Up to the day of the sheriff’s weddin’, I reckon I was about the happiest feller that’s ever been in these parts. Gee! but I was in high spirits! It’d be Macie’s and my turn next, I figgered, and if the ole man didn’t like it, he could just natu’lly lump it. So when I walked through Briggs, why, I hit both sides of the street, exac’ly as if I was three sheets in the wind.

But–this was one time when you’ friend Cupid was just a little bit too previous. And I want to say right here that no feller needs to think he’s the hull shootin’-match with a gal, and has the right-a-way, like a wild-cat ingine on a’ open track, just ’cause she’s ast him to write in her autograph-album. It don’t mean such a blamed lot, neither, if his picture is stuck ’longside of hern on top of the organ. Them signs is encouragin’, a-course; but he’d best take his coat off and git to work. Even when she’s give all the others the G. B., and has gone to church with him about forty Sunday evenin’s, hand runnin’, and has allus saved him the grand march and the last waltz at the Fireman’s Ball, and mebbe six ’r seven others bysides, why, even then it’s a toss-up. Yas, ma’am. It took hard knocks t’ learn me that they’s nothin’ dead certain short of the parson’s “amen.”

Y’ see, you can plug a’ Injun, and kick a dawg, and take a club to a mule; but when it’s a gal, and a feller thinks a turrible lot of her, and she’s so all-fired skittish he cain’t manage her, and so eludin’ he cain’t find her no two times in the same place, what’s he goin’ to do? Wal, they ain’t no reg’lar way of proceedin’–ev’ry man has got to blaze his own trail.

But I couldn’t, and that was the hull trouble. I know now that when it come to dealin’ with Mace, I shore was a darned softy. That little Muggins could twist me right ’round her finger–and me not know it! One minute, she’d pallaver me fer further orders, whilst I’d look into them sweet eyes of hern till I was plumb dizzy; the next, she’d be cuttin’ up some dido ’r other and leadin’ me a’ awful chase.Then, mebbe, I’d git sore at her, and think mighty serious about shakin’ the Bar Y dust offen my boots fer good. “Cupid,” I’d say to myself, “git you’ duds t’gether, and do you’ blankets up in you’ poncho.”

Just about then, here she come lopin’ home from town, her hoss cuttin’ up like Sam Hill, and her a-settin’ so straight and cute. She’d look towards the bunk-house, see me, motion me over with her quirt, and–wal, a-course, I’d go.

I made my first big beefsteak at the very beginnin’. Somehow ’r other, right from the minute we had our confidential talk t’gether back of Silverstein’s, that last night of the Medicine Show. I got it into my fool haid that I as good as had her, and that all they was left to be did was t’ git ’round the ole man. Wal, this idear worked fine as long as we was so busy with Bergin’s courtin’. But when the sheriff was hitched, and me and the little gal got a recess, my! my! but a heap of things begun t’ happen!

They started off like this: The parson wanted money fer t’ buy some hymn-books with. So he planned a’ ice-cream social and entertainment, and ast Mace to go down on the program fer a song. She was willin’; I was, too. So far, ev’ry-thin’ smooth as glare-ice.

But fer a week afore that social, they was a turrible smell of gasoline outside the sittin’-room of the Bar Y ranch-house. That’s ’cause Doctor Bugs come out ev’ry day–to fetch a Goldstone woman from the up-train. (That blamed sulky of hisn ’d been stuck t’gether with flour paste by now, y’ savvy, and was in apple-pie order.) After the woman ’d git to the ranch-house, why, the organ ’d strike up. Then you could hear Macie’s voice–doin’, “do, ray, me.” Next, she’d break loose a-singin’. And pretty soon the doc and the woman ’d go.

Wal, I didn’t like it. Y’ see, I’ve allus noticed that if a city feller puts hisself out fer you a hull lot, he expects you t’ give him a drink, ’r vote fer him, ’r loan him some money. And why was Bugsey botherin’ t’ make so many trips to the Bar Y? I knowed what it was. It was just like Hairoil ’d said–he wanted my Macie.

One night, I says to her, “What’s that Goldstone woman doin’ out here so much, honey?”

“Givin’ me music lessons,” she answers.

“I know,” I says. “But you don’t need no lessons. You sing good enough t’ suit me right now.”

“Wal, I don’t sing good enough t’ suit myself. And bein’ as I’m on that program––”

“Wal, just the same,” I cut in, “I don’t like that Simpson hangin’ ’round here.”

“Alec,” she come back, stiffenin’ right up, “it’s my place to say who comes into this ranch-house, and who don’t.”

“But, look a-here! Folks ’ll think you like him better’n you do me.”

“Aw, that’s crazy.”

“It ain’t. And I won’t have him ’round.”

Then, she got turrible polite. “I’m sorry, Mister Lloyd,” she says, “but I’m a-goin’ t’ take my lessons.”

Wal, the long and short of it is, she did–right up t’ the very day of the social.

“All right,” I says to myself; “but just wait till this shindig is over.” And when Mace and her paw started fer town that evenin’, I saddled up my bronc and follered ’em.

Simpson was kinda in charge of that social. He got up and made a’ openin’ speech, sayin’ they was lots of ice-cream and cake fer sale, and he hoped we’d all shell out good. Then, he begun t’ read off the program.

“We have with us t’night,” he says, “one of the finest and best trained voices in this hull United States–a voice that I wouldn’t be surprised if it ’d be celebrated some day.”

I looked over at Mace. She was gittin’ pink. Did he mean her?

“And,” Simpson goes on, “the young lady that owns it is a-goin’ t’ give us the first number.” And he bowed–Shore enough!

Wal, she sung. It was somethin’ about poppies, and it was awful sad, and had love in it. I liked it pretty nigh as good as The Mohawk Vale. But the ole man, he didn’t. And when she was done, and settin’ next him again, he said out loud, so’s a lot of people heerd him, “I’m not stuck on havin’ you singin’ ’round ’fore ev’ry-body. And that Noo York Doc is too blamed fresh.”

“Paw!” she says, like she was ashamed of him.

“I mean it,” he says, and jerked his haid to one side.

Wal, y’ know, Mace got her temper offen him, and never handed it back. So all durin’ the social, they had it–up and down. I couldn’t ketch all what they said–only little bits, now and then. “Cheek,” I heard the boss say oncet, and Mace come back with somethin’ about not bein’ “a baby.”

Afterwards, when the ole man was out gittin’ the team, she come over t’ me, lookin’ awful appealin’. “Alec,” she says, like she expected I’d shore sympathise with her, “did you hear what paw said? Wasn’t it mean of him?”

I looked down at my boots. Then, I looked straight at her. “Mace,” I says, “he’s right. Mebbe you’ll git mad at me, too, fer sayin’ it. But that Simpson’s tryin’ t’ cut me out–and so he’s givin’ you all this taffy about your voice.”

“Taffy!” she says, fallin’ back a step. “Then you didn’t like my singin’.”

“Why, yas, I did,” I answers, follerin’ along after her. “I thought it was fine.”

But she only shook her haid–like she was hurt–and clumb into the buckboard.

I worried a good deal that night. The more I turned over what Simpson ’d said, the more I wondered if I knowed all they was to his game. What was he drivin’ at with that “celebrated” business? Then, too, it wouldn’t do Mace no good t’ be puffed up so much. She’d been ’lected the prettiest gal. Now she’d been tole she had a way-up voice. ’Fore long, she’d git the big haid.

“Wal, I’ll put a quietus on it,” I says. And, next mornin’, when I seen her, I opened up like this: “Honey, I reckon we’ve waited just about long enough. So we git married Sunday week.”

“That’s too soon,” she answers. “We got t’ git paw on our side. And I ain’t got no new clothes.”

“We’ll splice first and ast him about it afterwards. And when you’re Mrs. Alec, I’ll git you all the clothes you want.” (Here’s where I clean fergot the advice she give me that time in the sheriff’s case: “In love affairs,” was what she said, “don’t never try t’ drive nobody.”)

“But, Alec,––” she begun.

“Sunday week, Mace,” I says. “We’ll talk about it t’-night.”

But that night Monkey Mike come nigh blowin’ his lungs out; and I waited under the cottonwoods till I was asleep standin’–and no Macie.Wasn’t it cal’lated t’ make any man lose his temper? Wal, I lost mine. And when we went in town to a party, a night ’r two afterwards, the hull business come to a haid.

I was plumb sorry about the blamed mix-up. But no feller wants t’ see his gal dance with a kettle-faced greaser. I knowed she was goin’ to fer the reason that I seen Mexic go over her way, showin’ his teeth like a badger and lettin’ his cigareet singe the hair on his dirty shaps–shaps, mind y’, at a school-house dance! Then I seen her nod.

Our polka come next. And when we was about half done, I says, “They’s lemonade outside, honey. Let’s git a swig.” But outside I didn’t talk no lemonade. “Did Mexic ast you to dance with him?” I begun.

“Wal, he’s one of our boys,” she answers; “and I’m going to give him a schottische.”

“No, you ain’t,” I come back. “I won’t stand fer it.”

“Yas, I am, Alec Lloyd,”–she spoke determined,–“and please don’t try to boss me.”

I shut up and walked in again. Mexic was talkin’ to the school-ma’am–aw, he’s got gall! I shassayed up and took him a little one side. “Mexic,” I says, soft as hair on a cotton-tail, “it’s gittin’ on towards mornin’ and, natu’lly, Macie Sewell ain’t feelin’ just rested; so I wouldn’t insist on that schottische, if I was you.”

“Why?” he ast.

“I tole you why,” I says; “but I’ll give you another reason: You’ boots is too tight.”

We fussed a little then. Didn’t amount to much, though, ’cause neither of us had a gun. (Y’ see, us punchers don’t pack guns no more ’less we’re out ridin’ herd and want t’ pick off a coyote; ’r ’less we’ve had a little trouble and ’re lookin’ fer some one.) But I managed to change that greaser’s countenance consider’ble, and he bit a chunk outen my hand. Then the boys pulled us separate.

They was all dead agin me when I tole ’em what was the matter. They said the other gals danced with Mexic, and bein’ Macie was the Bar Y gal, she couldn’t give him the go-by if she took the rest of the outfit fer pardners.

Just the same, I made up my mind she wouldn’t dance with that greaser. And I says to myself, “This is where you show you’re a-goin’ to run the Lloyd house. She’ll like you all the better if you git the upper hand.” So when I got her coaxed outside again, I led her to where my bronc was tied. She liked the little hoss, and whilst we was chinnin’, I put her into the saddle. Next minute, I was on behind her, and the bronc was makin’ quick tracks fer home.

Wal, sir, she was madder’n a hen in a thunder-shower. She tried to pull in the bronc; she twisted and scolted and cried. Tole me she hated me like arsenic.

“Alec Lloyd,” she says, “after t’night, I’ll never, never speak to you again!”

When we rode up to the corral, I lifted her down, and she went tearin’ away to the house. The ole man heerd her comin’, and thought she was singin’. He slung open the door on the porch.

“Aw, give that calf more rope!” he calls out.

Say! she went by him like a streak of lightnin’, almost knockin’ him down. And the door slammed so hard you could ’a’ heerd it plumb t’ Galveston.

I hung ’round the corral fer as much as half a’ hour, listenin’ to the pow-wow goin’ on at the house. But nobody seemed to be a-hollerin’ fer me t’ come in, so I made fer the straw. “Aw, wal,” I says to myself, “her dander ’ll cool off t’-morra.”

But the next day, she passed me by without speakin’. And I, like a sap-head, didn’t speak neither. I was on my high hoss,–wouldn’t speak till she did. So off I had t’ go to Hasty Creek fer three days–and no good-bye t’ the little gal.

I got back late one afternoon. At the bunk-house, I noticed a change in the boys. They all seemed just about t’ bust over somethin’–not laughin’, y’ savvy, but anxious, kinda, and achin’ to tell news.

Fin’lly, I went over to Hairoil. “Pardner,” I says, “spit it out.”

He looked up. “Cupid,” he says, “us fellers don’t like t’ git you stirred up, but we think it’s about time someone oughta speak–and put you next.”

“Next about what?” I ast. The way he said it give me a kinda start.

“We’ve saw how things was a-goin’, but we didn’t say nothin’ to you ’cause it wasn’t none of our funeral. Quite a spell back, folks begun to talk about how crazy Macie Sewell was gittin’ to be on the singin’ question. It leaked out that she’d been tole she had a A1 voice––”

“It ain’t no lie, neither.”

“And that her warblin’ come pretty clost to bein’ as good as Melba’s.”

“It’s a heap better’n Melba’s.”

“Also”–Hairoil fidgited some–“you know, a-course, that she’s been tackin’ up photographs of op’ra singers and actresses in her room––”

“Wal, what’s the harm?”

“And–and practicin’ bows in front of a glass.”

I begun t’ see what he was drivin’ at.

“And whilst you was away, she had a talk with the station-agent–about rates East.”

“Hairoil! You don’t mean it!” I says. I tell y’, it was just like a red-hot iron ’d been stuck down my wind-pipe and was a-burnin’ the lower end offen my breast-bone!

“I’m sorry, ole man.” He reached out a hand. “But we thought you oughta know.” And then he left me.

So that was it! And she’d been keepin’ me in the dark about it all–whilst ev’ry fence post from the Bar Y t’ Briggs knowed what was happenin’! Wal, I was mad clean through.

Then I begun t’ see that I’d been a blamed fool. A fine, high-strung gal!–and I’d been orderin’ her ’round like I owned her! And I’d gone away on that ride without tryin’ t’ make up. Wal, I’d druv her to it.

I started fer the house.

As I come clost, acrosst the curtains, back’ards and for’ards, back’ards and for’ards, I could see her shadda pass. But when I rapped, she pulled up; then, she opened the door.

“Honey,” I says, “can I come in?”

Her eyes was red; she’d been cryin’. But, aw! she was just as nice and sweet as she could be. “Yas, Alec, come in,” she says.

“Little gal,” I begun, “I want t’ tell you I done wrong to kick about that greaser, yas, I did. And fetchin’ you home that-a-way wasn’t right.”

“Never mind–I wanted t’ come anyhow.”

“Thank y’ fer bein’ so kind. And I ain’t never goin’ to try to run you no more.”

“I’m glad of that No gal likes t’ be bossed.”“Just give me another chanst. Just fergive me this oncet.”

She smiled, her eyes shinin’ with tears. “I do,” she says; “Alec, I do.”

The next second, I had her helt clost in my arms, and her pretty haid was agin my breast. Aw, it was like them first days once more. And all the hurt went of a suddent, and the air cleared kinda–as if a storm’d just passed. My little gal!

Pretty soon, (I was settin’ on the organ-stool, and she was standin’ in front of me, me holdin’ her hands) I says, “They is one thing–now that I’ve tole you I was wrong–they is just one thing I’m goin’ to ast you t’ do as a favour. If you do it, things ’ll go smooth with us from now on. It’s this, little gal: Cut out that Doctor Bugs.”

“I know how you don’t like him,” she answers; “and you’re right. ’Cause he shore played you a low-down trick at that Medicine Show. But, Alec, he brings my music-teacher.”

“Wal, honey, what you want the teacher fer?”

She stopped, and up went that pert, little haid. “You recollect what Doctor Simpson said about my voice that night at the social?” she begun. “This teacher says the same thing.”

Like a flash, I recalled what Hairoil ’d tole me. “Mace,” I says, “I want t’ ast you about that. A-course, I know it ain’t so. But Hairoil says you got pictures of actresses and singers tacked up in you’ room–just one ’r two.”

“Yas,” she answers; “that’s straight. What about it?”

“It’s all right, I guess. But the ole son-of-a-gun got the idear, kinda, that you was thinkin’ some of–of the East.”

“Alec,” she says, frank as could be, “yesterday Doctor Simpson got a letter from Noo York. He’d writ a big teacher there, inquirin’ if I had a chanst t’ git into op’ra–grand op’ra–and the teacher says yas.”

I couldn’t answer nothin’. I just sit there, knocked plumb silly, almost, and looked at a big rose in the carpet. Noo York!

She brung her hands t’gether. “Why not?” she answers. “It’ll give me the chanst I want. If I’m a success, you could come on too, Alec. Then we’d marry, and you could go along with me as my manager.”I looked at her. I was hurt–hurt plumb t’ the quick, and a little mad, too. “I see myself!” I says. “Travel along with you’ poodle. Huh! And you wearin’ circus clothes like that Miss Marvellous Murray, and lettin’ some feller kiss you in the play. Macie,”–and I meant what I said–“you can just put the hull thing right to one side. I–won’t–have–it!”

She set her lips tight, and her face got a deep red.

“So this is the way you keep you’ word!” she says. “A minute ago, you said you wasn’t goin’ t’ try to run me no more. Wal,–you wasn’t in earnest. I can see that. ’Cause here’s the same thing over again.”

The door into the ole man’s bedroom opened then, and he come walkin’ out. “You two make a thunderin’ lot of noise,” he begun. “What in the dickens is the matter?”

Mace turned to him, face still a-blazin’. “Alec’s allus tryin’ t’ run me,” she answers, “and I’m gittin’ plumb tired of it.”

Sewell’s mouth come open. “Run you,” he says. “Wal, some while back he done all the runnin’ he’s ever a-goin’ t’ do in this house. And he don’t do no more of it. By what right is he a-interferin’ now?”

I got to my feet. “This right, boss:” I says, “I love Macie.”

He begun to kinda swell–gradual. And if a look could ’a’ kilt me, I’d ’a’ keeled over that second.

“You–love–Macie!” he says slow. “Wal , I’ll be darned if you haven’t got cheek!”

“Sorry you look at it that way, boss.”

“And so you got the idear into that peanut haid of yourn”–he was sarcastic now–“that you could marry my gal! Honest, I ain’t met a bigger idjit ’n you in ten years.”

“No man but Mace’s paw could say that t’ me safe.”

“Why,” he goes on, “you could just about be President of the United States as easy as you could be the husband of this gal. M’ son, I think I tole you on one occasion that you’d play Cupid just oncet too many.”

“That’s what you did.”

“This is it. And, also, I tole you that the smarty who can allus bring other folks t’gether never can hitch hisself.”“You got a good mem’ry, Sewell.”

Mace broke in then–feard they’d be trouble, I reckon. “Please let’s cut this short,” she says. “The only thing I want Alec to remember is that I ain’t a-goin’ t’ be bossed by no man.”

Sewell patted her on the shoulder. “That’s my gal a-talkin’!” he says. “Bully fer you!”

“All right, Mace,” I says, “a-all right.” And I took up my Stetson.

The ole man dropped into a chair and begun t’ laugh. (Could laugh now, thinkin’ it was all up ’twixt Mace and me.) “Haw! haw! haw!” he started off, slappin’ one knee. “Mister Cupid cain’t do nothin’ fer hisself!” Then he laid back and just hollered, slingin’ out his laig with ev’ry cackle; and pawin’ the air fin’lly, he got so short-winded. “Aw, lawdy!” he yelled; “aw–I’ll bust. Mister Cupid! Whew!”

I got hot. “You found a he-he’s aig in a haw-haw’s nest,” I begun. “Wal, I’ll say back to you what you oncet said to me: Just wait.” Then I faced Macie. “All right, little gal,” I says to her, “I s’pose you know best. Pack you’ duds and go East–and sing on the stage in Noo York.”The ole man ’d stopped laughin’ t’ listen. Now he sit up straight, a hand on each arm of the chair, knees spread, mouth wider open ’n ever, eyes plumb crossed. “Go East!” he repeats, “–sing!–stage!–Noo York!”

Mace showed her sand, all right. “Yas,” she answers; “you got it exac’ly right, paw–Noo York.”

He riz up, face as white as anythin’ so sunbaked can look. “Git that crazy idear outen you’ brain this minute!” he begun. “I won’t allow you t’ stir a step! The stage! Lawd a-mighty! Why, you ain’t got no voice fer the stage. You can only squawk.”

It was mighty pretty t’ see ’em–father and daughter–standin’ out agin each other. Alike in temper as two peas, y’ savvy. And I knowed somethin’ was shore goin’ to pop.

“Squawk!” repeats Mace. (That was the finishin’ touch.) “I’ll just show you! Some day when my voice’s made me famous, you’ll be sorry fer that. And you, too, Alec Lloyd, if you do think my voice is all taffy. I’ll show you both!”

“Wal,” Sewell come back, “you don’t use none of my money fer t’ make you’ show.” He was pretty nigh screechin’.

“Wait till I ast you fer it,” she says, pert haid up again. “Keep you’ money. I can earn my own. I ain’t scairt of work.”

And just like she was, in the little, white dress she used t’ meet me in–she up and walked out!

Now, it was the ole man’s turn t’ walk the floor. “Noo York!” he begun, his eyes dartin’ fire. “Did y’ ever hear such a blamed fool proposition! Doc Simpson is responsible fer that.”

“It’s been goin’ on fer quite a spell,” I says. “But I didn’t know how far till just afore you come in. Simpson, a-course, is the man.”

That second, clickety–clickety–clickety–click!–a hoss was a-passin’ the house on the dead run. We both looked. It was that bald-faced bronc of Macie’s, makin’ fer the gate like a streak of lightnin’. And the little gal was in the saddle.

“She’s goin’, boss,” I says. (The bald-face was haided towards Briggs.)

“Let her go,” says Sewell. “Let her ride off her mad.”“Boss,” I says, “I’m t’ blame fer this kick-up. Yas, I am.”

And I begun t’ walk the floor.

“Wal, no use bellyachin’ about it,” he answers. “But you’re allus a-stickin’ in that lip of yourn. And–you’ll recall what I oncet said concernin’ the feller that sticks in his lip.” (I could see it made him feel better t’ think he had the bulge on me.)

“She won’t come back,” I goes on. (I felt pretty bad, I can tell y’.) “No, boss, she won’t. I know that gal better’n you do. She’s gone t’ Briggs, and she’ll stay.”

“She’ll be back in a’ hour. Rose cain’t keep her, and––”

But I was outen the room and makin’ fer the bunk-house. When I got there, I begun t’ change my clothes.

Hairoil was inside. (He’d been a-listenin’ to the rumpus, likely.) “Don’t go off half-cocked,” he says to me.

“Cupid’s drunk,” says Monkey Mike. “Somebody’s hit him with a bar-towel.”

But I knowed what I was a-goin’ to do. Two wags of a dawg’s tail, and I was in the house again, facin’ the ole man. “Sewell,” I says, “I want my time.”

“Where you goin’, Cupid?” he ast, reachin’ into his britches-pocket.

I took my little forty dollars and run it into my buckskin sack. “I’m a-goin’ into Briggs,” I says, “t’ see if I can talk some sense into that gal’s haid.”

The ole man give a kinda sour laugh. “Mebbe you think you can bring her home on hossback again,” he says. “Wal, just remember, if she turns loose one of her tantrums, that you poured out this drench you’self. It’s like that there feller in Kansas.” And he give that laugh of hisn again. “Ever heerd about him?”

“No,” I says; “no, what about you’ Kansas feller?”

“Wal,”–the boss pulled out a plug of t’bacca,–“he bought a house and lot fer five hunderd dollars. The lot was guaranteed to raise anythin’, and the house was painted the prettiest kind of a green. Natu’lly, he thought he owned ’em. Wal, things went smooth till one night when he was away from home. Then a blamed cyclone come along. Shore enough, that lot of hisn could raise. It raised plumb into the air, house and all, and the hull business blowed into the neighbourin’ State!

“‘What goes up must come down,’ says the feller. And knowin’ which way that cyclone travelled, he started in the same direction, hotfoot. He goes and goes. Fin’lly he comes to a ranch where they was a new barn goin’ up. It was a pinto proposition. Part of it wasn’t painted, and some of it was green. He stopped to demand portions of his late residence.

“The man he spoke to quit drivin’ nails just long enough to answer. ‘When you Kansas folks git up one of them baby cyclones of yourn,’ he says, ‘fer Heaven’s sake have sand enough to accept the hand-out it gives y’.’”

“I savvy what you mean,” I says to the ole man, “but you fergit that in this case the moccasin don’t fit. Another man’s behind this, boss. The little gal has ketched singin’-bugs. And when she gits enough cash––”

“How can she git cash?”

“The eatin’-house is short of, help, Sewell. She can git a job easy–passin’ fancy Mulligan to the pilgrims that go through.”Say! that knocked all the sarcastic laughin’ outen him. A’ awful anxious look come into his face. “Why–why, Cupid,” he begun. “You don’t reckon she’d go do that!”

Just then, Clickety–clickety–clickety–click a hoss was comin’ along the road. We both got to a winda. It was that bald-faced bronc of Macie’s again, haid down and tail out. But the bridle-reins was caught ’round the pommel t’ keep ’em from gittin’ under foot, and the little gal’s saddle–was empty!