Eleanor Gates

Wal, pore ole Sewell! I wasn’t feelin’ dandy them days, you’d better believe. But, Sewell, he took Macie’s goin’ turrible bad. Whenever he come in town, he was allus just as qui-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 me responsible 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’s anywheres. 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’ a way-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 her address?”

“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. I figger that if a gal’s worth stewin’ over any, she’s a hull lot too good fer a man that gits drunk. I went ’cause I knowed the boys was there; and them days the boys was mighty nice to me.

Wal, this day, I’m powerful glad I went. If I hadn’t, it’s likely I’d never ’a’ got that bully po-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 did that blow 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’ our direction, 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–

Meals 25c
Start in and It’s a Habit
You cain’t Quit.

Then we seen him grin like he was turrible tickled, 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 the gall!” growls Chub Flannagan, gittin’ hot. “Goin’ t’ take a shy outen us!” And I seen that some of the other boys felt like he did.

Buckshot Milliken spit in his hands. “I’ll go over,” he says, “and just natu’lly settle that dude’s hash. I’d admire t’ do it.”

I haided him off quick. Then I faced the bunch. “Gents,” I begun, “ain’t you just a little bit hasty? Now, don’t git in a sweat. Con-sider this subject a little ’fore you act. Sam, I thought you liked t’ 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’s right, Sam,” I says, sarcastic; “go and switch him over t’ Goldstone,–when they won’t be another book writer stray down this way fer a coon’s age. Say! You got a haid like a tack!”

Sam dried up. I come back at the boys. “Gents,” I continues, “don’t you see this is Briggs City’s one big chanst?–the chanst t’ git put in red letters on the railroad maps! T’ git five square mile of this mesquite staked out into town lots! You all know how we’ve had t’ take the slack of them jay-hawk farmers over Cestos way; and they ain’t such a much, and cain’t raise nothin’ but shin-oak and peanuts and chiggers. But they tell how we git all the cyclones and rattlesnakes.

“Now, we’ll curl they hair. Listen, gents,–Oklahomaw City’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 he gits it. 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’t no showin’ off to him, and no extra dawg (’r he wouldn’t ’a’ come to a joint where meals is only two-bits). He was a book-writer, but when he talked he didn’t use no ten-dollar-a-dozen words. And, in place of seegars, he smoked cigareets–and rolled ’em hisself with one hand, by jingo!

Wal, we had a nice, long parley-voo, me gittin’ the hull sittywaytion as regards 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 could explain things, and–and be a kinda bodyguard.”

“Why, my friend,” I says, “you don’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. “And if 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’t want you 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,–not this month, anyhow. This liter’toor gent’s hired me as his book foreman. As I understand it, they’s some things he wants, and I’m to help corral ’em. He says that just now most folks seem t’ be takin’ a lot of interest in the West. He don’t reckon the fashion’ll keep up, but, a-course a book-writer has t’ git on to the band-wagon. So, it’s up t’ me, boys, to give him what’s got to be had ’fore the excitement 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. We owe it to y’, Cupid.”

“Boys,” I answers, “I appreciate what you mean, and I accept 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 is Briggs, and us.”

“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. “To continue: He mentioned characters. Course, I had to admit we’re kinda shy on them.”

“Wisht we had a few Injuns,” says Hairoil. “A scalpin’ makes mighty fine 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 you allus got 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 little hasty in 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––

“That’s tough!” we hollers, loud enough to lift the shakes.

“That’s tough!”

Mister Boston stopped byside the door. The sheriff goes on––

“That’s tough!”

It brung him. He looked in, kinda edged through the door, took a bench, and surveyed them shaps, and them guns till his eyes plumb protruded. “Rippin’!” I heerd him say.

“‘That's tough,’” repeats Monkey Mike, winkin’ to the boys. “Wal, I should remark 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, one bit is what you can take outen the other feller’s hide at one mouthful. Two bits, 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.”

“A squaw,” 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’ our direction.

“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 blistered bad the last time I et aigs.”

“Rawson, what’ll you have?”

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. But just as I was gittin’ nervous that the conversation was peterin’ out, Boston speaks up.

“Rattlesnake?” he says; “did he say rattlesnake?”

Like a shot, Rawson turned towards him, wrinklin’ his forrid and wigglin’ his moustache awful fierce. “That’s what I said,” he answers, voice plumb down to his number ’levens.

It give me my show. I drug Boston away. “Gee!” I says, “on this side of the Mississippi, you got to be keerful how you go shoot off you’ mouth! And when you remark 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’ more prepared. We took up a collection fer winda-glass, and Chub Flannagan, who can roll a gun the prettiest you ever seen, walked up and down nigh Boston’s stoppin’-place, invitin’ the fellers t’ come out and “git et up,” makin’ one ’r two of us dance the heel-and-toe when we showed ourselves, and shootin’ up the town gen’ally.

Then, fer a week, nothin’ happened.

It was just about then that Rose got another letter from Macie. And it seemed t’ me that the little gal ’d changed her tune some. She said Noo York took a turrible lot of money–clothes, and grub, and so forth and so on. Said they was so blamed little oxygen in the town that a lamp wouldn’t burn, and they’d got to use ’lectricity. And–that was all fer this time, ’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.”

“I reckon,” 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 all kinds of 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,–as usual–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 was turrible disappointed. (I reckon I was worryin’ over the book worse’n he was.) “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 a gal, and you git a story of ad-venture.”

A gal. Yas, you need a gal fer a book. And you need the gal 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’d make a figger fer a book.”

Carlota!–the little skeezicks! Y’ see, she’s aw-ful pretty. Hair blacker’n a stack of black cats. Black eyes, too,–big and friendly lookin’. (That’s where you git fooled–Carlota’s a blend of tiger-cat and bronc; she can purr ’r pitch–take you’ choice.) Her face is just snow white, with a little bit of pink–now y’ see it, now y’ don’t see it–on her cheeks, and a little spot of blazin’ red fer a mouth.

“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 a blamed enterprisin’ country,–almost any ole thing can happen out here. Did you ever hear tell how Nick Erickson got his stone fence? No? You could put that in a book. Wal, you know, Erickson lives east of here. Nice hunderd and sixty acres he’s got–level, no stones. Wanted t’ fence it. Couldn’t buy lumber ’r wire. Figgered on haulin’ stone, only stone was so blamed far t’ haul. Then,–Nature was accommodatin’. Come a’ earthquake that shook and shook the ranch. Shook all the stones to the top. Erickson picked ’em up–and built the fence.”But Boston was hard t’ satisfy. So I tried to tell him about Rose and Billy.

“No,” he says; “if they’s one thing them printin’ fellers won’t stand fer it’s a heroine that’s hitched.”

So, then, I branched off on to pore Bud Hickok.

“No,” says Boston, again; “that won’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, “you must 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’s got t’ happen. Just chaw on that.”

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’ keep some man 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 you salt–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. “Hole on! Remember this is a scheme that’s been ast fer.”

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 fer you,” 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 if that’s the kind of plot you-all ’re hankerin’ after, you can just count me outen this hawg-tyin’!”

“That’s right–sic ’em, Towser; git t’ fightin’,” I says. “Now, Bill, work you’ hole-back straps. I cain’t say as Sam’s plan hit the right spot with me, neither. ’Cause how could Carlota figger 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 just O. 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, why we was a-doin’ it, and laid out his share of the job. Then I tacked on that the gal he’d steal was Carlota.

Now, as I think about it, I recall that he looked mighty tickled. Grinned all over and said, “Me gusta mucho” more’n a dozen times. But then I didn’t pay no ’tention to how he acted. I was so glad he’d fall in with me. (The Ole Nick take the greasers! A’ out-and-out, low-down lot of sneakin’ coyotes, anyhow! And I might ’a’ 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 some experience 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, I tell y’! But I had to go put my foot in it, a-course. “Yas, you,” I goes 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. “That is it! that is 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 a book is some 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 ast him.”

“Pedro–puf!”

“In the book,” I goes on, “he’s the bad man that loves you so much he cain’t help stealin’ you.”

“I hate Pedro,” she says. “He is like that–bad.”

“But we ain’t astin’ you t’ like him, and he don’t git you. He drops you off at Johnson’s and takes a dummy the rest of the way. We want t’ make Boston think they’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 reckon they won’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. “He will 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 her eyes wasn’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 ’ll I,” 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 last EyeOpener.

“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’ in here?” 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’––

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. ’Cause lately I’d had t’ worry about Mace a good deal. Her letters had eased up a hull lot. Seems she’d been under the weather fer a few days.

When she writ again though, she said she was O. K., but a-course Noo York was lonesome when a person was sick. Op’ra prospects? Aw, they was fine!

Next thing, I was nervouser’n a cow with the heel-fly. No letters come from the little gal!–leastways, none to Rose. And ev’ry day ole man Sewell snooped ’round the post-office, lookin’ more and more down in the mouth.

“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 corral too, so’s we’d have to run fer ’em when Pedro lit out with the gal. And I’d picked that strawberry roan of Sparks’s fer Boston. It was the fastest critter on four laigs in the hull country. Y’ see, I wanted Boston t’ lead the posse.)

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’–the little 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’ her elope.”

“Wo-o-ow!” It was Sheriff Bergin. We’d got beyond the Bar Y ranch-house, and ’d gone down a slope into a kinda draw, like, and then up the far side. This ’d brung us out on to pretty high ground, and we could see, about a mile off, two hosses gallopin’ side by side. “The gal’s bronc is lame!” says the sheriff. “And Pedro’s lickin’ it. We got him! Pull you’ guns.”Guns. I got weaker’n a cat. And, all at the same time, the other fellers remembered–and such a 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 to his bronc, ’r else he was feard the critter wouldn’t carry double. Anyhow, he was behind her, everlastin’ly usin’ his quirt–and losin’ ground.

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 so excited), 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; and the 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’ fer him.)

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 looked to 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 got another surprise 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 reckon you don’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’ve talked about it–some.”

“It’s a good idear,” he goes on. “But about my 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 back alone.”