"_Thank_ y', Cupid." It was Buckshot, earnest as the dickens.
"But--but we hope you're goin' to go slow with Hank. Don't do
nothin' foolish."
"What in thunder 's got _into_ you fellers?" I ast, lookin' at 'em.
"Is Hank got the hydrophoby?"
"You ain't saw him since he begun t' drink, I reckon," says Chub.
"No."
"_Wal,_ then."
By this time, I was so all-fired et up with curiosity t' git a look at
Hank that I couldn't stand it no more. So I got a move on.
Hank is a turrible tall feller, and thin as a ramrod. He's got hair you
could flag a train with, and a face as speckled as a turkey aig. And when
I come on to him that day, here he was, stretched out on the floor of
Dutchy's back room, mouth wide open, and snorin' like a rip-saw.
I give his shoulder a jerk. "Here, Hank," I says, "wake up and pay
fer you' keep. What's got into you, anyhow. My goodness me!"
He opened his eyes--slow. Next, he sit up, and fixed a' awful ugly look
on me. "Wa-a-al?" he says.
"My friend," I begun, "Briggs City likes you, and in the present case
it's a-tryin' t' make 'lowances, and not chalk nothin' agin y',
but----"
"Blankety blank Briggs City!" growls Hank. "Ish had me shober and ish
had me drunk, and neither way don't shoot."
"Now, ole man, I reckon you're wrong," I says. "But never mind,
anyhow. Just try t' realise that they 's a 'lection comin', and
that you got t' help."
"Walkersh a friend of mine," says Hank, and laid down again.
Wal, I didn't want t' be there all day. I wanted t' have _some_ time
to myself, y' savvy, so 's I could keep track of Mace. So I grabbed
him again.
This whack, he got up, straddlin' his feet out like a mad tarantula,
and kinda clawin' the air. They wasn't no gun visible on him, but he
was loaded, all right. Had a revolver stuck under his belt in front, so
's the bottom of his vest hid it.
I jerked it out and kicked it clean acrosst the floor. Then I drug him
out and started fer the bunk-house with him. _Gosh!_ it was a job!
Wal, the pore cuss didn't git another swalla of forty-rod that day;
and by the next mornin' he was calm and had a' appetite. So three
of us sergeant-at-arms happened over to see him. Bill Rawson was there
a'ready, keepin' him comp'ny. And first thing y' know, I was handin'
that editor of ourn great big slathers of straight talk.
"_I_ know what you done fer me, Cupid," says Hank. "And I'm
grateful,--yas, I am. But let me tell you that when I git started
drinkin', I cain't _stop_--never do till I'm just wored out 'r
stone broke. And I git mean, and on the fight, and don't know what
I'm doin'. But," he _con_-tinues (his face was as long as you'
arm), "if you-all 'll fergive me, and let this spree pass, why, I'll
go back t' takin' water at the railroad tank with the Sante Fee
ingines."
"Hank," I says, "you needn't t' say nothin' further. But pack
no more loads, m' son, pack no more loads. And _try_ t' git out another
_EyeOpener_. Not only is this sheriff matter pressin', but the lit'rary
standin' of Briggs City is at stake."
"That's dead right," he says. "And I'll git up a' issue of the
_Opener_ pronto--only you boys 'll have t' help me out some on the
news part. I don't recollect much that's been happenin' lately."
Wal, things looked cheerfuller. So, 'fore long, I was back at the
deepot, settin' on a truck and watchin' the eatin'-house windas,
and the boys--Bergin and all--was lined up 'longside Dutchy's bar,
celebratin'.
But our work was a long, l-o-n-g way from bein' done. Hank kept
sober just five hours. Then he got loose from Hairoil and made fer a
thirst-parlour. And when Hairoil found him again, he was fuller'n a tick.
"I'm blue as all git out about what's happened," says Hairoil. "But
I couldn't help it; it was just rotten luck. And I hear that when the
_Tarantula_ come out yesterday it had a hull column about that Walker,
callin' him a brave ex-soldier and the next sheriff of Woodward County."
"And just ten days 'fore 'lection!" chips in Bill Rawson. "Cupid,
it's root hawg 'r die!"
"That's what it is," I says. "Wal, I'll go git after Hank again."
He was in Dutchy's, same as afore. But not so loaded, this time, and
a blamed sight uglier. Minute he _seen_ me, his back was up! "Here, you
snide puncher," he begun, "you tryin' to arrest _me?_ Wal, blankety
blank blank," (fill it in the worst you can think of--he was beefin'
somethin' _awful_) "I'll have you know that I ain't never 'lowed
_no_ man t' put the bracelets on me." And his hand went down and begun
feelin' fer the butt of a gun.
"Look oudt!" whispers Dutchy. "You vill git shooted!"
But I only just walked over and put a' arm 'round Hank. "Now, come on
home," I says, like I meant it. "'Cause y' know, day after t'-morra
another _Eye-Opener_ has _got_ to rise t' the top. Hank, think of
Bergin!"
He turned on me then, and give me such a push in the chest that I sit
down on the floor--right suddent, too. Wal, that rubbed me the wrong way.
And the next thing _he_ knowed, I had him by the back of the collar, and
was a-draggin' him out.
I was plumb wored out by the time I got him home, and so Chub, he stayed
t' watch. I went back to the deepot. And I was still a-settin' there,
feelin' lonesome, and kinda put out, too, when here come Buckshot
Milliken towards me.
"I think Hank oughta be 'shamed of hisself," he says, "fer the way
he talks about you. Course, we know why he does it, and that it ain't
true----"
"What's he got t' say about me?" I ast, huffy.
"He said you was a ornery hoodlum," answers Buckshot, "and a loafer,
and that he's a-goin' t' roast you in his paper. He'd put Oklahomaw
on to _you,_ he said."
"Huh!"
"And you been _such_ a good friend t' Hank," goes on Buckshot. "Wal,
don't it go to show!"
"If he puts on single _word_ about me in that paper of hisn," I says,
gittin' on my ear good and plenty, "I'll just natu'ally take him
acrosst my knee and give him a spankin'."
"And he'll put enough slugs in you t' make a sinker," answers
Buckshot. "Why, Cupid, Hank Shackleton can fight his weight in wildcats.
_You go slow._"
"But _he_ cain't shoot," I says.
"He cain't _shoot!_" repeats Buckshot. "Why, I hear he was a reg'lar
gun-fighter oncet, and so blamed fancy with his shootin' that he could
drive a two-penny nail into a plank at twenty yards ev'ry bit as good
as a carpenter."
"Wal," I says, "I'll be blasted if that's got _me_ scairt any."
Buckshot shook his haid. "I'm right sorry t' see any bad blood 'twixt
y'," he says.
Next thing, it was all over town that Hank was a-lookin' fer me.
Afterwards, I heerd that it was Hairoil tole Macie about it. "You
know," he says to her, "whenever Hank's loaded and in hollerin'
distance of a town, you can shore bet some one's goin' t' git hurt."
Mace, she looked a little bit nervous. But she just said, "I reckon
Alec can take keer of hisself." Then off she goes to pick out a trunk
at Silverstein's.
I reckon, though, that ole Silverstein 'd heerd about the trouble, too.
So when Mace come back to the eatin'-house, she sit down and writ me a
letter. "_Friend Alec,_" it said, "_I want to see you fer a minute
right after supper. Macie Sewell._"
It was four o'clock then. Supper was a good two hours off. Say! how them
two hours drug!
But all good things come to a' end--as the feller said when he was
strung up on a rope. And the hands of my watch loped into they places
when they couldn't hole back no longer. Then, outen the door on the
track side of the eatin'-house, here she come!
My little gal! I was hungry t' talk to her, and git holt of one of her
hands. But whilst I watched her walk toward me, I couldn't move, it
seemed like; and they was a lump as big as a baseball right where my
Adam's apple oughta be.
"Macie!"
She stopped and looked straight at me, and I seen she'd been cryin'.
"Alec," she says, "I didn't mean t' give in and see you 'fore I
went. But they tole me you and Hank 'd had words. And--and I couldn't
stay mad no longer."
"Aw, honey, thank y'!"
"I ain't a-goin' away t' stay," she says. "Leastways, I don't
_think_ so. But I want a try at singin', Alec,--a chanst. Paw's down
on me account of that. And he don't even come in town no more. Wal, I'm
sorry. But--_you_ understand, Alec, don't y'?"
"Yas, little gal. Go ahaid. I wouldn't hole you back. I _want_ you
should have a chanst."
"And if I win out, I want you t' come to Noo York and hear me sing.
Will y', Alec?"
"Ev'ry night, I'll go out under the cottonwoods, by the ditch, and
I'll say, 'Gawd, bless my little gal.'"
"I won't fergit y', Alec."
I turned my haid away. Off west they was just a little melon-rind of
moon in the sky. As I looked, it begun to dance, kinda, and change shape.
"I'll allus be waitin'," I says, after a little, "--if it's five
years, 'r fifty, 'r the end of my life."
"They won't never be no other man, Alec. Just you----"
"Macie!"
That second, we both heerd hollerin' acrosst the street. Then here come
Hairoil, runnin', and carryin' a gun.
"Cupid," he says, pantin', "take this." (He shoved the gun into my
hand.) "Miss Macie, git outen the way. It's Hank!"
Quick as I could, I moved to one side, so's she wouldn't be in range.
"_Ye-e-e-oop!_"
As Hank rounded the corner, he was staggerin' some, and wavin' his
shootin'-iron. "I'm a Texas bad man," he yelps; "I'm as ba-a-ad
as they make 'em, and tough as bull beef." Then, he went tearin'
back'ards and for'ards like he'd pull up the station platform.
"Hey!" he goes on. "I've put a _lot_ of fellers t' sleep with
they boots on! Come ahaid if you want t' git planted in my private
graveyard!"
Next, and whilst Mace was standin' not ten feet back of him, he seen
me. He spit on his pistol hand, and started my way.
"You blamed polecat," he hollered, "_I'll_ learn you t' shoot off
you' mouth when it ain't loaded! You' hands ain't mates and you'
feet don't track, and I'm a-goin' t' plumb lay you out!"
I just stayed where I was. "What's in you' craw, anyhow?" I called
back.
He didn't answer. He let fly!
Wal, sir, I doubled up like a jack-knife, and went down kerflop. The
boys got 'round me--say! talk about you' pale-faces!--and yelled to
Hank to stop. He drawed another gun, and, just as I got t' my feet, went
backin' off, coverin' the crowd all the time, and warnin' 'em not
t' mix in.
They didn't. But someone else did--Mace. Quick as a wink, she reached
into a buckboard fer a whip. Next, she run straight up to Hank--and give
him a _turrible_ lick!
He dropped his pistols and put his two arms acrosst his eyes. "Mace!
don't!" he hollered. (It'd sobered him, seemed like.) Then, he turned
and took to his heels.
That same second, I heerd a yell--Bergin's voice. Next, the sheriff come
tearin' 'round the corner and tackled Hank. The two hit the ground like
a thousand of brick.
Mace come runnin' towards me, then. But the boys haided her off, and
wouldn't let her git clost.
"Blood's runnin' all down this side of him," says Monkey Mike.
Shore enough, it was!
"Chub!" yells Buckshot, "git Billy Trowbridge!"
"Don't you cry, ner nothin'," says Hairoil t' Mace. And whilst he
helt her back, they packed me acrosst the platform and up-stairs into one
of them rooms over the lunch-counter. And then, 'fore I could say Jack
Robinson, they hauled my coat off, put a wet towel 'round my forrid,
and put me into bed. After that, they pulled down the curtains, and
bunched t'gether on either side of my pilla.
"Shucks!" I says. "I'm all right. Let me up, you blamed fools!"
Just then, Monkey Mike come runnin' in with the parson, and the parson
put out a hand t' make me be still. "My _dear_ friend," he says,
"I'm _sorry_ this happened." And he was so darned worried lookin'
that I begun t' think somethin' shore _was_ wrong with me, and I laid
quiet.
Next, the door opened and in come Mace!
The room was so dark she couldn't see much at first. So, she stepped
closter, walkin' soft, like she didn't want to jar nobody. "Alec!"
she says tearful.
"Macie!"
She stooped over me.
The boys turned they backs.
Aw, my dear little gal! Her lips was cold, and tremblin'.
Wal, then she turned to the bunch, speakin' awful anxious. "Is he hurt
bad?" she ast, low like.
"Naw," I begun, "I----"
Monkey Mike edged 'twixt me and her, puttin' one hand over my mouth so
's I couldn't talk. "We don't know exac'ly," he answers.
"Boys!" she says, like she was astin' 'em to fergive her; and,
"Alec!"
Buckshot said afterwards that it _shore_ was a solemn death-bed scene.
The parson was back agin the wall, his chin on his bosom; I was chawin'
the fingers offen Mike, and the rest of the fellers was standin'
t'gether, laughin' into they hats fit t' sprain they faces.