UP to the day of the sheriff's weddin', I reckon I was about the
happiest feller that's ever been in these parts. Gee! but I was in
high spirits! It'd be Macie's and my turn next, I figgered, and if
the ole man didn't like it, he could just natu'lly lump it. So when
I walked through Briggs, why, I hit both sides of the street, exac'ly
as if I was three sheets in the wind.
But--this was one time when you' friend Cupid was just a little bit too
previous. And I want to say right here that _no_ feller needs to think
he's the hull shootin'-match with a gal, and has the right-a-way,
like a wild-cat ingine on a' open track, just 'cause she's ast him
to write in her autograph-album. It don't mean such a blamed lot,
neither, if his picture is stuck 'longside of hern on top of the
organ. Them signs is encouragin', a-course; but he'd best take his
coat off and _git to work_. Even when she's give all the others the
G. B., and has gone to church with him about forty Sunday evenin's,
hand runnin', and has allus saved him the grand march and the last waltz
at the Fireman's Ball, and mebbe six 'r seven others bysides, why,
even _then_ it's a toss-up. Yas, ma'am. It took hard knocks t' learn
me that they's nothin' dead certain short of the parson's "amen."
Y' see, you can plug a' Injun, and kick a dawg, and take a club to a
mule; but when it's a gal, and a feller thinks a turrible lot of her,
and she's so all-fired skittish he cain't manage her, and so eludin'
he cain't find her no two times in the same place, _what's he goin'
to do?_ Wal, they ain't no reg'lar way of proceedin'--ev'ry man has
got to blaze his own trail.
But I couldn't, and that was the hull trouble. I know now that when
it come to dealin' with Mace, I shore was a darned softy. That little
Muggins could twist me right 'round her finger--and me not know it!
One minute, she'd pallaver me fer further orders, whilst I'd look
into them sweet eyes of hern till I was plumb dizzy; the next, she'd
be cuttin' up some dido 'r other and leadin' me a' awful chase.
Then, mebbe, I'd git sore at her, and think mighty serious about
shakin' the Bar Y dust offen my boots fer good. "Cupid," I'd say to
myself, "git you' duds t'gether, and do you' blankets up in you'
poncho."
Just about then, here she come lopin' home from town, her hoss cuttin'
up like Sam Hill, and her a-settin' so straight and cute. She'd look
towards the bunk-house, see me, motion me over with her quirt, and--wal,
a-course, I'd go.
I made my _first_ big beefsteak at the very beginnin'. Somehow 'r
other, right from the minute we had our confidential talk t'gether back
of Silverstein's, that last night of the Medicine Show. I got it into my
fool haid that I as good as had her, and that all they was left to be
did was t' git 'round the ole man. Wal, this idear worked fine as
long as we was so busy with Bergin's courtin'. But when the sheriff
was hitched, and me and the little gal got a recess, my! _my!_ but a
heap of things begun t' happen!
They started off like this: The parson wanted money fer t' buy some
hymn-books with. So he planned a' ice-cream social and entertainment,
and ast Mace to go down on the pro_gram_ fer a song. She was willin'; I
was, _too_. So far, ev'ry-thin' smooth as glare-ice.
But fer a week afore that social, they was a turrible smell of gasoline
outside the sittin'-room of the Bar Y ranch-house. That's 'cause
Doctor Bugs come out ev'ry day--to fetch a Goldstone woman from the
up-train. (That blamed sulky of hisn 'd been stuck t'gether with flour
paste by now, y' savvy, and was in apple-pie order.) After the woman 'd
git to the ranch-house, why, the organ 'd strike up. Then you could
hear Macie's voice--doin', "_do, ray, me._" Next, she'd break loose
a-singin'. And pretty soon the doc and the woman 'd go.
Wal, I didn't like it. Y' see, I've allus noticed that if a city
feller puts hisself out fer you a hull lot, he expects you t' give
him a drink, 'r vote fer him, 'r loan him some money. And why was
Bugsey botherin' t' make so many trips to the Bar Y? _I_ knowed what
it was. It was just like Hairoil 'd said--he wanted my Macie.
One night, I says to her, "What's that Goldstone woman doin' out here
so much, honey?"
"Givin' me music lessons," she answers.
"I know," I says. "But you don't need no lessons. You sing good
enough t' suit me right now."
"Wal, I don't sing good enough t' suit myself. And bein' as I'm on
that pro_gram_----"
"Wal, just the same," I cut in, "I don't like that Simpson hangin'
'round here."
"Alec," she come back, stiffenin' right up, "it's my place to say
who comes into this ranch-house, and who don't."
"But, look a-here! Folks 'll think you like him better'n you do me."
"Aw, that's crazy."
"It ain't. And I won't have him 'round."
Then, she got _turrible po_lite. "I'm sorry, Mister Lloyd," she says,
"but I'm a-goin' t' take my lessons."
Wal, the long and short of it is, she did--right up t' the very day of
the social.
"All right," I says to myself; "but just wait till this shindig is
over." And when Mace and her paw started fer town that evenin', I
saddled up my bronc and follered 'em.
Simpson was kinda in charge of that social. He got up and made a'
openin' speech, sayin' they was lots of ice-cream and cake fer sale,
and he hoped we'd all shell out good. Then, he begun t' read off
the pro_gram_.
"We have with us t'night," he says, "one of the finest and best
trained voices in this hull United States--a voice that I wouldn't be
surprised if it 'd be celebrated some day."