It was Macie Sewell singin’. Ole Number 201 ’d just pulled outen Briggs City, haided southwest with her freight of tenderfeet, and with Ingineer Dave Reynolds stickin’ in his spurs to make up lost time. The passengers ’d had twenty-five minutes fer a good grubbin’-up at the eatin’-house, and now the little gal was help-in’ the balance of the Harvey bunch to clear off the lunch-counter. Whilst she worked, she was chirpin’ away like she’d plumb bust her throat.

I was outside, settin’ on a truck with Up-State. He was watchin’ acrosst the rails, straight afore him, and listenin’, and I could see he was swallerin’ some, and his eyes looked kinda like he’d been ridin’ agin the wind. When I shifted my position, he turned the other way quick, and coughed–that pore little gone-in cough of hisn.Wal, I felt pretty bad myself; and I seen somethin’ turrible was wrong with Up-State–I couldn’t just make out what. Pretty soon, I put my hand on his arm, and I says, “I don’t want t’ worm anythin’ outen you, ole man; I just want t’ say I’m you’ friend.”

“Cupid,” he whispers back, “it’s The Mohawk Vale.”

(He allus whispered, y’ savvy; couldn’t talk out loud no more, bein’ so turrible shy on lung.)

“Is that a bony fido place?” I ast, “’r just made up a-purpose fer the song?”

“It’s my country,” he whispers, slow and husky, and begun gazin’ acrosst to the mesquite again. “And, Cupid, it’s a beautiful country!”

“I reckon,” I says. “It’s likely got Oklahomaw skinned t’ death.”

Up-State, he didn’t answer that–too polite. Aw, he was a gent, too, same as the parson.

Minute ’r so, Macie struck up again–

Up-State lent over, elbows on his knees, face in his hands, and begun tremblin’–Why, y’ know, even a hoss ’ll git homesick. Now, I brung a flea-bitten mare from down on the lower Cimarron oncet, and blamed if that little son-of-a-gun didn’t hoof it all the way back, straighter ’n a string! Yas, ma’am. And so, a-course, it’s natu’al fer a man. Wal, I ketched on to how things was with Up-State, and I moseyed.

I was at the deepot pretty frequent them days–waitin’. Macie hadn’t talked to me none yet, and mebbe she wouldn’t. But I was on hand in case the notion ’d strike her.

Her hangin’ out agin me and her paw tickled them eatin’-house Mamies turrible. They thought her idear of earnin’ her own money, and then goin’ East to be a’ op’ra singer, was just grand.

But the rest of the town felt diff’rent. And behind my back all the women folks and the boys that knowed me was sayin’ it was a darned shame. They figgered that a gal gone loco on the stage proposition wouldn’t make no kind of a wife fer a cow-punch. “Would she camp down in Oklahomaw,” they says, “and cook three meals a day, and wash out blue shirts, when she’s set on gittin’ up afore a passel of highflyers and yelpin’ ‘Marguerite’? Nixey.”

Next thing, one day at Silverstein’s, here come the parson to me, lookin’ worried. “Cupid,” he says, “git on the good side of that gal as quick as ever you can–and marry her. The stage is a’ awful place fer a decent gal. Keep her offen it if you love her soul. And if I can help, just whistle.”

I said thank y’, but I was feard marryin’ was a long way off.

“But, Alec,” goes on the parson, “that Simpson has gone back t’ Noo York––”

“What?”

“Yas. He put all his doctor truck into his gasoline wagon last night and choo-chooed outen town. If he’s there, and she goes, wal,–I don’t like the looks of it.”

“I don’t neither, parson. He’s crooked as a cow-path, that feller. Have you tole her paw?”

“No, but I will,” says the parson.

I went over to the deepot again. Havin’ done a little thinkin’, I wasn’t so scairt about Simpson by now. ’Cause why? Wal, y’ see, I knowedMace didn’t have no money; ole Sewell wouldn’t give her none; and she wasn’t the kind of a gal t’ borra. So it was likely she’d be in Briggs fer quite a spell.

I found Up-State settin’ outside the eatin’-house. I sit down byside him. Allus, them days, whenever I come in sight of the station, he was a-hangin’ ’round, y’ savvy. He’d be on a truck, say, ’r mebbe on the edge of the platform. If it was all quiet inside at the lunch-counter, he’d be watchin’ the mesquite, and sorta swingin’ his shoes. But if Macie was singin’, he’d be all scrooched over with his face covered up–and pretty quiet.

When Macie sung, it was The Mohawk Vale ev’ry time. Now, that seemed funny, bein’ she was mad at me and that was my fav’rite song. Then, it didn’t seem so funny. One of the eatin’-house gals tole me, confidential, that Up-State had lots of little chins with Macie acrosst the lunch-counter, and that The Mohawk Vale was “by request.”

I didn’t keer. Let Up-State talk to her as much as he wanted to. He couldn’t make me jealous–not on you’ life! I wasn’t the finest lookin’ man in Oklahomaw, and I wasn’t on right good terms with Mace. But Up-State–wal, Up-State was pretty clost t’ crossin’ the Big Divide.

All this time not a word ’d passed ’twixt Macie and her paw. The ole man was too stiff-necked t’ give in and go to her. (He was figgerin’ that she’d git tired and come home.) And Macie, she wasn’t tired a blamed bit, and she was too stiff-necked t’ give in and go t’ Sewell.

Wal, when the boss heerd about Up-State and Mace, you never seen a man so sore. He said Up-State was aigin’ her on, and no white man ’d do that.

Y’ see, he had some reason fer not goin’ shucks on the singin’ and actin’ breed. We’d had two bunches of op’ra folks in Briggs at diff’rent times. One come down from Wichita, and was called “The Way to Ruin.” (Wal, it shore looked its name!) The other was “The Wild West Troupe” from Dallas. This last wasn’t West–it was from Noo York direct–but you can bet you’ boots it was wild all right. By thunder! you couldn’t ’a’ helt nary one of them young ladies with a hoss-hair rope!But fer a week of Sundays, he didn’t say nothin’ to Up-State. He just boiled inside, kinda. Then one day–when he’d got enough steam up, I reckon,–why, he opened wide and let her go.

“Up-State,” he begun, “I’m sorry fer you, all right, but––”

Up-State looked at him. “Sewell,” he whispers, “I don’t want no man’s pity.”

“Listen to me,” says the boss. “Macie’s my little gal–the only child I got left now, and I warn you not to go talkin’ actress to her.”

“Don’t holler ’fore you git hit,” whispers Up-State, smilin’.

The boss got worse mad then. “Look a-here,” he says, “don’t give me none of that. You know you lie––”

Up-State shook his haid. “I’m not a man any more, Sewell,” he whispers. “I’m just what’s left of one. I didn’t used to let nobody hand out things that flat to me.”

I stuck in my lip. (One more time couldn’t hurt.) “Now, Sewell,” I says, “put on the brake.”

He got a holt on hisself then. “This ain’t no josh to me, Cupid,” he says. (He was tremblin’, pore ole cuss!) “What you think I heerd this mornin’? Mace ain’t makin’ enough money passin’ slumgullion to them passenger cattle all day, so she’s a-goin’ over to Silverstein’s ev’ry night after this to fix up his books. I wisht now I’d never sent her t’ business college.”

Just then–

Up-State lent over, his elbows on his knees, and his face in his hands.

The boss looked at me. I give a jerk of my haid to show him he’d best go. And he walked off, grindin’ his teeth.

It seemed to me I could hear Up-State whisperin’ into his fingers. I stooped over. “What is it, pardner?” I ast.

“It’s full of home,” he says, “–it’s full of home! Cupid! Cupid!” (Darned if I don’t wisht them lungers wouldn’t come down here, anyhow. They plumb give a feller the misery.)

Doc Trowbridge stopped by just then. “How you makin’ it t’-day, Up-State?” he ast.

Up-State got to his feet, slow though, and put a hand on Billy’s shoulder. “The next sandstorm, ole man,” he says; “the next sandstorm.”

“Up-State,” says Billy, “buck up. You got more lives’n a cat.”

“No show,” Up-State whispers back.

He was funny that-a-way. Now, most lungers fool theyselves. Allus “goin’ to git better,” y’ savvy. But Up-State–he knew.

“Come over to my tent t’-night,” he goes on to Billy. “I got somethin’ I want to talk to you about.”

“All right,” says Billy. “Two haids is better ’n one, if one is a sheep’s haid.”

After supper, I passed Silverstein’s two ’r three times, and about nine o’clock I seen Macie. She was ’way back towards the end of the store, a lamp and a book in front of her; and she was a-workin’ like a steam-thrasher.

Somehow it come over me all to oncet then that she’d meant ev’ry single word she said, and that, sooner ’r later–she was goin’. Goin’. And I’d be stayin’ behind. I looked ’round me. Say! Briggs City didn’t show up much. “Without her,” I says, (they was that red-hot-iron feelin’ inside of me again) “–without her, what is it?–the jumpin’-off place!”

Beyond me, a piece, was Up-State’s tent. A light was burnin’ inside it, too, and Doc Trowbridge was settin’ in the moonlight by the openin’. Behind him, I could see Up-State, writin’.

I trailed home to my bunk. But you can understand I didn’t sleep good. And ’way late, I had a dream. I dreamed the Bar Y herd broke fence and stampeded through Briggs, and after ’em come about a hunderd bull-whackers, all a-layin’ it on to them steers with the flick of they lashes -zip, zip, zip, zip.

Next mornin, I woke quick–with a jump, y’ might say. I looked at my nickel turnip. It was five-thirty. I got up. The sun was shinin’, the air was nice and clear and quiet and the larks was just singin’ away. But outside, along the winda-sill, was stretched a’ inch-wide trickle of sand!

In no time I was hoofin’ it down the street. When I got to Up-State’s tent, Billy Trowbridge was inside it, movin’ ’round, puttin’ stuff into a trunk, and–wipin’ the sand outen his eyes.

“He was right?” I says, when I goes in, steppin’ soft, and whisperin’–like Up-State ’d allus whispered. Billy turned to me and kinda smiled, fer all he felt so all-fired bad. “Yas, Cupid,” he says, “he was right. One more storm.”

Just then, from the station–

Billy walked over to the bed and looked down. “Up-State, ole man,” he says, “you’re a-goin’ back to the Mohawk.”

Up-State left two letters behind him–one fer me and one fer Billy. The doc didn’t show hisn; said it wouldn’t be just profeshnal–yet. But mine he ast me to read to the boss.

Wal, y’ see, the ole man ’d been right all along–Up-State was sidin’ with Mace. Somehow though, I couldn’t feel hard agin him fer it. I knowed that she’d go–help ’r no help.

But Sewell, he didn’t think like me, and I never seen a man take on the way he done. Crazy mad, he was, swore blue blazes, and said things that didn’t sound so nice when a feller remembered that Up-State was face up and flat on his back fer keeps–and goin’ home in the baggage-car.

I tell you, the boys was nice to me that day. “The little gal won’t fergit y’, Cupid,” they says, and “Never you mind, Cupid, it’ll all come out in the wash.”

I thanked ’em, a-course. But with Macie fixed to go (far’s money went), and without makin’ friends with me, neither, what under the shinin’ sun could chirk me up? Wal, nothin’ could.