AW! them first days out at the Bar Y ranch-house!--them first days!
_No_body 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:
"Sweet is the vale where the Mohawk gently glides
On its fair, windin' way to the sea----"
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
inter_ested_ 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
_ex_plain.
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,--"Caesar 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 _con_tinued.
"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 _di_rection. 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
_con_signed 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 _di_rect 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' _po_ssessions
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:
"He never keers to wander from his own fireside;
He never keers to ramble 'r to roam.
With his baby on his knee,
He's as happy as can be-e-e,
Cause they's no-o-o place like home, sweet home."
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 _de_scribed 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,
affection_ate_ 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.