"And," Simpson goes on, "the young lady that owns it is a-goin' t'
give us the first number." And he bowed--Shore enough!
Wal, she sung. It was somethin' about poppies, and it was awful sad,
and had love in it. I liked it pretty nigh as good as The Mohawk Vale.
But the ole man, he didn't. And when she was done, and settin' next him
again, he said out loud, so's a lot of people heerd him, "I'm not
stuck on havin' you singin' 'round 'fore ev'ry-body. And that Noo
York Doc is too blamed fresh."
"Paw!" she says, like she was ashamed of him.
"I _mean_ it," he says, and jerked his haid to one side.
Wal, y' know, Mace got her temper offen him, and never handed it back.
So all durin' the social, they had it--up and down. I couldn't ketch
all what they said--only little bits, now and then. "Cheek," I heard
the boss say oncet, and Mace come back with somethin' about not bein'
"a baby."
Afterwards, when the ole man was out gittin' the team, she come over t'
me, lookin' awful appealin'. "Alec," she says, like she expected I'd
shore sympathise with her, "did you hear what paw said? Wasn't it mean
of him?"
I looked down at my boots. Then, I looked straight at her. "Mace," I
says, "he's right. Mebbe you'll git mad at me, too, fer sayin' it.
But that Simpson's tryin' t' cut me out--and so he's givin' you all
this taffy about your voice."
"Taffy!" she says, fallin' back a step. "Then you didn't _like my
singin'._"
"Why, yas, I did," I answers, follerin' along after her. "I thought
it was _fine._"
But she only shook her haid--like she was hurt--and clumb into the
buckboard.
I worried a good deal that night. The more I turned over what Simpson 'd
said, the more I wondered if I knowed all they was to his game. What
was he drivin' at with that "celebrated" business? Then, too, it
wouldn't do Mace no good t' be puffed up so much. She'd been 'lected
the prettiest gal. Now she'd been tole she had a way-up voice. 'Fore
long, she'd git the big haid.
"Wal, I'll put a qui_e_tus on it," I says. And, next mornin', when I
seen her, I opened up like this: "Honey, I reckon we've waited just
about long enough. So we git married Sunday week."
"That's too soon," she answers. "We got t' git paw on our side. And
I ain't got no new clothes."
"We'll splice first and ast him about it afterwards. And when you're
Mrs. Alec, I'll git you all the clothes you want." (Here's where I
clean fergot the _ad_vice she give me that time in the sheriff's case:
"In love affairs," was what she said, "don't never try t' drive
_no_body.")
"But, Alec,----" she begun.
"Sunday week, Mace," I says. "We'll talk about it t'-night."
But that night Monkey Mike come nigh blowin' his lungs out; and I waited
under the cottonwoods till I was asleep standin'--and no Macie.
Wasn't it cal'lated t' make any man lose his temper? Wal, I lost mine.
And when we went in town to a party, a night 'r two afterwards, the hull
business come to a haid.
I was plumb sorry about the blamed mix-up. But _no_ feller wants t'
see his gal dance with a kettle-faced greaser. I knowed she was goin' to
fer the reason that I seen Mexic go over her way, showin' his teeth
like a badger and lettin' his cigareet singe the hair on his dirty
shaps--shaps, mind y', at a school-house dance! Then I seen her nod.
Our polka come next. And when we was about half done, I says, "They's
lemonade outside, honey. Let's git a swig." But outside I didn't talk
no lemonade. "Did Mexic ast you to dance with him?" I begun.
"Wal, he's one of our boys," she answers; "and I'm going to give
him a schottische."
"No, you _ain't,_" I come back. "I won't stand fer it."
"Yas, I _am,_ Alec Lloyd,"--she spoke determined,--"and please don't
try to boss me."
I shut up and walked in again. Mexic was talkin' to the
school-ma'am--aw, he's got _gall!_ I shassayed up and took him a little
one side. "Mexic," I says, soft as hair on a cotton-tail, "it's
gittin' on towards mornin' and, natu'lly, Macie Sewell ain't
feelin' just rested; so I wouldn't insist on that schottische, if I was
you."
"Why?" he ast.
"I tole you why," I says; "but I'll give you another reason: You'
boots is too tight."
We fussed a little then. Didn't amount to much, though, 'cause neither
of us had a gun. (Y' see, us punchers don't pack guns no more 'less
we're out ridin' herd and want t' pick off a coy_o_te; 'r 'less
we've had a little trouble and 're lookin' fer some one.) But I
managed to change that greaser's countenance consider'ble, and he bit
a chunk outen my hand. Then the boys pulled us separate.
They was all dead agin me when I tole 'em what was the matter. They said
the other gals danced with Mexic, and bein' Macie was the Bar Y gal,
she couldn't give him the go-by if she took the rest of the outfit fer
pardners.
Just the same, I made up my mind she wouldn't dance with that _greaser_.
And I says to myself, "This is where you show you're a-goin' to
run the Lloyd house. She'll like you all the better if you git the
upper hand." So when I got her coaxed outside again, I led her to
where my bronc was tied. She liked the little hoss, and whilst we was
chinnin', I put her into the saddle. Next minute, I was on behind
her, and the bronc was makin' quick tracks fer home.
Wal, sir, she was madder'n a hen in a thunder-shower. She tried to pull
in the bronc; she twisted and scolted and cried. Tole me she hated me
like arsenic.
"Alec Lloyd," she says, "after t'night, I'll never, never speak to
you again!"
When we rode up to the corral, I lifted her down, and she went tearin'
away to the house. The ole man heerd her comin', and thought she was
singin'. He slung open the door on the porch.
"Aw, give that calf more rope!" he calls out.
Say! she went by him like a streak of lightnin', almost knockin' him
down. And the door slammed so hard you could 'a' heerd it plumb t'
Galveston.
I hung 'round the corral fer as much as half a' hour, listenin' to the
pow-wow goin' on at the house. But nobody seemed to be a-hollerin' fer
me t' come in, so I made fer the straw. "Aw, wal," I says to myself,
"her dander 'll cool off t'-morra."
But the next day, she passed me by without speakin'. And I, like a
sap-head, didn't speak neither. I was on my high hoss,--wouldn't speak
till _she_ did. So off I had t' go to Hasty Creek fer three days--and
no good-bye t' the little gal.
I got back late one afternoon. At the bunk-house, I noticed a change
in the boys. They all seemed just about t' bust over somethin'--not
laughin', y' savvy, but anxious, kinda, and achin' to tell news.