen how the boys acted when she got offenthat train t'-day--and I knowed then that it wouldn't be _no_ timetill she'd marry."
The sheriff is tall, as I said afore. Wal, a kinda shiver went up anddown the hull length of him. Then, he sprung up, givin' the truck akick. "Marry! marry! marry!" he begun, grindin' his teeth t'gether."Cain't you talk nothin' _else_ but marry?"
"No-o-ow, Bergin," I says, "what diff'rence does it make t' _you?_S'pose she marries, and s'pose she don't. _You_ don't give a bean.Wal, _I_ look at it diff'rent. _I_ know that nice little kid of hernneeds the keer of a father--yas, Bergin, the keer of a _father._" And Ilooked him square in the eye.
"It's _just_ like Hairoil says," he went on. "If Doc Simpson wast' use a spy-glass on _you,_ he'd find you plumb alive with_bugs_--_marryin'_ bugs. _Yas,_ sir. With you, it's a _disease._"
"_Wal,_" I answers, "don't git anxious that it's ketchin'. You?Huh! If I had anythin' _agin_ the widda, I _might_ be a-figgerin' onhow t' hitch her up t' _you_--you ole _woman-hater!_"
"The best thing _you_ can do, Mister Cupid," growls Bergin (with a fewcuss words throwed in), "is to _mind-you'-own-business._"
"All right," I answers cheerful. "_I_ heerd y'. But, I never couldsee why you fellers are so down on me when I _ad_vise marryin'. Take myword fer it, Sheriff, _any_ man's a heap better off with a nice wifeto look after his shack, and keep it slicked up, and a nice baby 'r twot' pull his whiskers, and I reckon----"
But Bergin was makin' fer the freight shed, two-forty.
When I tole Mace what'd passed 'twixt me and the sheriff, she says,"Alec, leave him alone fer a while, and mebbe he'll look _you_ up. Inlove affairs, don't never try t' drive _nobody._"
"But ain't it funny," I says (it was lodge night, and we had the porchto ourselves), "--ain't it funny how dead set some fellers is aginmarryin'--the blamed fools! Y' see, they think that if they _don't_hitch up t' some sweet gal, why, they git ahaid of somebody. It makesme plumb sick!"
"But think of the lucky gal that don't marry such a yap," says Mace."If she _was_ to, by some hook 'r crook, why, he'd throw it up toher fer the balance of his life that she'd ketched him like a rat ina trap."
"_I_ never could git no such notion about you," I says; "aw, littlegal, we'll be _so_ happy, you and me, won't we, honey,----"
Wal, to _con_tinue with the Bridger story: You recollect what I saidabout that kid needin' a father? Wal, say! if he'd 'a' wanted one,he shore could 'a' picked from plenty of can_di_-dates. Why, 'forelong, ev'ry bach in town had his cap set fer Mrs. Bridger--that's_straight_. All other subjects of _po_lite conversation was fergotbyside the subject of the widda. Sam Barnes was in love with her, andwent 'round with that red face of hisn lookin' exac'ly like thefull moon when you see it through a sandstorm. Chub Flannagan was inlove with her, too, and 'd sit by the hour on Silverstein's frontporch, his pop eyes shut up tight, a-rockin' hisself back'ards andfor'ards, back'ards and for-'ards, and a-hummin'. Then, they wasDutchy's brother, August. Aw, he had it _bad_. And took t' music, justlike Chub, yas, ma'am. Why, that feller spent _hours_ a-knockin' thewind outen a' pore accordion. And next come Frank Curry--haid overheels, too, _mean_ as he was, and to hear him talk you'd 'a' bet theywasn't _nothin'_ he wouldn't 'a' done fer Mrs. Bridger. But bigtalk's cheap, and he was small potatoes, _you_ bet, and few in the hill.
Wal, one after the other, them four fellers blacked they boots, wet theyhair down as nice and shiny as Hairoil's, and went to see the widda.She ast 'em in, a-course, and was neighbourly; fed 'em, too, if it wasnigh meal-time, and acted, gen'ally speakin', as sweet as pie.
But she treated 'em all _alike_. And they knowed it. _Con_sequently, inorder so's all of 'em would git a' even chanst, and so's theywouldn't be no gun-play account of one man tryin' to cut another out bygoin' to see her twicet to the other man's oncet, the aforesaid boysfixed up a calendar. Sam got Monday, Curry, Wednesday, Dutch August,Friday, and Chub, Sunday afternoons. That tickled Chub. He owns aliv'ry-stable, y' savvy, and ev'ry week he hitched up a rig and tookthe widda and her kid fer a buggy ride.
And, Bergin? Wal, I'd took Macie's _ad_vice and stayed away from him.But--the stay-away plan hadn't worked worth a darn. The sheriff, hekept to his shack pretty steady. And one mornin', when I seen him atthe post-office, he didn't have nothin' t' say to nobody, and lookedsorta down on creation.
That fin'lly riled Mace. "What's the _matter_ with him?" she saysone day. "Why, havin' saw the widda, how can he _help_ fallin' in lovewith her! She's the _nicest_ little woman! And she's learned me a newcrochet stitch."
"Little gal," I answers, "you' idear has been carried outfaithful--and has gone fluey. Wal, let Cupid have a try. A-course, Iwas sit on pretty hard in that confab I had with him, but, all thesame, I'll just happen 'round fer a little neighbourly call."
His shack was over behind the town cooler, and stood by itself,kinda--a' ashes dump on one side of it and Sparks's hoss-corral onthe other. It had one room, just high enough so's Bergin wouldn'tcrack his skull, and just wide enough so's when he laid down on hisbunk he wouldn't kick out the side of the house. And they was arusty stove with a dictionary toppin' it, and a saddle and a fryin'-panon the bed, and a big sack of flour a-spillin' into a pair of his boots.
I put the fryin'-pan on the floor, and sit down. "Wal, Sheriff,"I begun (he had a skittle 'twixt his knees and was a-peelin' somespuds fer his dinner), "I ain't come t' sponge offen you. Me andMacie Sewell had our dinner down to Mrs. Bridger's t'-day."
He let slip the potato he was peelin', and it rolled under the stove."Yas?" he says; "that so?"
"And _such_ a dinner as she give us!" I goes on. "Had a white oilclothon the table,--white, with little blue vi'lets on it--and all herdishes is white and blue. She brung 'em from Buffalo. And we had friedchicken, and corn-dodgers, and prune somethin'-'r-other. Say! I--Is'pose _you_ ain't been down."
"No,"--kinda wistful, and eyes on his peelin'--"no. How--how is she?"
"Aw, _fine!_ The kid, he ast after you."
"Did he?" He looked up, awful tickled. Then, "He's a nice, littlekid," he adds thoughtful.
"He _shore_ is." I riz. "Sorry," I says, "but I got to mosey now.Promised Mrs. Bridger I'd take her some groceries down." I started out,all business. But I stopped at the door. "Reckon I'll have to make twotrips of it--if I cain't git someone t' help me."
Say! it was plumb pitiful the way Bergin grabbed at the chanst. "Why,_I_ don't mind takin' a stroll," he answers, gittin' some red. Sohe put down the spuds and begun to curry that cowlick of hisn.
First part of the way, he walked as spry as me. But, as we come closterto the widda's, he got to hangin' back. And when we reached a big pileof sand that was out in front of the house--he balked!
"Guess I won't go in," he says.
"O. K.," I answers. (No use to cross him, y' savvy, it'd only 'a'made him worse.)
When I knocked, and the widda opened the door, she seen him.
"Why, how d' you do!" she called out, lookin' mighty pleased."Willie, dear, here's Mister Bergin."
"How d' do," says the sheriff.
Willie come nigh havin' a duck-fit, he was so happy. And in about twoshakes of a lamb's tail, he was outen the house and a-climbin' thesheriff.
Inside, I says to Mrs. Bridger, "Them chickens of yourn come, ma'am.And Hairoil Johnson'll drive 'em down in a' hour 'r so. The most of'em looked fat and sassy, but one 'r two has got the pip."
She didn't act like she'd heerd me. She was watchin' the sandpile.
"One 'r two has got the pip," I repeats.
"What?--how's that?" she ast.
"Don't worry about you' boy," I says. "Bergin'll look after him.Y' know, Bergin is one of the whitest gents in Oklahomaw."
"_I_ ain't a-worryin'," answers the widda. "_I_ know Mister Berginis a fine man." And she kept on lookin' out.
"In this wild country," I begun, voice 'way down to my spurs, "--thiswild country, full of rattlesnakes and Injuns and tramps, ev'ry ranchneeds a good man 'round it."
She turned like lightnin'. "What you mean?" she ast, kinda short.(Reckon she thought _I_ was tryin' t' spark her.)
"A man like Bergin," I _con_tinues.
"Aw," she says, plumb relieved.
And I left things that-a-way--t' sprout.
Walkin' up the track afterwards, I remarked, casual like, that theywasn't _many_ women nicer 'n Mrs. Bridger.
"They's _one_ thing I like about her," says the sheriff, "--she'sgot eyes like the kid."
(Dang the kid!)
Wal, me and Macie and them four sparkers wasn't the only folks thatthought the widda was mighty nice. She'd made lots of friends at thesection-house since she come. The section-boss's wife said they was_no_body like her, and so did all the greaser women at the tie-camp.She was so handy with a needle, and allus ready to cut out calicodingusses that the peon gals could sew up. When they'd have one ofthem everlastin' fiestas of theirn, she'd make a big cake and a kegof lemonade, and pass it 'round. And when you _con_sider that a ten-centpackage of cigareets and a smile goes further with a Mexican thanfifty plunks and a cuss, why, you can git some idear of how that hulloutfit just _worshipped_ her.
Wal, they got in and done her a _lot_ of good turns. Put up a finechicken-coop, the section-boss overseein' the job; and, one Sunday,cleaned out her cellar. _Think_ of it! (Say! fer a man to appreciatethat, he's got to know what lazy critters greasers is.) Last of all,kinda to wind things up, the cholos went out into the mesquite andcome back with a present of a nice black-and-white Poland China hawg.
Wal, she _was_ tickled at that, and so was the kid. (Hairoil Johnson wasshy a pig that week, but you bet _he_ never let on!) The gang made a nicelittle pen, usin' ties, and ev'ry day they packed over some feed inthe shape of the camp leavin's.
The widda was settled fine, had half a dozen hens a-settin' and somecastor beans a-growin' in the low spots next her house, when thingsbegun to come to a haid with the calendar gents. I got it straight fromher that in just one solitary week, she collected four pop-the-questions!
She handed out exac'ly that many pairs of mittens--handed 'em outwith such a sorry look in them kind eyes of hern, that the courtin'quartette got worse in love with her 'n ever. Anybody could a' seen_that_ with one eye. They all begun shavin' twicet a week, most ev'ryone of 'em bought new things to wear, and--best sign of _any_--theystopped drinkin'! Ev'ry day 'r so, back they'd track to visit thewidda.
She didn't like that fer a cent. Wasn't nary one of 'em that suitedher, and just when the chickens 'r the cholo gals needed her, here wasa Briggs City galoot a-crossin' the yard.
"Sorry," she says to Macie, "but I'll have to give them gents theywalkin'-papers. If I don't, I won't never git a lick done."
"Bully fer you!" Mace answers. "It'll be good riddance of badrubbish. They're too gally." (Somethin' like that, anyhow.) "Learn'em to act like they was civylised. But, say, Mrs. Bridger, you--youain't a-goin' to give the rinky-dink to the Sheriff?"
"Mister Bergin," answers the widda, "ain't bothered me none." (Macewas shore they was tears in her eyes.)
"Aw--_haw!_" I says, when the little gal tole me. _I_ savvied.
That same afternoon, whilst the widda was a-settin' on the shady sideof the house, sewin' on carpet-rags, up come Sam Barnes. (It was Monday.)
"Mrs. Bridger," he begun, "I'm a-goin' to ast you to think over whatI said to you last week. I don't want to be haidstrong, but I'd liketo git a 'yas' outen you."
"Mister Barnes," she says. "I'm feard I cain't say yas. I ain'tthinkin' of marryin'. But if I was, it'd be to a man that's--that'sbig, and tall, and has blue eyes." And she looked out at the sand-pile,and sighed.
"Wal," says Sam, "I reckon I don't fit specifications." And he hikedfer town.
He was plumb huffy when he tole me about it. "Fer a woman," he says,"that's got to look after herself, and has a kid on her hands to boot,she's got more airs'n a windmill."
Next!
That was Chub.
Now, Chub, he knowed a heap about handlin' a gun, and I reckon he'dpass as a liv'ry-stable keeper, but he didn't know much about _women_.So, when he went down to ast the widda fer the second time, he put hisfoot in it by bein' kinda short t' little Willie.
"Say, kid," he says, "you locate over in that rockin'-chair yonder.Young uns of you' age should be saw and not heerd."
Mrs. Bridger, she sit right up, and her eye-winkers just snapped."Mister Flannagan," she Says, "I'm feard you're wastin' you'time a-callin' here. If ever I marry again, it's goin' t' be a manthat's fond of childern."
Wal, ta-ta, Chub!
And, behind, there was the widda at the winda, all eyes fer thatsand-pile.
We never knowed what she said to Dutchy's brother, August. But he comeback to town lookin' madder'n a wet hen. "Huh!" he says, "I don'tvant her _no_how. _She_ couldn't vork. She's pretty fer _nice,_ allright, but she's nichts fer stoudt."
When ole stingy Curry tried _his_ luck over, he took his lead fromChub's _ex_perience. Seems he put one arm 'round the kid, and then hesaid no man could kick about havin' to adopt Willie, and he knowed thatwith Mrs. Bridger it was "love me, love my dawg." Then he tacked onthat the boy was a nice little feller, and likely didn't eat much.
"And long's I ain't a-goin' to marry you," says the widda, "why,just think--you won't have to feed Willie at all!"
But the next day we laughed on the other side of our face. I went downto Mrs. Bridger's, the sheriff trailin', (he balked half-way from thesand-pile to the door, this time, and sit down on a bucket t' play hewas Willie's steam-injine), and I found that the little woman had beencryin' turrible.
"What's the matter?" I ast.
"Nothin'," she says.
"Yas, they is. Didn't you git a dun t'-day?"
"Wal," she answers, blushin', "I bought this place on tick.But," (brave as the dickens, she was) "I'll be able t' pay up allright--what with my chickens and the pig."
I talked with her a good bit. Then me and the sheriff started back totown. (Had to go slow at first; Bergin'd helt the ingineer on his kneetill his foot was asleep.) On the way, I mentioned that dun.
"_Curry,_" says the sheriff. And he come nigh rippin' up the railroadtracks.
He made fer Curry's straight off. "What's the little balance due onthat Starvation Gap property?" he begun.
"What makes you ast?" says Curry, battin' them sneaky little eyes ofhisn.
"I'm _pre_pared t' settle it."
"But it happens I didn't sell to _you_. So, a-course, I cain't takeyou' money. Anyhow, I don't think the widda is worryin' much. Shecould git shet of that balance easy." And he moseyed off.
She could git shet of it by marryin' _him,_ y' savvy--the polecat!
The sheriff was boilin'. "Here, Cupid," he says, "is two hunderd.Now, we'll go down to Mrs. Bridger's again, and you offer her as muchas she wants."
"Offer it you'self."
"No, _you_ do it, Cupid,--please. But don't you tell her whose moneyit is."
"I won't. Here's where we git up The Ranchers' Loan Fund."
I coaxed Bergin as far as the front step _this_ time. Wasn't that fine?But, say! Mrs. Bridger wouldn't touch a cent of that money, no ma'am.
"If I was to take it as a loan," she says, "I'd have interest to pay.So I'd be worse off 'n I am now. And I couldn't take it in no otherway. Thank y', just the same. And how's Miss Sewell t'-day?"
It wasn't no use fer me to tell her that The Ranchers' Loan Funddidn't want no interest. She was as set as Rogers's Butte.
During the next week '
r two, the sheriff and me dropped down to thewidda's frequent. I'd talk to her--about chicken-raisin'mostly--whilst Bergin 'd play with the kid. One day I got him to come_as far as the door!_ But I never got him no further. There he stuck,and 'd stand on the sill fer hours, lookin' out at Willie--like agreat, big, scairt, helpless calf.
At first the widda talked to him, pleasant and encouragin'. But whenhe just said, "Yas, ma'am," and "No, ma'am," and nothin' else,she changed. I figger ('cause women is right funny) that her pridewas some hurt. What if he _was_ bound up in the boy? Didn't he haveno interest in _her?_ It hurt her all the worse, mebbe, 'cause I wasthere, and seen how he acted. 'Fore long she begun to git plumb outenpatience with him. And one day, when he was standin' gazin' out, sheflew up.
"George Bergin," she says, "a door is somethin' else 'cept a placeto scratch you back on." And she shut it--him outside, plumb squshed!
Wal, we'd did our best--both Mace and me--and fell down. But right hereis where somethin' better'n just good luck seemed to take a-holtof things. In the first place, _con_siderin' what come of it, it shorewas fortu_nate_ that Pedro Garcia, one of them trashy section-gangcholos, was just a-passin' the house as she done that. He heerd theslam. He seen the look on Bergin's face, too. And he fixed up whatwas the matter in that crazy haid of hisn.
In the second place, the very _next_ day, blamed if Curry didn't huntBergin up. "Sheriff," he begun, "I ain't been able to collect what'sdue me from Mrs. Bridger. She ain't doin' nothin' with the property,neither. So I call on you to put her off." And he helt out a paper.
_Put her off!_ Say! You oughta saw Bergin's face!
"Curry," he says, "in Oklahomaw, a dis-_po_ssess notice agin a widdaain't worth the ink it's drawed with."
"Ain't it?" says Curry. "You mean you won't act. All right. If youwon't, they's other folks that _will._"
"_Will_ they," answers the sheriff, quiet. But they was a fightin'look in his eyes. "Curry, go slow. Don't fergit that the Gap propertyain't worth such a hull lot."
The next thing, them cholos in the section-gang 'd heerd what Berginwas ordered to do. And, like a bunch of idjits, 'stead of gittin' downon Curry, who was _re_sponsible, they begun makin' all kinds of bragsabout what they'd do when next they seen the sheriff. And it looked tome like gun-play was a-comin'.
But not just yet. Fer the reason that the sheriff, without sayin' "I,""Yas," 'r "No" to nobody, all of a suddent _disappeared_.
"What in the dickens has struck him!" I says t' Mace.
"Just you wait," she answers. "It's got t' do with Mrs. B. He ain'tdown in a cellar _this_ time."
Wal, he wasn't. But we was in the dark as much as the rest of the town,till one evenin' when the section-boss called me to one side. He hadsomethin' t' tell me, he said. Could I keep a secret--cross my heartt' die? Yas. Wal, then--what d' you think it was? _The sheriff wascamped right back of the widda's_--_on Rogers's Butte!_
"Pardner," I says, "don't you cheep that to another soul. Bergin isup there t' keep Curry from puttin' the widda out."
The section-boss begun to haw-haw. "It'd take a hull regiment ofsoldiers to put the widda out," he says, "--with them greasers ofmine so clost."
"I'll go down that way on a kinda scout," I says, and started off.When I got clost to the widda's,--about as far as from here to thathitchin'-post yonder--I seen a crowd of women and kids a-lookin' atsomethin' behind the house. I walked up and stretched _my_ neck. Andthere in that tie-pen was a' even dozen of new little pigs!
"Ma'am," I says, "this _is_ good luck!"
"Good luck?" repeats the widda. "I reckon it's somethin' more'njust good luck." (Them's _exac'ly_ her words--"Somethin' more'njust good luck.")
"Wal," I goes on, "oncet in a while, a feller's got to _ad_mit thatsomethin' better'n just or-d'nary good luck _does_ git in a whack.Mebbe it'll be the case of a gezaba that ain't acted square; firstthing you know, _his_ hash is settled. Next time, it's exac'ly the_other_ way 'round, and some nice lady 'r gent finds theyselves landednot a' inch from where they wanted to be. But neither case cain't becalled just good _luck, no,_ ma'am. Fer the reason that the contraryfacts is plumb shoved in you' face.
"Now, take what happened to Burt Slade. Burt had a lot of potatoesready to plant--about six sacks of 'em, I reckon. The ground was ready,and the sacks was in the field. Wal, that night, a blamed ornery thiefcome 'long and stole all them potatoes. (This was in Nebraska, mindy'. Took 'em fifty mile north and planted 'em clost to his house.So far, you might call it just _bad_ luck. _But_--a wind come up, a_turrible_ wind, and blowed all the dirt offen them potatoes; next, itlifted 'em and sent 'em a-kitin' through the windas of that thief'shouse--yas, ma'am, it took 'em in at the one side, and outen theother, breakin' ev'ry blamed pane of glass; then--I'm another if itain't so!--it sailed 'em all that fifty mile back to Slade's anddruv 'em into the ground that he'd fixed fer 'em. And when theysprouted, a little bit later on that spring, Slade seen _they'd beenplanted in rows!_
"They ain't no doubt about this story bein' _true_. In the firstplace, Slade ain't a man that'd lie; in the second place, ev'rybodyknows his potatoes was _stole,_ and ev'rybody knows that, just thesame, he had a powerful big crop that year; and, then, Slade can showyou his field any time you happen to be in that part of Nebraska. And noman wants any better proof'n _that._"
"A-_course,_ he don't," says the widda. "And I'd call that potatotransaction plumb wonderful."
"It shore was."
She turned back to the hawgs. "I can almost see these little pigsgrow," she says, "and I'm right fond of 'em a'ready. I--I hopenothin' bad'll happen to 'em. I'm a little nervous, though.'Cause--have you noticed, Mister Lloyd?--_they's just thirteen pigs inthat pen._"
"Aw, thirteen ain't never hurt nobody in Oklahomaw," I says. And Iwhistled, and knocked on wood.
"Anyhow, I'm happy," she goes on, "I'm better fixed than I been fera coon's age."
"The eatin'-house 'll buy ev'ry one of these pigs at a good price,"I says, leanin' on the pen till I was well nigh broke in two, "theybein' pen-fed, and not just _common_ razor-backs. That'll mean fiftydollars--mebbe more. Why, it's like _findin'_ it!"
"These and the chickens," she says, "'ll pay that balance, and" (hervoice broke, kinda, and she looked over to where pore little Willie wastryin' to play injine all by hisself) "without the help of _no_ man."
I looked up at the Butte. Was that black speck the sheriff? And wasn'this heart a-bustin' fer her? Wal, it shore was a fool sittywaytion!
"The section-hands is turrible tickled about these pigs," _con_tinuesMrs. Bridger. "They come over this mornin' t' see how the fambly wasdoin', and they named the hull litter, beginnin' with Carmelita, andending' with Polky Dot."
You couldn't 'a' blamed _no_body fer bein' proud of them littlepigs. They was smarter 'n the dickens, playin' 'round, and kickin'up they heels, and _squee-ee-eelin'_. All black and white they was,too, and favoured they maw strong. Ev'ry blamed one had a pink snootand a kink in its tail, and reg'lar rolly buckshot eyes. And fat!--say,no josh, them little pigs was so fat they had double chins--just onechin right after another--from they noses plumb back to they hind laigs!
But you never can gamble on t'-morra. And the widda, countin' as shedid on them pigs, had to find that out. A-course, if she'd been a'Irish lady, she'd 'a' just natu'lly _took_ to ownin' a bunch ofhawgs, and she'd 'a' likely penned 'em closter to the house. Thennothin' would 'a' hurt 'em. Again, mebbe it _would_--if the hullthing that happened next was accidentally a-purpose. And I reckon thatshore was the truth of it.
But I'm a-goin' too fast.
It was the mornin' after the Fourth of July. (That was why I was intown.) I was in the Arnaz bunk-house, pullin' on my coat, just aforedaylight, when, all of a suddent, right over Rogers's Butte, somethin'popped. Here, acrosst the sky, went a red ball, big, and as bright as ifit was on fire. As it come into sight, it had a tail of light a-hangin'to it. It dropped at the foot of the butte.
First off, I says, "More celebratin'." Next, I says, "Curry!"--ands
treaked it fer the widda's.
'Fore I was half-way, I heerd hollerin'--the scairt hollerin' of womenand kids. Then I heerd the grumble of men's voices. I yelled myself,hopin' some of the boys 'd hear me, and foller. "Help! help!" I letout at the top of my lungs, and brung up in Mrs. Bridger's yard.
It was just comin' day, and I could see that section-gang all collectedt'gether, some with picks, and the rest with heavy track tools. Allthe greaser women was there, too, howlin' like a pack of coy_o_tes.Whilst Mrs. Bridger had the kid in her arms, and her face hid in hislittle dress.
"What's the matter?" I screeched--_had_ t' screech t' git _heerd_.
The cholos turned towards me. (Say! You talk about mean faces!)"Diablo!" they says, shakin' them track tools.
Wal, it shore looked like the Ole Harry 'd done it! 'Cause right wherethe pig-pen used to was, I could see the top of a grea-a-at, whoppin'rock, half in and half outen the ground, and _smokin' hot_. Prettynigh as big as a box-car, it was. Wal, as big as a wagon, _any_how.But neither hide 'r hair of them pigs!
I walked 'round that stone.
"My friend," I says to the section-boss, "the maw-pig made justthirteen. It's a proposition you cain't beat."
Them cholos was all quiet now, and actin' as keerful as if that rockwas dynamite. Queer and shivery, they was, about it, and it kinda giveme the creeps.
Next, they begun pointin' up to the top of the Butte!
I seen what was comin'. So I used my haid--quick, so's to stave offtrouble. "Mebbe, boys," I says, lookin' the ground over some more,"--mebbe they was a cyclone last night to the north of here, and thisblowed in from Kansas."
The section-boss walked 'round, studyin'. "I'm from Missoura," hesays, "and it strikes _me_ that this rock looks kinda familiar, likeit was part iron. Now, mebbe they's been a thunderin' big _ex_plosionin the Ozark Mountains. But, Mrs. Bridger, as a native son of the oleState, I don't want to _ad_vise you to sue fer da----"
I heerd them cholos smackin' they lips. I looked where they waslookin', and here, a-comin' lickety-split, was the sheriff!
That section-boss was as good-natured a feller as ever lived, and neverliked t' think bad of _no_ man. But the minute he seen Bergin racin'down offen that Butte, he believed like the peons did. He turned t' me."By George!" he says--just like that.
Wal, sir, that "By George" done it. Soon as the Mexicans heerd himspeak out what _they_ thought, they set up a Comanche yell, and, with thewhites of they eyes showin' like a nigger's, they made towards thesheriff on the dead run.
He kept a-comin'. Most men, seein' a passel of locoed greasers makin'towards 'em with pickaxes, would 'a' turned and run, figgerin' thatleg-bail was good enough fer _them_. But the sheriff, he wasn't scairt.
A second, and the Mexicans 'd made a surround. He pulled his gun. Theyjerked it outen his hand. He throwed 'em off.
I drawed _my_ weapon.
Just then--"Sheriff! sheriff!" (It was the widda, one hand helt outtowards him.)
A great idear come to me then. I put my best friend back into my pocket."I won't interfere fer a while yet," I says to myself. "Mebbe thisis where they'll be a show-down."
"Cupid," says Bergin, "what's the matter?"
I fit my way to him. "They think you throwed this rock, here," Ianswers.
"The low-down, ornery, lay-in-the-sun-and-snooze good-fer-nothin's islikely t' think 'most _any_ ole thing," he says. "Pedro, let go myarm."
Just then, one of the cholos come runnin' up with a rope!
The section-boss seen things was gittin' pretty serious. He begun towrastle with the feller that had the rope. Next, all the women and kidsset up another howlin', Mrs. Bridger cryin' the worst. But I wasn'tready to play my last card. I stepped out in front of the gang and heltup my hand.
"Boys," I says; "_boys! Give_ the man a chanst t' talk. Why, thisrock ain't like the rocks on the Butte."
"You blamed idjits!" yells Bergin. "Use you' haids! How could _I_'a' hefted the darned thing?"
"Aw, he _couldn't_ 'a' done it!" (This from the widda, mindy',--hands t'gether, and comin' clost.)
"Thank y', little woman," says the sheriff.
(Say! that was _better_.)
"_He pulled his gun, they jerked it outen hishand_"]
But the cholos wasn't a-foolin'--they was in dead earnest. Next minute,part of 'em grabbed Bergin, got that rope 'round him, and begundraggin' him towards a telegraph pole.
I was some anxious, but I knowed enough to hole back a while more.
"Aw, boys," begged the widda, droppin' Willie and runnin' 'longside,"don't hurt him! _don't!_ What does the pigs matter?"
"I'll discharge ev'ry one of you," says the section-boss.
"Boys," I begun again, "_why_ should this gent want to harm this lady.Why, I can tell you----"
Pedro Garcia stuck his black fist into my face. "He lof her," he says,"and she say no. So he iss revenge hisself." (Say! the grammar theyuse is plumb fierce.)
"He iss revenge hisself!" yells the rest of the bunch. Then they alllooked at the widda.
"Boys," she sobs, "I ain't _never_ refused him. Fer a good reason--heain't never ast me."
(The cholos, they just growled.)
"_What?_" I ast, turnin' on Bergin like I was hoppin'. "You loveher, and yet you ain't never ast her to marry you? Wal, you blamedbottle of ketchup, you _oughta_ die!"
"How _could_ I ast her?" begun the sheriff. "She plumb hates the sightof me."
"I don't! I don't!" sobs the widda. "Mister Lloyd knows that ain'tso. Willie and me, we--we----"
"Y' _see?_" I turned to the Mexicans. "He loves her; she loves him.We're a-goin' to have a weddin', not a hangin'."
"The stone--he iss revenge," says Pedro.
"The stone," I answers, "come outen the sky. It's a mete'rite."
"I felt it hit!" cries the widda.
Wal, you couldn't expect a Mexican t' swaller _that_. So we'd nomore'n got the words outen our mouths when they begun to dance 'roundBergin again with the halter.
Wal, how do you think it come out?
Mebbe you figger that Mrs. Bridger drawed a knife and sa-a-aved him,'r I pulled my gun and stood there, tellin' 'em they 'd only hangthe sheriff over my dead body. But that ain't the way it happened. No,ma'am. _This_ is how:
'Round the bend from towards Albuquerque come the pay-car. Now, thepay-car, she stops just one minute fer ev'ry section-hand, and themsection-hands was compelled to git into line and be quick about it, 'rnot git they money. So they didn't have no spare time. They let go ofBergin's rope and run--the section-boss leadin'.
The sheriff, he slung the rope to one side--and the widda goes into hisarms. "Little woman," he says, lookin' down at her, "I'll--I'llbe a good father to the boy." Then he kissed her.
(Wal, that's about all you could reas'nably expect from _Bergin_.)
Next thing, he borraed my gun and just kinda happened over towards thepay-car. And when a cholo got his time and left the line, he showed himthe way he was to go. And you bet he _minded!_
Wal, things come out _fine_. A big museum in Noo York bought that rock(If you don't believe it, just go to that museum and you'll see ita-settin' out in front--big as life.) A-course, Mrs. Bridger got a nicelittle pile of money fer it, and paid Curry the balance she owed him.Then, the sheriff got Mrs. Bridger!
And the bunch that didn't git her? Wal, the bunch that didn't git herjust natu'lly got _left!_
Alec Lloyd, Cowpuncher Page 4