“Wal, Hairoil,” I says, “I shore am a’ unlucky geezer! Why, d’ you know, I don’t hardly dast go from one room to another these days fer fear I’ll git my lip pinched in the door.”

Hairoil, he clawed thoughtful. “You and the boss had a talk oncet on the marryin’ question,” he begun. “It was out at the Bar Y.” (We was settin’ on a truck at the deepot again, same as that other time.) “A-course, I don’t want t’ throw nothin’ up, but–you tole him then that when it come you’ own time, you wouldn’t have no trouble. Recollect braggin’ that-a-way?”

“Yas,” I answers, meeker’n Moses. “But Hairoil, that was ’fore I met Macie.”

“So it was,” he says. Then, after a minute, “I s’pose nothin’ could keep her in Briggs much longer.”

I shook my haid. “The ole man won’t let her fetch a dud offen the ranch, and so she’s havin’ a couple of dresses made. I figger that when they git done, she’ll–she’ll go.”

“How long from now?”

“About two weeks–accordin’ to what Mollie Brown tole me.”

“Um,” says Hairoil, and went on chawin’ his cud. Fin’lly, he begun again, and kinda like he was feelin’ ’round. “Don’t you think Mace Sewell is took up with the romance part of this singin’ proposition?” he ast. “That’s my idear. And I think that if she was showed that her and you was also a romance, why, she’d give up goin’ to Noo York. Now, it might be possible to–to git her t’ see things right–if they was a little scheme, say.”

I got up. “No, Hairoil,” I says, “no little scheme is a-goin’ t’ be played on Macie. A-course, I done it fer Rose and Billy; but Macie,–wal, Macie is diff’rent. I want t’ win her in the open. And I’ll be jiggered if I stand fer any underhand work.”

“It needn’t t’ be what you’d call underhand,” answers Hairoil.

“Pardner,” I says, “don’t talk about it no more. You make me plumb nervous, like crumbs in the bed.”

And so he shut up.

But now when I recall that conversation of ourn, and think back on what begun t’ happen right afterwards, it seemed blamed funny that I didn’t suspicion somethin’ was wrong. The parson was mixed up in it, y’ savvy, and the sheriff, and Billy Trowbridge–all them three I’d helped out in one way ’r another. And Hairoil was in it, too–and he’d said oncet that he was a-goin’ t’ marry me off. So why didn’t I ketch on! Wal, I shore was a yap!

Next day, Hairoil didn’t even speak of Mace. I thought he’d clean fergot about her. He was all excited over somethin’ else–the ’lection of a sheriff. And ’fore he got done tellin’ me about it, I was some excited, too–fer all I was half sick account of my own troubles.

The ’lection of a sheriff, y’ savvy, means a’ awful lot to a passel of cow-punchers. We don’t much keer who’s President of the United States. (We been plumb covered with proud flesh these six years, though, ’cause Roos’velt, he’s a puncher.) We don’t much keer, neither, who’s Gov’ner of Oklahomaw. But you can bet you’ bottom dollar it makes a heap of diff’rence who’s our sheriff. If you git a friend in office, you can breathe easy when you have a little disagreement; if you don’t, why, you git ’lected–t’ the calaboose!

Now, what Hairoil come and rep’esented to me was this: That Hank Shackleton, editor of The Briggs City Eye-Opener, ’d been lickerin’ up somethin’ turrible the last twenty-four hours.

“Hank?” I says to Hairoil, plumb surprised. “Why, I didn’t know he ever took more ’n a glass.”

“A glass!” repeats Hairoil disgusted. “He ain’t used no glass this time; he used a funnel. And you oughta see his paper that come out this mornin’. It’s full on the one side, where a story’s allus printed, but the opp’site page looks like somethin’ ’d hit it–O. K. far’s advertisements go, but the news is as skurse as hen’s teeth, and not a word about Bergin.”

“You don’t say! But–what does that matter, Hairoil?”

“What does that matter! Why, if Hank gits it into his haid to keep on tankin’ that-a-way (till he plumb spills over, by jingo!) the Eye-Opener won’t show up again fer a month of Sundays. Now, we need it, account of this ’lection, and the way Hank is actin’ has come home to roost with ev’ry one of us. You been worried, Cupid, and you ain’t noticed how this sheriff sittywaytion is. The Goldstone Tarantula is behind the Republican candidate, Walker––”

“Walker! That critter up fer sheriff?”

“Yas. And, a-course, Hank’s been behind Bergin t’ git him re’lected fer the ’leventh time.”

“I know, and Bergin’s got t’ win. Why, Bergin’s the only fit man.”

“Wal, now, if our paper cain’t git in and crow the loudest, and tell how many kinds of a swine the other feller is, how’s Bergin goin’ t’ win?”

“I don’t know.”

“Neither do I. (You see how ticklish things is?) Wal, here’s Hank in no shape to make any kind of a newspaper fight, but just achin’ t’ use his gun on anybody that comes nigh him. Why, I never seen such a change in a man in all my born life!”

I was surprised some more. I didn’t know Hank packed a gun. He was a darned nice cuss, and ev’rybody shore liked him, and he’d never been laid up fer repairs account of somethin’ he’d put in his paper. He was square, smart’s a steel-trap, and white clean through. Had a handshake that was hung on a hair-trigger, and a smile so winnin’ that he could coax the little prairie-dawgs right outen they holes.

Hairoil goes on. “I can see Briggs City eatin’ the shucks when it comes ’lection-day,” he says, “and that Goldstone man cabbagin’ the sheriff’s office. Buckshot Milliken tole me this mornin’ that the Tarantula called Bergin ‘a slouch’ last week; ‘so low-down he'd eat sheep,’ too, and ‘such a blamed pore shot he couldn’t hit the side of a barn.’”

“That’s goin’ too far.”

“So I say. I wanted Bergin t’ go over to Goldstone and give ’em a sample of his gun-play that’d interfere with the printin’ of they one-hoss sheet. But Bergin said it was no use–the Tarantula editor is wearin’ a sheet-iron thing-um-a-jig acrosst his back and his front, and has to use a screw-driver t’ take off his clothes.”“The idear of Hank actin’ like a idjit when the ’lection depends on him!” I says. “Wal, things is outen kilter.”

“Sh-sh-sh!” says Hairoil, lookin’ round quick. “Be awful keerful what you say about Hank. We don’t want no shootin’-scrape here.”

But I didn’t give a continental who heerd me. I was sore t’ think a reg’lar jay-hawk ’d been put up agin our man! Say, that Walker didn’t know beans when the bag was open. His name shore fit him, ’cause he couldn’t ride a hoss fer cold potatoes. And he was the kind that gals think is a looker, and allus stood ace-high at a dance. Lately, he’d been more pop’lar than ever. When we had that little set-to with Spain, Walker hiked out to the Coast; and didn’t show up again till after the California boys come home from Manila. Then, he hit town, wearin’ a’ army hat, and chuck full of all kinds of stories about the Philippines, and how he’d been in turrible fights. That got the girls travelin’ after him two-forty. Why, at Goldstone, they was all a-goin’ with him, seems like.

I didn’t want him fer sheriff, you bet you’ boots. He wasn’t no friend to us Briggs City boys any more ’n we was to him. And then, none of us believed that soldier hand-out. Y’ know, we had a little bunch of fellers from this section that went down t’ Cuba with Colonel Roos’velt and chased the Spanish some. Wal, y’ never heerd them crowin’ ’round about what they done. And this Walker, he blowed too much t’ be genuwine.

“If he’s ’lected sheriff, it’s goin’ t’ be risky business gittin’ in to a’ argyment with anybody,” I says. “He’d just like t’ git one of us jugged. Say, what’s goin’ to be did fer Hank?”

“Wal,” answers Hairoil, mouth screwed up anxious, “we’re in a right serious fix. So they’s to be a sorta convention this afternoon, and we’re a-goin’ t’ cut out whisky whilst the session lasts.”

“I’ll come. Walker fer sheriff! Huh!”

“Good fer you! So long.”

“So long.”

We made fer the council-tent at three o’clock–the bunch of us. The deepot waitin’-room was choosed, that bein’, as the boys put it, “the most respectable public place in town that wouldn’t want rent.” Wal, we worked our jaws a lot, goin’ over the sittywaytion from start to finish. “Gents let’s hear what you-all got to say,” begun Chub Flannagan, standin’ up. Doc Trowbridge was next. “I advise you to rope Shackleton,” he says, “and lemme give him some hoss liniment t’ put him on his laigs.” (We was agreed that the hull business depended on the Eye-Opener.) But the rest of us didn’t favour Billy’s plan. So we ended by pickin’ a ’lection committee. No dues, no by-laws, no chairman. But ev’ry blamed one of us a sergeant-at-arms with orders t’ keep Hank Shackleton outen the saloons. ’Cause why? If he could buck up, and stay straight, and go t’ gittin’ out the Eye-Opener, Bergin ’d shore win out.

“Gents,” says Monkey Mike, “soon as ever Briggs hears of our committee, we’re a-goin’ t’ git pop’lar with the nice people, ’cause we’re tryin’ t’ help Hank. And we’re also goin’ t’ git a black eye with the licker men account of shuttin’ off the Shackleton trade. A-course, us punchers must try t’ make it up t’ the thirst-parlours fer the loss, though I admit it ’ll not be a’ easy proposition. But things is desp’rate. If Walker gits in, we’ll have a nasty deputy-sheriff sent up here t’ cross us ev’ry time we make a move. We got t’ work, gents. You know how I feel. By thunder! Bergin treated me square all right over that Andrews fuss.” (Y’ see, Mike’s a grateful little devil, if he does ride like a fool Englishman.)

“Wal,” says Buckshot Milliken, “who’ll be the first sergeant? I call fer a volunteer.”

All the fellers just kept quiet–but they looked at each other, worried like.

“Don’t all speak to oncet,” says Buckshot.

I got up. “I’m willin’ t’ try my hand,” I says.

“Thank y’, Cupid.” It was Buckshot, earnest as the dickens. “But–but we hope you’re goin’ to go slow with Hank. Don’t do nothin’ foolish.”

“What in thunder ’s got into you fellers?” I ast, lookin’ at ’em. “Is Hank got the hydrophoby?”

“You ain’t saw him since he begun t’ drink, I reckon,” says Chub.

“No.”

“Wal, then.”

By this time, I was so all-fired et up with curiosity t’ git a look at Hank that I couldn’t stand it no more. So I got a move on.Hank is a turrible tall feller, and thin as a ramrod. He’s got hair you could flag a train with, and a face as speckled as a turkey aig. And when I come on to him that day, here he was, stretched out on the floor of Dutchy’s back room, mouth wide open, and snorin’ like a rip-saw.

I give his shoulder a jerk. “Here, Hank,” I says, “wake up and pay fer you’ keep. What’s got into you, anyhow. My goodness me!”

He opened his eyes–slow. Next, he sit up, and fixed a’ awful ugly look on me. “Wa-a-al?” he says.

“My friend,” I begun, “Briggs City likes you, and in the present case it’s a-tryin’ t’ make ’lowances, and not chalk nothin’ agin y’, but––”

“Blankety blank Briggs City!” growls Hank. “Ish had me shober and ish had me drunk, and neither way don’t shoot.”

“Now, ole man, I reckon you’re wrong,” I says. “But never mind, anyhow. Just try t’ realise that they ’s a ’lection comin’, and that you got t’ help.”

“Walkersh a friend of mine,” says Hank, and laid down again.

Wal, I didn’t want t’ be there all day. I wanted t’ have some time to myself, y’ savvy, so ’s I could keep track of Mace. So I grabbed him again.

This whack, he got up, straddlin’ his feet out like a mad tarantula, and kinda clawin’ the air. They wasn’t no gun visible on him, but he was loaded, all right. Had a revolver stuck under his belt in front, so ’s the bottom of his vest hid it.

I jerked it out and kicked it clean acrosst the floor. Then I drug him out and started fer the bunk-house with him. Gosh! it was a job!

Wal, the pore cuss didn’t git another swalla of forty-rod that day; and by the next mornin’ he was calm and had a’ appetite. So three of us sergeant-at-arms happened over to see him. Bill Rawson was there a’ready, keepin’ him comp’ny. And first thing y’ know, I was handin’ that editor of ourn great big slathers of straight talk.

“I know what you done fer me, Cupid,” says Hank. “And I’m grateful,–yas, I am. But let me tell you that when I git started drinkin’, I cain’t stop–never do till I’m just wored out ’r stone broke. And I git mean, and on the fight, and don’t know what I’m doin’. But,” he con-tinues (his face was as long as you’ arm), “if you-all ’ll fergive me, and let this spree pass, why, I’ll go back t’ takin’ water at the railroad tank with the Sante Fee ingines.”

“Hank,” I says, “you needn’t t’ say nothin’ further. But pack no more loads, m’ son, pack no more loads. And try t’ git out another EyeOpener. Not only is this sheriff matter pressin’, but the lit’rary standin’ of Briggs City is at stake.”

“That’s dead right,” he says. “And I’ll git up a’ issue of the Opener pronto–only you boys ’ll have t’ help me out some on the news part. I don’t recollect much that’s been happenin’ lately.”

Wal, things looked cheerfuller. So, ’fore long, I was back at the deepot, settin’ on a truck and watchin’ the eatin’-house windas, and the boys–Bergin and all–was lined up ’longside Dutchy’s bar, celebratin’.

But our work was a long, l-o-n-g way from bein’ done. Hank kept sober just five hours. Then he got loose from Hairoil and made fer a thirst-parlour. And when Hairoil found him again, he was fuller’n a tick.

“I’m blue as all git out about what’s happened,” says Hairoil. “But I couldn’t help it; it was just rotten luck. And I hear that when the Tarantula come out yesterday it had a hull column about that Walker, callin’ him a brave ex-soldier and the next sheriff of Woodward County.”

“And just ten days ’fore ’lection!” chips in Bill Rawson. “Cupid, it’s root hawg ’r die!”

“That’s what it is,” I says. “Wal, I’ll go git after Hank again.”

He was in Dutchy’s, same as afore. But not so loaded, this time, and a blamed sight uglier. Minute he seen me, his back was up! “Here, you snide puncher,” he begun, “you tryin’ to arrest me? Wal, blankety blank blank,” (fill it in the worst you can think of–he was beefin’ somethin’ awful) “I’ll have you know that I ain’t never ’lowed no man t’ put the bracelets on me.” And his hand went down and begun feelin’ fer the butt of a gun.

“Look oudt!” whispers Dutchy. “You vill git shooted!”

But I only just walked over and put a’ arm ’round Hank. “Now, come on home,” I says, like I meant it. “’Cause y’ know, day after t’-morra another Eye-Opener has got to rise t’ the top. Hank, think of Bergin!”

He turned on me then, and give me such a push in the chest that I sit down on the floor–right suddent, too. Wal, that rubbed me the wrong way. And the next thing he knowed, I had him by the back of the collar, and was a-draggin’ him out.

I was plumb wored out by the time I got him home, and so Chub, he stayed t’ watch. I went back to the deepot. And I was still a-settin’ there, feelin’ lonesome, and kinda put out, too, when here come Buckshot Milliken towards me.

“I think Hank oughta be ’shamed of hisself,” he says, “fer the way he talks about you. Course, we know why he does it, and that it ain’t true––”

“What’s he got t’ say about me?” I ast, huffy.

“He said you was a ornery hoodlum,” answers Buckshot, “and a loafer, and that he’s a-goin’ t’ roast you in his paper. He’d put Oklahomaw on to you, he said.”

“Huh!”

“And you been such a good friend t’ Hank,” goes on Buckshot. “Wal, don’t it go to show!”“If he puts on single word about me in that paper of hisn,” I says, gittin’ on my ear good and plenty, “I’ll just natu’ally take him acrosst my knee and give him a spankin’.”

“And he’ll put enough slugs in you t’ make a sinker,” answers Buckshot. “Why, Cupid, Hank Shackleton can fight his weight in wildcats. You go slow.”

“But he cain’t shoot,” I says.

“He cain’t shoot!” repeats Buckshot. “Why, I hear he was a reg’lar gun-fighter oncet, and so blamed fancy with his shootin’ that he could drive a two-penny nail into a plank at twenty yards ev’ry bit as good as a carpenter.”

“Wal,” I says, “I’ll be blasted if that’s got me scairt any.”

Buckshot shook his haid. “I’m right sorry t’ see any bad blood ’twixt y’,” he says.

Next thing, it was all over town that Hank was a-lookin’ fer me.

Afterwards, I heerd that it was Hairoil tole Macie about it. “You know,” he says to her, “whenever Hank’s loaded and in hollerin’ distance of a town, you can shore bet some one’s goin’ t’ git hurt.”Mace, she looked a little bit nervous. But she just said, “I reckon Alec can take keer of hisself.” Then off she goes to pick out a trunk at Silverstein’s.

I reckon, though, that ole Silverstein ’d heerd about the trouble, too. So when Mace come back to the eatin’-house, she sit down and writ me a letter. “Friend Alec,” it said, “I want to see you fer a minute right after supper. Macie Sewell.”

It was four o’clock then. Supper was a good two hours off. Say! how them two hours drug!

But all good things come to a’ end–as the feller said when he was strung up on a rope. And the hands of my watch loped into they places when they couldn’t hole back no longer. Then, outen the door on the track side of the eatin’-house, here she come!

My little gal! I was hungry t’ talk to her, and git holt of one of her hands. But whilst I watched her walk toward me, I couldn’t move, it seemed like; and they was a lump as big as a baseball right where my Adam’s apple oughta be.

“Macie!”

She stopped and looked straight at me, and I seen she’d been cryin’. “Alec,” she says, “I didn’t mean t’ give in and see you ’fore I went. But they tole me you and Hank ’d had words. And–and I couldn’t stay mad no longer.”

“Aw, honey, thank y’!”

“I ain’t a-goin’ away t’ stay,” she says. “Leastways, I don’t think so. But I want a try at singin’, Alec,–a chanst. Paw’s down on me account of that. And he don’t even come in town no more. Wal, I’m sorry. But–you understand, Alec, don’t y’?”

“Yas, little gal. Go ahaid. I wouldn’t hole you back. I want you should have a chanst.”

“And if I win out, I want you t’ come to Noo York and hear me sing. Will y’, Alec?”

“Ev’ry night, I’ll go out under the cottonwoods, by the ditch, and I’ll say, ‘Gawd, bless my little gal.’”

“I won’t fergit y’, Alec.”

I turned my haid away. Off west they was just a little melon-rind of moon in the sky. As I looked, it begun to dance, kinda, and change shape. “I’ll allus be waitin’,” I says, after a little, “–if it’s five years, ’r fifty, ’r the end of my life.”“They won’t never be no other man, Alec. Just you––”

“Macie!”

That second, we both heerd hollerin’ acrosst the street. Then here come Hairoil, runnin’, and carryin’ a gun.

“Cupid,” he says, pantin’, “take this.” (He shoved the gun into my hand.) “Miss Macie, git outen the way. It’s Hank!”

Quick as I could, I moved to one side, so’s she wouldn’t be in range.

“Ye-e-e-oop!”

As Hank rounded the corner, he was staggerin’ some, and wavin’ his shootin’-iron. “I’m a Texas bad man,” he yelps; “I’m as ba-a-ad as they make ’em, and tough as bull beef.” Then, he went tearin’ back’ards and for’ards like he’d pull up the station platform. “Hey!” he goes on. “I’ve put a lot of fellers t’ sleep with they boots on! Come ahaid if you want t’ git planted in my private graveyard!”

Next, and whilst Mace was standin’ not ten feet back of him, he seen me. He spit on his pistol hand, and started my way.

“You blamed polecat,” he hollered, “I’ll learn you t’ shoot off you’ mouth when it ain’t loaded! You’ hands ain’t mates and you’ feet don’t track, and I’m a-goin’ t’ plumb lay you out!”

I just stayed where I was. “What’s in you’ craw, anyhow?” I called back.

He didn’t answer. He let fly!

Wal, sir, I doubled up like a jack-knife, and went down kerflop. The boys got ’round me–say! talk about you’ pale-faces!–and yelled to Hank to stop. He drawed another gun, and, just as I got t’ my feet, went backin’ off, coverin’ the crowd all the time, and warnin’ ’em not t’ mix in.

They didn’t. But someone else did–Mace. Quick as a wink, she reached into a buckboard fer a whip. Next, she run straight up to Hank–and give him a turrible lick!

He dropped his pistols and put his two arms acrosst his eyes. “Mace! don’t!” he hollered. (It’d sobered him, seemed like.) Then, he turned and took to his heels.

That same second, I heerd a yell–Bergin’s voice. Next, the sheriff come tearin’ ’round the corner and tackled Hank. The two hit the ground like a thousand of brick.Mace come runnin’ towards me, then. But the boys haided her off, and wouldn’t let her git clost.

“Blood’s runnin’ all down this side of him,” says Monkey Mike.

Shore enough, it was!

“Chub!” yells Buckshot, “git Billy Trowbridge!”

“Don’t you cry, ner nothin’,” says Hairoil t’ Mace. And whilst he helt her back, they packed me acrosst the platform and up-stairs into one of them rooms over the lunch-counter. And then, ’fore I could say Jack Robinson, they hauled my coat off, put a wet towel ’round my forrid, and put me into bed. After that, they pulled down the curtains, and bunched t’gether on either side of my pilla.

“Shucks!” I says. “I’m all right. Let me up, you blamed fools!”

Just then, Monkey Mike come runnin’ in with the parson, and the parson put out a hand t’ make me be still. “My dear friend,” he says, “I’m sorry this happened.” And he was so darned worried lookin’ that I begun t’ think somethin’ shore was wrong with me, and I laid quiet.Next, the door opened and in come Mace!

The room was so dark she couldn’t see much at first. So, she stepped closter, walkin’ soft, like she didn’t want to jar nobody. “Alec!” she says tearful.

“Macie!”

She stooped over me.

The boys turned they backs.

Aw, my dear little gal! Her lips was cold, and tremblin’.

Wal, then she turned to the bunch, speakin’ awful anxious. “Is he hurt bad?” she ast, low like.

“Naw,” I begun, “I––”

Monkey Mike edged ’twixt me and her, puttin’ one hand over my mouth so ’s I couldn’t talk. “We don’t know exac’ly,” he answers.

“Boys!” she says, like she was astin’ ’em to fergive her; and, “Alec!”

Buckshot said afterwards that it shore was a solemn death-bed scene. The parson was back agin the wall, his chin on his bosom; I was chawin’ the fingers offen Mike, and the rest of the fellers was standin’ t’gether, laughin’ into they hats fit t’ sprain they faces.Billy come in then. “Doc,” says Macie, “save him!”

“I’ll do all I can,” promises Billy. “Let’s hope he’ll pull through.”

“Aw, Alec!” says Mace, again.

Hairoil went up to her. “Mace,” he says, “they’s one thing you can do that’d be a mighty big comfort t’ pore Cupid.”

“What’s that?” she ast, earnest as the devil. “I’ll do anythin’ fer him.”

“Marry him, Mace,” he says, “and try to nuss him back t’ health again.”

I was plumb amazed. “Marry!” I says.

But ’fore I could git any more out, Mike shut off my wind!

Dear little gal! She wasn’t skittish no more: She was so tame she’d ’a’ et right outen my hand. “Parson,” she says, goin’ towards him, “will–will you marry Alec and me–now?”

“Dee-lighted,” says the parson, “–if he is able t’ go through the ceremony.”

“Parson,” I begun, pullin’ my face loose, “I want––”

Mike give me a dig.

I looked at him.He wunk–hard.

And then, I tumbled!

Fer a minute, I just laid back, faint shore enough, thinkin’ what a all-fired sucker I was. And whilst I was stretched out that-a-way, Mace come clost and give me her hand. The parson, he took out a little black book.

“Dearly beloved,” he begun, “we are gathered t’gether––”

It was then I sit up. “Parson, stop!” I says. And to Mace, “Little gal, I ain’t a-goin’ t’ let ’em take no advantage of you. I wasn’t hit in the side. It’s my arm, and it’s only just creased a little.”

Mace kinda blinked, not knowin’ whether t’ be glad ’r not, I reckon.

“And this hull bsuiness,” I goes on, “is a trick.”

Her haid went up, and her cheeks got plumb white. Then, she begun t’ back–slow. “A trick!” she repeats; “–it’s a trick! Aw, how mean! how mean! I didn’t think you was like that!”

“Me, Mace? It wasn’t––”

“A trick!” she goes on. “But I’m glad I found it out–yas. This afternoon when I was talkin’ to y’, I wanted t’ stay right here in Briggs–I wanted t’ stay with you. If you’d just said you wisht I would; if you’d just turned over you’ hand, why, I’d ’a’ give up the trip. My heart was achin’ t’ think I was goin’. But now, now–” And she choked up.

“Macie!” I says. “Aw, don’t!” Somehow I was beginnin’ t’ feel kinda dizzy and sick.

She faced the parson. “And you was in it, too!–you!” she says.

“I’d do anythin’ t’ keep you from goin’ t’ Noo York,” he answers, “and from bein’ a’ actress.”

She looked at Billy next. “The hull town was in it!” she went on. “Ev’rybody was ready t’ git me fooled; t’ make me the josh of the county!”

“No, no, little gal,” I answers, and got to my feet byside the bed. “Not me, honey!”

She only just turned and opened the door. “I don’t wonder the rest of you ain’t got nothin’ t’ say,” she says. “Why, I ain’t never heerd of anythin’ so–so low.” And haid down, and sobbin’, she went out.

I tried t’ foller, but my laigs was sorta wobbley. I got just a step ’r two, and put a’ arm on Billy’s shoulder.

The boys went out then, too, not sayin’ a word, but lookin’ some sneaky.

“Bring her back,” I called after ’em. “Aw, I’ve hurt my pore little gal!” I started t’ walk again, leanin’ on the doc. “Boys!––”

Next thing, over I flopped into Billy’s arms.

When I come to, a little later on, here was Billy settin’ byside me, a’ awful sober look on his face.

“Billy,” I says to him, “where is she?”

“Cupid–don’t take it hard, ole man–she’s–she’s gone. Boarded the East-bound not half a’ hour ago. But, pardner––”

Gone!

I didn’t answer him. I just rolled over onto my face.