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 par_tic_ular. 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 _ad_vise 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 _con_tinue 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 can_di_-dates. Why, 'fore
long, ev'ry bach in town had his cap set fer Mrs. Bridger--that's
_straight_. All other subjects of _po_lite 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. _Con_sequently, 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 _ad_vice 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 _con_tinues.
"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
_no_body 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 _con_sider 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 _no_how. _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 _ex_perience. 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 _pre_pared 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, _con_siderin' what come of it, it shore
was fortu_nate_ 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-_po_ssess 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 _re_sponsible, 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 _ad_mit 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," _con_tinues
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 _no_body 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 coy_o_tes.
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, _any_how.
But neither hide 'r hair of them pigs!