WAL, pore ole Sewell! _I_ wasn't feelin' dandy them days, you'd better
believe. But, Sewell, he took Macie's goin' _turrible_ bad. Whenever
he come in town, he was allus just as _qui-i-et_. Not a cheep about
the little gal; wouldn't 'a' laughed fer a nickel; and never'd go
anywheres nigh the lunch-counter. Then, he begun t' git peakeder'n the
dickens, and his eyes looked as big as saucers, and bloodshot. Pore ole
boss!
I kept outen his way. He'd heerd all about that Shackleton business,
y' savvy, and was awful down on me; helt me _re_sponsible fer the hull
thing, and tole the boys he never wanted t' set eyes on me again.
Hairoil went to him and said I'd been jobbed, and was innocenter'n
Mary's little lamb. But Sewell wouldn't listen even, and said I'd done
him dirt.
A-course, I couldn't go back t' my Bar Y job, then,--and me plumb crazy
t' git to work and make enough t' go to Noo York on! But I didn't do
no mournin'; I kept a stiff upper lip. "Cupid," I says to myself,
"allus remember that the gal that's hard t' ketch is the best kind
when oncet you've got her." And I sit down and writ the foreman of
the Mulhall outfit. (By now, my arm was all healed up fine.)
Wal, when I went over to the post-office a little bit later on, the
post-master tole me that Sewell'd just got a letter from Macie!--but it
hadn't seemed t' chirp the ole man up any. And they was one fer Mrs.
Trowbridge, too, he says; did I want to look at it?
"I don't mind," I answers.
It was from her--I'd know her little dinky l's _anywheres_. I helt it
fer a minute--'twixt my two hands. It was like I had her fingers, kinda.
Then, "S'pose they ain't nothin' fer me t'day," I says.
"No, Cupid,--sorry. Next time, I reckon."
"Wal," I goes on "would you mind lettin' me take this over t' Rose?"
"Why, no,--go ahaid."
I went, quick as ever my laigs could carry me, the letter tucked inside
my shirt.
Rose read it out loud t' me, whilst I helt the kid. It wasn't a long
letter, but, somehow, I never could recollect afterwards just the
exac' words that was in it. I drawed, though, that Mace was havin'
a _way_-up time. She was seein' all the shows, she said, meetin'
slathers of folks, and had a room with a nice, sorta middle-aged lady,
in a place where a lot of young fellers and gals hung out t' study all
kinds of fool business. Some of 'em she liked, and some she didn't.
Some took her fer a greeney, and some was fresh. But she was learnin' a
pile--and 'd heerd Susy's Band!
"Is that all?" I ast when Rose was done.
"Yas, Cupid."
"Nothin' about me?"
"No."
"Does she give her _ad_dress?"
"Just Gen'ral Deliv'ry."
"Thank y', Rose."
"Stay t' dinner, Cupid. I'm goin' t' have chicken fricassee."
But I didn't feel like eatin'. I put the kid down and come away.
I made towards Dutchy's--pretty blue, I was, a-course. "Cupid," I
says, "bad luck runs in you' fambly like the wooden laig."
But, mind y', I wasn't goin' with the idear of boozin' up, _no,_
ma'am. _I_ figger that if a gal's worth stewin' over any, she's a
hull lot _too_ good fer a man that gits _drunk_. I went 'cause I knowed
the boys was there; and them days the boys was _mighty_ nice to me.
Wal, this day, I'm powerful glad I went. If I hadn't, it's likely I'd
never 'a' got that bully _po_-sition, 'r played Cupid again (without
knowin' it)--and so got the one chanst I was a-prayin' fer.
Now, this is what happened:
I'd just got inside Dutchy's, and was a-standin' behind Buckshot
Milliken, watchin' him bluff the station-agent with two little pair,
when I heerd Hairoil a-talkin' to hisself, kinda. "Dear me suz!" he
says (he was peerin' acrosst the street towards the deepot), "what
blamed funny things I see when I ain't got no gun!"
A-course, we all stampeded over and took a squint. "Wal, when did _that_
blow in?" says Bill Rawson. And, "Say! ketch me whilst I faint!"
goes on one of the Lazy X boys, making believe as if he was weak in
the laigs. The rest of just haw-hawed.
A young feller we'd never seen afore was comin' cater-corners from the
station. He was a slim-Jim, sorta salla complected, jaw clean scraped,
and he had on a pair of them tony pinchbug spectacles. He was rigged
out fit t' kill--grey store clothes, dicer same colour as the suit,
sky-blue shirt, socks tatooed green, and gloves. He passed clost, not
lookin' our _di_rection, and made fer the Arnaz rest'rant.
Just as he got right in front of it, he come short and begun readin'
the sign that's over the door--
Meals 25c
Start in and It's a Habit
You cain't Quit.
Then we seen him grin like he was _turrible_ tickled, and take out a
piece of paper t' set somethin' down. Next, in he slides.
We all dropped back and lined up again.
"Not a sewin'-machine agent, 'r he'd 'a' wore a duster," says
Hairoil.
"And a patent medicine man would 'a' had on a stove-pipe," adds
Bergin.
"Maype he iss a preacher," puts in Dutchy, lookin' scairt as the
dickens.
"Nixey," I says. "But if he was a drummer, he'd 'a' steered
straight fer a thirst-parlour."
Missed it a mile--the hull of us. Minute, and in run Sam Barnes, face
redder'n a danger-signal.
"Boys," he says, all up in the air, "did y' see It? Wal, what d'
you think? It's from Boston, and It writes. I was at the Arnaz feed
shop, gassin' Carlota, when It shassayed in. Said It was down here fer
the first time in a-a-all Its life, and figgers t' work this town fer
book mawterial. Gents, It's a liter'toor sharp!"
"Of all the _gall!_" growls Chub Flannagan, gittin' hot. "Goin' t'
take a shy outen us!" And I seen that some of the other boys felt like
_he_ did.
Buckshot Milliken spit in his hands. "I'll go over," he says, "and
just natu'lly settle that dude's hash. I'd _admire_ t' do it."
I haided him off quick. Then I faced the bunch. "Gents," I begun,
"ain't you just a little bit hasty? Now, don't git in a sweat.
_Con_-sider this subject a little 'fore you act. Sam, I thought you
_liked_ t' read liter'toor books."
Sam hauled out "Stealthy Steve"--a fav'-rite of hisn. "Shore I do,"
he answers. "But, as I tole this Boston feller, no liter'toor's been
happenin' in Briggs lately--no killin's, 'r train hole-ups."
"_That's_ right, Sam," I says, sarcastic; "go and switch him over
t' Goldstone,--when they won't be another book writer stray down this
way fer a coon's age. Say! You got a haid like a tack!"
Sam dried up. I come back at the boys. "Gents," I _con_tinues, "don't
you see this is Briggs City's one big chanst?--the chanst t' git
put in red letters on the railroad maps! T' git five square mile of
this mesquite staked out into town lots! You all know how we've had t'
take the slack of them jay-hawk farmers over Cestos way; and they ain't
such a _much,_ and cain't raise nothin' but shin-oak and peanuts and
chiggers. But they tell how _we_ git all the cyclones and rattlesnakes.
"Now, we'll curl they hair. Listen, gents,--Oklahomaw City's got
element streets, Guthrie's got a Carniggie lib'rary, and Bliss's
got the Hunderd-One Ranch. _And we're a-goin' t' cabbage this book!_"
"Wal, that's a hoss of another colour," admits Chub.
"Yas," says Buckshot, "Cupid's right. We certainly got to attend to
this visitor that's come to our enterprisin' city, and give him a fair
shake."
"_But,_" puts in Sam, "we're up a tree. Where's his mawterial?"
"Mawterial," I says, "--I don't just savvy what he means by that.
But, boys, whatever it is, we got t' see that he _gits_ it. Now,
s'posin' I go find him, and sorta feel 'round a little, and draw
him out."
They was agreed, and I split fer the rest'rant. Boston was there, all
right, talkin' to ole lady Arnaz (but keepin' a' eye peeled towards
Carlota), and pickin' the shucks offen a tamale. I sit down and ast fer
flapjacks. And whilst I was waitin' I sized him up.
Clost to, I liked his looks. And from the jump, I seen one thing--they
wasn't _no_ showin' off to him, and no extra dawg ('r he wouldn't
'a' come to a joint where meals is only two-bits). He was a
book-writer, but when he talked he didn't use no ten-dollar-a-dozen
words. And, in place of seegars, he smoked cigareets--and rolled 'em
hisself with _one_ hand, by jingo!
Wal, we had a nice, long parley-voo, me gittin' the hull sittywaytion
as _re_gards his book, and tellin' him we'd shore lay ourselves out
t' help him--if we didn't, it wouldn't be white; him, settin' down
things ev'ry oncet in a while, 'r whittlin' a stick with one of them
self-cockin' jackknives.
We chinned fer the best part of a' hour. Then, he made me a proposition.
This was it: "Mister Lloyd," he says, "I'd like t' have you with
me all the time I'm down here,--that'll be three weeks, anyhow. You
could _ex_plain things, and--and be a kinda bodyguard."
"Why, my friend," I says, "_you_ don't need no bodyguard in
Oklahomaw. But I'll be glad t' _ex_plain anythin' I can."
"Course, I want t' pay you," he goes on; "'cause I'd be takin'
you' time----"
"I couldn't take no pay," I breaks in. "And if I was t' have to go,
why any one of the bunch could help you just as good."
"Let's talk business," he says. "I like you, and I don't _want_ you
t' go. Now, what's you' time worth?"
"I git forty a month."
"Wal, that suits me. And you' job won't be a hard one."
"Just as you say."
So, then, we shook hands. But, a-course, I didn't swaller that bodyguard
story,--I figgered that what he wanted was t' git in with the boys
through me.
Wal, when I got back t' the thirst-parlour, I acted like I was loco.
"Boys! boys! _boys!_" I hollered, "I got a job!" And I give 'em all
a whack on the back, and I done a jig.
Pretty soon, I was calmer. Then, I says, "I ain't a-goin' t' ride fer
Mulhall,--not _this_ month, anyhow. This liter'toor gent's hired me
as his book foreman. As I understand it, they's some things he wants,
and I'm to help corral 'em. He says that just now most folks seem
t' be takin' a lot of interest in the West. He don't reckon the
fashion'll keep up, but, a-course a book-writer has t' git on to the
band-wagon. So, it's up t' me, boys, to give him what's got to be
had 'fore the _ex_citement dies down."
Hairoil come over t' me. "Cupid," he says, "the hull kit and boodle
of us'll come in on this. We want t' help, that's the reason. We _owe_
it to y', Cupid."
"Boys," I answers, "I appreciate what you mean, and I _ac_cept you'
offer. Thank y'."
"What does this feller want?" ast Sam.
"Wal," I says, "he spoke a good bit about colour----"
"They's shore colour at the Arnaz feed shop," puts in Monkey Mike;
"--them strings of red peppers that the ole lady keeps hung on the
walls. And we can git blue shirts over to Silverstein's."
"No, Mike," I says, "that ain't the idear. Colour is _Briggs,_ and
_us._"
"Aw, punk!" says Sam. "What kind of a book is it goin' t' be,
anyhow, with us punchers in it!"
"Wait till you hear what I got t' _do,_" I answers. "To _con_tinue:
He mentioned char_ac_ters. Course, I had to _ad_mit we're kinda shy on
_them._"
"Wisht we had a few Injuns," says Hairoil. "A scalpin' makes _mighty_
fine readin'. Now, mebbe, 'Pache Sam'd pass,--if he was lickered up
proper."
"Funny," I says, "but he didn't bring up Injuns. Reckon they ain't
stylish no more. But he put it plain that he'd got to have a bad man.
Said in a Western book you _allus_ got t' have a bad man."
"Since we strung up them two Foster boys." says Bergin, "Briggs
ain't had what you'd call a bad man. In view of this writin' feller
comin', I don't know, gents, but what we was a little _hasty_ in
the Foster matter."
"Wal," I says, "we got t' do our best with what's left. This
findin' mawterial fer a book ain't no dead open-and-shut proposition.
'Cause Briggs ain't big, and it ain't what you'd call bad. That'll
hole us back. But let's dig in and make up fer what's lackin'."
Wal, we rustled 'round. First off, we togged ourselves out the way
punchers allus look in magazines. (I knowed that was how he wanted
us.) We rounded up all the shaps in town, with orders to wear 'em
constant--and made Dutchy keep 'em on, too! Then, guns: Each of us
carried six, kinda like a front fringe, y' savvy. Next, one of the boys
loped out t' the Lazy X and brung in a young college feller that'd
come t' Oklahomaw a while back fer his health. It 'pears that he'd
been readin' a Western book that was writ by a' Eastern gent somewheres
in Noo Jersey. And, say! he was the wildest lookin' cow-punch that's
ever been saw in these parts!
We'd no more'n got all fixed up nice when, "Ssh!" says Buckshot,
"here he comes!"
"Quick, boys!" I says, "we got t' sing. It's expected."