“Aurora Metcalf.”
“That’s a huh--peculiar name,” says I. “Mine’s Brown--Yallerstone
Brown.”
“And you are single,” says she, low-like. “Haven’t you ever felt the
call of love? The primal call of your heart for some one to share your
life? Haven’t you ever felt the need of a mate?”
“What does William Hart look like?” I asks.
“Like you. He makes love so wonderful, he’s so daring. You really do
resemble him in lots of ways. You should see him make love.”
“Uh-huh,” says I. “He likely gets paid a lot for it. You’ve got to take
that into consideration.”
“Would you make love for a consideration?”
“Well,” says I, “every man has his price, ma’am.”
“Would you--would you marry me--for a consideration?”
Of all the danged fool propositions I ever had handed to me she had the
worst. She says to me--
“In the first place I don’t want to get married.”
So I says:
“_Keno._ Neither do I.”
I meant it, too. She ain’t the kind of a clinging vine that I wants
around my cabin door, ’cause I can just see that she’d make a man
miserable. Well, she sort of settles in her seat, and this is her
proposition--
“Do you know what an exclusive set is?” she asks.
“I do,” says I, “‘Dice’ Davidson had one. Roll seven all night.”
“My uncle, James Alexander Carter, thinks that Western men are the only
real male human beings on earth,” says she. “I have never seen my uncle.
He is my father’s brother, and when father died Uncle James inherited me
and Aunt Mary. We own a home, and uncle has paid all the expenses for
years. He owns some valuable mines out West--where I don’t know. The
money comes every month, through a lawyer, and Uncle James is almost a
myth.
“Now he says that I must marry a Western man or lose my inheritance
when he dies, and it must be before the first of the year, as he is
going to make us a visit. In case I don’t marry a man from the West,
and one that he approves of, the money will all go to a home for
indigent prospectors. Do you understand?”
“I begin to see a glimmer of light,” says I. “Suppose he didn’t like
me--where do I get off?”
“No one could be more of a type than you are,” says she. “He will be
delighted.”
“I don’t want no wife,” says I.
But she says:
“You won’t have one--except in name. I’ll send for him to come right
out to visit us, and as soon as he is gone I will pay you one thousand
dollars, let you go back West, and get a divorce as soon as possible.
Why, you won’t even have to marry me under your real name. Will you do
it? You see, Uncle says he won’t stand for a husband from my set. Will
you marry me?”
Just then Taos drifts into the door, reading a prospectus of some
railroad, and I taps him on the shoulder.
“Taos,” says I, “meet the future Mrs. Yallerstone Brown.”
The cigaret falls out of his mouth, and he shakes hands with the lady’s
elbow.
“Nice day, ma’am,” says he, and drags me into the next car.
“Yallerstone,” says he, “are you crazy?”
“Maybe.”
“You going to marry her?”
“Uh-huh.”
“----! You just met her!”
“She just met me, too, Taos.”
“Well,” says he, weak-like, “you’re the suddenest son-of-a-gun I ever
met. I’m sorry, old trailer.”
“Maybe I will be too,” says I. “Remains to be seen, as the feller said
when he dug into the Injun’s grave. She’s likely as good as I am, and
she’s old enough to know better if she thinks she’s doing wrong.”
Taos grunts and rolls a smoke.
“How soon?”
“Chicago,” says I, and he puffs away for a while before saying anything.
Then he sort of shrugs his shoulders and says:
“Well, Yallerstone, I hate to hear about it, but I reckon it’s fate.
I’ll be back in Chicago in about a week, and I’ll meet you.”
“Bring Box 1234 with you, Taos. My wife will be glad to meet her.”