Aw! them first days out at the Bar Y ranch-house!–them first days! Nobody could ’a’ been happier’n I was then.

I hit the ranch on a Friday, about six in the evenin’, it was, I reckon,–in time fer supper, anyhow. The punchers et in a room acrosst the kitchen from where the fambly et. And I recollect that sometimes durin’ that meal, as the Chink come outen the kitchen, totin’ grub to 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 blamed flustered that my knife ’d miss my mouth and jab me in the jaw, ’r else I’d spill somethin’ ’r other on to Monkey Mike.

And after supper, when the sun was down, and they was just a kinda half-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 the bunk-house, clean outen sight of the far side of the yard, why, I just sorta wandered over to the calf-corral, then ’round by the barn and the Chink’s shack, and landed up out to the west, where they’s a row of cottonwoods by the new irrigatin’ ditch. Beyond, acrosst about a hunderd mile of brown plain, here was the moon a-risin’, bigger’n a dish-pan, and a cold white. I stood agin a tree and watched it crawl through the clouds. The frogs was a-watchin’, too, I reckon, fer they begun 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:

A wait–ten seconds ’r so (it seemed longer); then, the same part of the song, over again, and––

Outen the side door of the porch next me come a slim, little figger in white. It stepped down where some sun-flowers was a-growin’ agin the wall. Say! it was just sunflower high! Then it come acrosst the alfalfa–like a butterfly. And then––

“Don’t you want a shawl ’round you’ shoulders, honey? It’s some chilly.”

“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 her clost, and put my hand under her chin t’ tip it so’s I could see her face.

“You mustn’t, Alec!” (She was allus shy about bein’ kissed.)

“I tole Mike to give me ten minutes’ lee-way ’fore he played that tune. But he must ’a’ waited a hull hour.” And then, with the mouth-organ goin’ at the bunk-house (t’ keep the ole man listenin’, y’ savvy, and make him fergit t’ look fer Mace), we rambled north byside the ditch, holdin’ each other’s hand as we walked, like two kids. And the ole moon, it smiled down on us, awful friendly like, and we smiled back at the moon.

Wal, when we figgered that Mike ’d blowed hisself plumb outen breath, we started home again. And under the cottonwoods, the little gal reached up 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 blamed good 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 long fence that leads towards Kansas, and at sundown we’d reach the first line-shack. And there, with the little bronc a-pickin’, and my coffee a-coolin’ byside me on a bench, I’d sit out under the sky and watch the moon–alone. Mebbe, when I got home, it ’d be ole man Sewell’s lodge-night, so he’d start fer town ’long about seven o’clock, and Mace and me ’d have the porch to ourselves–the side-porch, where the sun-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 got interested in Bergin’s case–Mace and me both. (Next t’ Hairoil, Bergin’s my best friend, y’ savvy.) Figgerin’ on how t’ fix things up fer him–speakin’ matreemonal–brung us two closter t’gether, and showed 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 way that 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 explain.

It begun when I’d been out at the Sewell ranch about two weeks. (I disremember the exac’ day, but that don’t matter.) I’d rid in town fer somethin’, and was a-crossin’ by the deepot t’ git it, when I ketched sight of Bergin a-settin’ on the end of a truck,–all by hisself. Now, that was funny, ’cause they wasn’t a man in Briggs City but liked George Bergin and would ’a’ hoofed it a mile to talk to him. “What’s skew-gee?” I says to myself, and looked at him clost; then,–“CÆsar Augustus Philabustus Hennery Jinks!” I kinda gasped, and brung up so suddent that I bit my cigareet clean in two and come nigh turnin’ a somerset over back’ards.White as that paper, he was, and nervous, and so all-fired shaky and caved-in that they couldn’t be no question what was the matter. The sheriff 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 have to think much. Knowed they wasn’t a pinch of ’fraid-cat in Bergin–no crazy-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 earth could stampede the sheriff. I kinda tip-toed over to him. “Bergin,” I says, “who is she?”

He looked up–slow. He’s a six-footer, and about as heavy-set as the bouncer over to the eatin’-house. Wal, I’m another if ev’ry square inch of him wasn’t tremblin’, and his teeth was chatterin’ so hard I looked to see ’em fall out–that’s straight. Them big, blue eyes of hisn was sunk ’way back in his haid, too, and the rest of his face looked 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 times outen ten, they’ve got somethin’ to say that no man wants to hear. But I 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-aig on that one,” he answers.

“Wal, who’s Phillips, then?” I continued.

“The Sante Fee deepot-master at Chicago.”

“Which means you needn’t to worry. Mrs. Bridger is likely comin’ on to 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 the poll-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 allus runs in threes. Last week, my dawg died–remember that one with a buck tooth? 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 was a-travelin’ our direction. 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 and his left arm a-hangin’ floppy agin his laig. Y’ see, next day, a bunch of ladies–ole ladies, they was, too,–tried to find him and give him a vote of thanks. But when he seen ’em comin’, he swore in a deputy–quick–and vamosed. Day ’r two afterwards, here he come outen that cellar back of Dutchy’s thirst-parlour, his left arm in a red bandaner, a rockin’-chair and a pilla under his right one, and a lantern in his teeth!But this time, he wasn’t a-goin’ to have no deputy. I made up my mind 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 comes to feemales––”

Too-oo-oot! too-oo-oot! Couldn’t make him hear, so I just slapped him on the shoulder. Then I hauled him up, and we went down the platform to where the crowd was.

When the train slowed down, the first thing I seen was the conductor with a kid in his arms,–a cute kid, about four, I reckon,–a boy. Then the 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 kid by 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 ’r Carlota Arnaz, but mighty good t’ look at. Blabbed calf? Say! this was 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 smoothed the cow-lick over his one eye, and sorta studied the kid.

“Sheriff,” goes on the corn-doc, “here’s a lady that has been consigned to you’ care. Good-bye, ma’am, it’s been a pleasure to 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 to that sheriff! “Bergin,” I says, under my breath, “fer heaven’s sake, remember you’ oath of office! And, boys,” (they was about a dozen cow-punchers behind us, a-smilin’ at Mrs. Bridger so hard that they plumb laid they faces open) “you’ll have us all shoved on to the tracks in a minute!”

It was the kid that helped out. He’d been lookin’ up at Bergin ever since he hit the station. Now, all to oncet, he reached towards the sheriff with both his little hands–as friendly as if he’d knowed him all 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 could say Jack Robinson, that Bridger young un was histed up. I nodded to his maw, and the four of us went into the eatin’-house, where we all had some dinner t’gether. Leastways, me and the kid and Mrs. Bridger et. The sheriff, he just sit, not sayin’ a word, but pullin’ at that cow-lick of hisn and orderin’ things fer the baby. And whilst we grubbed, Mrs. Bridger tole us about herself, and how she ’d happened to come out Oklahomaw way.

Seems she ’d been livin’ in Buffalo, where her husband was the boss of a lumber-yard. Wal, when the kid was three years old, Bridger up and died, not leavin’ much in the way of cash fer the widda. Then she had to begin plannin’ how to git along, a-course. Chicken-ranchin’ got into her haid. Somebody said Oklahomaw was a good place. She got the name of a land-owner in Briggs City and writ him. He tole her he had a nice forty acres fer sale–hunderd down, the balance later on. She bit–and here she was.

“Who’s the man?” I ast.

The widda pulled a piece of paper outen her hand-satchel. “Frank Curry,” she answers.Bergin give a jump that come nigh to tippin’ the table over. (Ole Skinflint 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 below town, 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’s nothin’ 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 direct to him, and he just jiggled his knee. I was kinda bothered, too, and got some coffee 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 and begun drawin’ on the table-cloth) “is a stretch of low ground,–a swale, like, that keeps green fer a week ’r so ev’ry year, and that’ll raise Kaffir-corn and such roughness. You git the tie-houses of the section-gang plank in front–here. But behind, you’ possessions rise straight up in to the air like the side of a house. Rogers’s Butte, they call it. See it, out there? A person almost has to use a ladder to climb it. On top, it’s all piled with big rocks. Of a mornin’, 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 can make enough to support Willie and me easy. And it’ll seem awful fine to have a little home all my own! I ain’t never lived in the country afore, but I know it’ll be lovely to raise chickens. In pictures, the little bits of ones is allus so cunnin’.”

Wal, I didn’t answer her. What could I ’a’ said? And Bergin?–he come nigh pullin’ his cow-lick clean out.

By this time, that little kid had his bread-basket full. So he clumb down outen his chair and come ’round to the sheriff. Bergin took him on to his lap. The kid lay back and shut his eyes. His maw smiled over at Bergin. Bergin smiled down at the kid.

“Wal, folks,” I begun, gittin’ up, “I’m turrible sorry, but I got to 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 widda totin’ a basket and the sheriff totin’ the kid. I watched ’em through the crack of Silverstein’s front door, and I hummed that good ole song:

When I got back to the Bar Y, I was dead leary about tellin’ Mace that I had half a mind t’ git Bergin married off. ’Cause, y’ see, I’d been made fun of so much fer my Cupid business; and I hated t’ think of doin’ somethin’ she wouldn’t like. But, fin’lly, I managed t’ spunk up sufficient, and described Mrs. Bridger and the kid, and said what I’d like t’ do fer the sheriff.

“Alec,” says the little gal, “I been tole (Rose tole me) how you like t’ 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 of hern. “You darlin’!” I says. And then I put another where it’d do the most good.

“Alec,” she says, when she could git a word in edgeways, “this widda comin’ is mighty fortu-nate. Bergin’s too ole fer the gals at the eatin’-house. But Mrs. Bridger’ll suit. Now, I’ll lope down to the Gap right 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’ git settled. But it’ll be a job–a’ awful job. She’s a nice, affectionate 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-in look–nothin’ of that kind. He was gazin’ thoughtful at a knot in the deepot platform, his mouth was part way open, and they was a sorta sickly 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 guilty son-of-a-gun when I see one!)

I sit down on the other end of the truck. “Did Mrs. Bridger git settled all right?” I begun.

“Yas,” he answers; “I pulled the rags outen the windas, and put some panes of glass in––”

“Good fer you, Bergin! But, thunder! the idear of her thinkin’ she can raise chickens fer a livin’–’way out here. Why, a grasshopper ranch ain’t no place fer that little woman.” (And I watched sideways to see how he’d take it.)“You’re right, Cupid,” he says. Then, after swallerin’ hard, “Did you happen t’ notice how soft and kinda pinky her hands is?”

Was that the sheriff talkin’? Wal, you could ’a’ knocked me down with a feather!

“Yas, Sheriff,” I answers, “I noticed her pretty particular. And it 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 husband if she’ll take one. In Mrs. Bridger’s case, it won’t be just any ole hobo that comes along. She’ll be able to pick and choose from a grea-a-at, bi-i-ig bunch. I seen how the boys acted when she got offen that train t’-day–and I knowed then that it wouldn’t be no time till she’d marry.”

The sheriff is tall, as I said afore. Wal, a kinda shiver went up and down the hull length of him. Then, he sprung up, givin’ the truck a kick. “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 hern needs the keer of a father–yas, Bergin, the keer of a father.” And I looked him square in the eye.

“It’s just like Hairoil says,” he went on. “If Doc Simpson was t’ 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’ on how t’ hitch her up t’ you–you ole woman-hater!”

“The best thing you can do, Mister Cupid,” growls Bergin (with a few cuss words throwed in), “is to mind-you’-own-business.”

“All right,” I answers cheerful. “I heerd y’. But, I never could see why you fellers are so down on me when I advise marryin’. Take my word fer it, Sheriff, any man’s a heap better off with a nice wife to look after his shack, and keep it slicked up, and a nice baby ’r two t’ 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. In love affairs, don’t never try t’ drive nobody.”

“But ain’t it funny,” I says (it was lodge night, and we had the porch to ourselves), “–ain’t it funny how dead set some fellers is agin marryin’–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 makes me 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 to her fer the balance of his life that she’d ketched him like a rat in a trap.”

“I never could git no such notion about you,” I says; “aw, little gal, we’ll be so happy, you and me, won’t we, honey,––”

Wal, to continue with the Bridger story: You recollect what I said about that kid needin’ a father? Wal, say! if he’d ’a’ wanted one, he shore could ’a’ picked from plenty of candi-dates. Why, ’fore long, ev’ry bach in town had his cap set fer Mrs. Bridger–that’s straight. All other subjects of polite conversation was fergot byside the subject of the widda. Sam Barnes was in love with her, and went ’round with that red face of hisn lookin’ exac’ly like the full moon when you see it through a sandstorm. Chub Flannagan was in love with her, too, and ’d sit by the hour on Silverstein’s front porch, his pop eyes shut up tight, a-rockin’ hisself back’ards and for’ards, back’ards and for-’ards, and a-hummin’. Then, they was Dutchy’s brother, August. Aw, he had it bad. And took t’ music, just like Chub, yas, ma’am. Why, that feller spent hours a-knockin’ the wind outen a’ pore accordion. And next come Frank Curry–haid over heels, too, mean as he was, and to hear him talk you’d ’a’ bet they wasn’t nothin’ he wouldn’t ’a’ done fer Mrs. Bridger. But big talk’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 they hair 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 was nigh meal-time, and acted, gen’ally speakin’, as sweet as pie.

But she treated ’em all alike. And they knowed it. Consequently, in order so’s all of ’em would git a’ even chanst, and so’s they wouldn’t be no gun-play account of one man tryin’ to cut another out by goin’ to see her twicet to the other man’s oncet, the aforesaid boys fixed up a calendar. Sam got Monday, Curry, Wednesday, Dutch August, Friday, and Chub, Sunday afternoons. That tickled Chub. He owns a liv’ry-stable, y’ savvy, and ev’ry week he hitched up a rig and took the widda and her kid fer a buggy ride.

And, Bergin? Wal, I’d took Macie’s advice and stayed away from him. But–the stay-away plan hadn’t worked worth a darn. The sheriff, he kept to his shack pretty steady. And one mornin’, when I seen him at the post-office, he didn’t have nothin’ t’ say to nobody, and looked sorta down on creation.

That fin’lly riled Mace. “What’s the matter with him?” she says one day. “Why, havin’ saw the widda, how can he help fallin’ in love with her! She’s the nicest little woman! And she’s learned me a new crochet stitch.”

“Little gal,” I answers, “you’ idear has been carried out faithful–and has gone fluey. Wal, let Cupid have a try. A-course, I was sit on pretty hard in that confab I had with him, but, all the same, 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 on the other. It had one room, just high enough so’s Bergin wouldn’t crack his skull, and just wide enough so’s when he laid down on his bunk he wouldn’t kick out the side of the house. And they was a rusty stove with a dictionary toppin’ it, and a saddle and a fryin’-pan on 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’ some spuds fer his dinner), “I ain’t come t’ sponge offen you. Me and Macie 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 oilcloth on the table,–white, with little blue vi’lets on it–and all her dishes is white and blue. She brung ’em from Buffalo. And we had fried chicken, and corn-dodgers, and prune somethin’-’r-other. Say! I–I s’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, little kid,” 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 two trips 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. So he 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 closter to the widda’s, he got to hangin’ back. And when we reached a big pile of 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 two shakes of a lamb’s tail, he was outen the house and a-climbin’ the sheriff.

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 Bergin is a fine man.” And she kept on lookin’ out.

“In this wild country,” I begun, voice ’way down to my spurs, “–this wild country, full of rattlesnakes and Injuns and tramps, ev’ry ranch needs 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 continues.

“Aw,” she says, plumb relieved.

And I left things that-a-way–t’ sprout.

Walkin’ up the track afterwards, I remarked, casual like, that they wasn’t many women nicer ’n Mrs. Bridger.

“They’s one thing I like about her,” says the sheriff, “–she’s got eyes like the kid.”

(Dang the kid!)

Wal, me and Macie and them four sparkers wasn’t the only folks that thought the widda was mighty nice. She’d made lots of friends at the section-house since she come. The section-boss’s wife said they was nobody 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 calico dingusses that the peon gals could sew up. When they’d have one of them everlastin’ fiestas of theirn, she’d make a big cake and a keg of lemonade, and pass it ’round. And when you consider that a ten-cent package of cigareets and a smile goes further with a Mexican than fifty plunks and a cuss, why, you can git some idear of how that hull outfit just worshipped her.

Wal, they got in and done her a lot of good turns. Put up a fine chicken-coop, the section-boss overseein’ the job; and, one Sunday, cleaned out her cellar. Think of it! (Say! fer a man to appreciate that, 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 and come 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 was shy a pig that week, but you bet he never let on!) The gang made a nice little pen, usin’ ties, and ev’ry day they packed over some feed in the shape of the camp leavin’s.

The widda was settled fine, had half a dozen hens a-settin’ and some castor beans a-growin’ in the low spots next her house, when things begun to come to a haid with the calendar gents. I got it straight from her that in just one solitary week, she collected four pop-the-questions!

She handed out exac’ly that many pairs of mittens–handed ’em out with 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’ry one of ’em bought new things to wear, and–best sign of any–they stopped drinkin’! Ev’ry day ’r so, back they’d track to visit the widda.

She didn’t like that fer a cent. Wasn’t nary one of ’em that suited her, and just when the chickens ’r the cholo gals needed her, here was a Briggs City galoot a-crossin’ the yard.

“Sorry,” she says to Macie, “but I’ll have to give them gents they walkin’-papers. If I don’t, I won’t never git a lick done.”

“Bully fer you!” Mace answers. “It’ll be good riddance of bad rubbish. They’re too gally.” (Somethin’ like that, anyhow.) “Learn ’em to act like they was civylised. But, say, Mrs. Bridger, you–you ain’t a-goin’ to give the rinky-dink to the Sheriff?”

“Mister Bergin,” answers the widda, “ain’t bothered me none.” (Mace was 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 side of 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 what I said to you last week. I don’t want to be haidstrong, but I’d like to git a ’yas’ outen you.”

“Mister Barnes,” she says. “I’m feard I cain’t say yas. I ain’t thinkin’ of marryin’. But if I was, it’d be to a man that’s–that’s big, 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 hiked fer 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’d pass 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 his foot 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 man that’s fond of childern.”

Wal, ta-ta, Chub!

And, behind, there was the widda at the winda, all eyes fer that sand-pile.

We never knowed what she said to Dutchy’s brother, August. But he come back to town lookin’ madder’n a wet hen. “Huh!” he says, “I don’t vant her nohow. She couldn’t vork. She’s pretty fer nice, all right, but she’s nichts fer stoudt.”

When ole stingy Curry tried his luck over, he took his lead from Chub’s experience. Seems he put one arm ’round the kid, and then he said no man could kick about havin’ to adopt Willie, and he knowed that with Mrs. Bridger it was “love me, love my dawg.” Then he tacked on that 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 down to Mrs. Bridger’s, the sheriff trailin’, (he balked half-way from the sand-pile to the door, this time, and sit down on a bucket t’ play he was Willie’s steam-injine), and I found that the little woman had been cryin’ 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 all right–what with my chickens and the pig.”

I talked with her a good bit. Then me and the sheriff started back to town. (Had to go slow at first; Bergin’d helt the ingineer on his knee till his foot was asleep.) On the way, I mentioned that dun.

“Curry,” says the sheriff. And he come nigh rippin’ up the railroad tracks.

He made fer Curry’s straight off. “What’s the little balance due on that Starvation Gap property?” he begun.

“What makes you ast?” says Curry, battin’ them sneaky little eyes of hisn.

“I’m prepared t’ settle it.”

“But it happens I didn’t sell to you. So, a-course, I cain’t take you’ money. Anyhow, I don’t think the widda is worryin’ much. She could 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 much as she wants.”

“Offer it you’self.”

“No, you do it, Cupid,–please. But don’t you tell her whose money it 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 other way. 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 Fund didn’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 the widda’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 a great, big, scairt, helpless calf.

At first the widda talked to him, pleasant and encouragin’. But when he just said, “Yas, ma’am,” and “No, ma’am,” and nothin’ else, she changed. I figger (’cause women is right funny) that her pride was some hurt. What if he was bound up in the boy? Didn’t he have no interest in her? It hurt her all the worse, mebbe, ’cause I was there, and seen how he acted. ’Fore long she begun to git plumb outen patience with him. And one day, when he was standin’ gazin’ out, she flew up.

“George Bergin,” she says, “a door is somethin’ else ’cept a place to 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 here is where somethin’ better’n just good luck seemed to take a-holt of things. In the first place, considerin’ what come of it, it shore was fortunate that Pedro Garcia, one of them trashy section-gang cholos, was just a-passin’ the house as she done that. He heerd the slam. He seen the look on Bergin’s face, too. And he fixed up what was the matter in that crazy haid of hisn.

In the second place, the very next day, blamed if Curry didn’t hunt Bergin up. “Sheriff,” he begun, “I ain’t been able to collect what’s due 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-possess notice agin a widda ain’t worth the ink it’s drawed with.”

“Ain’t it?” says Curry. “You mean you won’t act. All right. If you won’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 property ain’t worth such a hull lot.”

The next thing, them cholos in the section-gang ’d heerd what Bergin was ordered to do. And, like a bunch of idjits, ’stead of gittin’ down on Curry, who was responsible, they begun makin’ all kinds of brags about what they’d do when next they seen the sheriff. And it looked to me 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’t down 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 had somethin’ t’ tell me, he said. Could I keep a secret–cross my heart t’ die? Yas. Wal, then–what d’ you think it was? The sheriff was camped right back of the widda’s–on Rogers’s Butte!

“Pardner,” I says, “don’t you cheep that to another soul. Bergin is up there t’ keep Curry from puttin’ the widda out.”

The section-boss begun to haw-haw. “It’d take a hull regiment of soldiers to put the widda out,” he says, “–with them greasers of mine 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 that hitchin’-post yonder–I seen a crowd of women and kids a-lookin’ at somethin’ behind the house. I walked up and stretched my neck. And there 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’n just good luck.” (Them’s exac’ly her words–“Somethin’ more’n just good luck.”)

“Wal,” I goes on, “oncet in a while, a feller’s got to admit that somethin’ 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; first thing you know, his hash is settled. Next time, it’s exac’ly the other way ’round, and some nice lady ’r gent finds theyselves landed not a’ inch from where they wanted to be. But neither case cain’t be called just good luck, no, ma’am. Fer the reason that the contrary facts is plumb shoved in you’ face.

“Now, take what happened to Burt Slade. Burt had a lot of potatoes ready 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 thief come ’long and stole all them potatoes. (This was in Nebraska, mind y’. 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, it lifted ’em and sent ’em a-kitin’ through the windas of that thief’s house–yas, ma’am, it took ’em in at the one side, and outen the other, breakin’ ev’ry blamed pane of glass; then–I’m another if it ain’t so!–it sailed ’em all that fifty mile back to Slade’s and druv ’em into the ground that he’d fixed fer ’em. And when they sprouted, a little bit later on that spring, Slade seen they’d been planted in rows!

“They ain’t no doubt about this story bein’ true. In the first place, Slade ain’t a man that’d lie; in the second place, ev’rybody knows his potatoes was stole, and ev’rybody knows that, just the same, he had a powerful big crop that year; and, then, Slade can show you his field any time you happen to be in that part of Nebraska. And no man wants any better proof’n that.”

“A-course, he don’t,” says the widda. “And I’d call that potato transaction plumb wonderful.”

“It shore was.”

She turned back to the hawgs. “I can almost see these little pigs grow,” she says, “and I’m right fond of ’em a’ready. I–I hope nothin’ bad’ll happen to ’em. I’m a little nervous, though. ’Cause–have you noticed, Mister Lloyd?–they’s just thirteen pigs in that pen.”

“Aw, thirteen ain’t never hurt nobody in Oklahomaw,” I says. And I whistled, and knocked on wood.

“Anyhow, I’m happy,” she goes on, “I’m better fixed than I been fer a 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, “they bein’ pen-fed, and not just common razor-backs. That’ll mean fifty dollars–mebbe more. Why, it’s like findin’ it!”

“These and the chickens,” she says, “’ll pay that balance, and” (her voice broke, kinda, and she looked over to where pore little Willie was tryin’ 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’t his heart a-bustin’ fer her? Wal, it shore was a fool sittywaytion!

“The section-hands is turrible tickled about these pigs,” continues Mrs. Bridger. “They come over this mornin’ t’ see how the fambly was doin’, and they named the hull litter, beginnin’ with Carmelita, and ending’ with Polky Dot.”

You couldn’t ’a’ blamed nobody fer bein’ proud of them little pigs. 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 snoot and 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 one chin 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 she did 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 of hawgs, and she’d ’a’ likely penned ’em closter to the house. Then nothin’ would ’a’ hurt ’em. Again, mebbe it would–if the hull thing that happened next was accidentally a-purpose. And I reckon that shore 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 in town.) I was in the Arnaz bunk-house, pullin’ on my coat, just afore daylight, 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 if it 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!”–and streaked it fer the widda’s.

’Fore I was half-way, I heerd hollerin’–the scairt hollerin’ of women and 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 let out 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 collected t’gether, some with picks, and the rest with heavy track tools. All the greaser women was there, too, howlin’ like a pack of coyotes. Whilst Mrs. Bridger had the kid in her arms, and her face hid in his little 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 where the 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. Pretty nigh as big as a box-car, it was. Wal, as big as a wagon, anyhow. 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 just thirteen. It’s a proposition you cain’t beat.”Them cholos was all quiet now, and actin’ as keerful as if that rock was dynamite. Queer and shivery, they was, about it, and it kinda give me 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 off trouble. “Mebbe, boys,” I says, lookin’ the ground over some more, “–mebbe they was a cyclone last night to the north of here, and this blowed in from Kansas.”

The section-boss walked ’round, studyin’. “I’m from Missoura,” he says, “and it strikes me that this rock looks kinda familiar, like it was part iron. Now, mebbe they’s been a thunderin’ big explosion in the Ozark Mountains. But, Mrs. Bridger, as a native son of the ole State, I don’t want to advise you to sue fer da––”

I heerd them cholos smackin’ they lips. I looked where they was lookin’, and here, a-comin’ lickety-split, was the sheriff!

That section-boss was as good-natured a feller as ever lived, and never liked 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 him speak out what they thought, they set up a Comanche yell, and, with the whites of they eyes showin’ like a nigger’s, they made towards the sheriff 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’ that leg-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. They jerked it outen his hand. He throwed ’em off.

I drawed my weapon.

Just then–“Sheriff! sheriff!” (It was the widda, one hand helt out towards 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 this is 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,” I answers.“The low-down, ornery, lay-in-the-sun-and-snooze good-fer-nothin’s is likely t’ think ’most any ole thing,” he says. “Pedro, let go my arm.”

Just then, one of the cholos come runnin’ up with a rope!

The section-boss seen things was gittin’ pretty serious. He begun to wrastle with the feller that had the rope. Next, all the women and kids set up another howlin’, Mrs. Bridger cryin’ the worst. But I wasn’t ready to play my last card. I stepped out in front of the gang and helt up my hand.

“Boys,” I says; “boys! Give the man a chanst t’ talk. Why, this rock 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, mind y’,–hands t’gether, and comin’ clost.)

“Thank y’, little woman,” says the sheriff.

(Say! that was better.)

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 begun draggin’ 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 they use is plumb fierce.)

“He iss revenge hisself!” yells the rest of the bunch. Then they all looked at the widda.

“Boys,” she sobs, “I ain’t never refused him. Fer a good reason–he ain’t never ast me.”

(The cholos, they just growled.)

“What?” I ast, turnin’ on Bergin like I was hoppin’. “You love her, and yet you ain’t never ast her to marry you? Wal, you blamed bottle of ketchup, you oughta die!”“How could I ast her?” begun the sheriff. “She plumb hates the sight of me.”

“I don’t! I don’t!” sobs the widda. “Mister Lloyd knows that ain’t so. 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 no more’n got the words outen our mouths when they begun to dance ’round Bergin 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 hang the 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, the pay-car, she stops just one minute fer ev’ry section-hand, and them section-hands was compelled to git into line and be quick about it, ’r not git they money. So they didn’t have no spare time. They let go of Bergin’s rope and run–the section-boss leadin’.

The sheriff, he slung the rope to one side–and the widda goes into his arms. “Little woman,” he says, lookin’ down at her, “I’ll–I’ll be 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 the pay-car. And when a cholo got his time and left the line, he showed him the 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 it a-settin’ out in front–big as life.) A-course, Mrs. Bridger got a nice little 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 her just natu’lly got left!