“Taos! You ain’t at ‘Enchilada’ Charley’s place now, remember.”
He sort of gives me a queer look and fusses with the napkin in his lap.
He stares back at the lady and then shoves back his chair.
“Ex-cuse me!” he sort of gasps. “I--I don’t feel well.” And then he
starts away from the table.
Something rattled, somebody squeaks, and the dishes start crashing on
the floor. Taos has made a misdeal with the napkin and has tucked the
tablecloth into the waistband of his pants.
Did he stop to unhitch? He did not. I heard a door slam, and we all set
there looking like a lot of Digger Indians.
“Heavens above!” exclaims my wife. “What happened?”
“That was he!” screeches the fat little blonde, throwing up both hands.
“I knew it! I--I----” And she slid down under the table.
I hauled her out and braces her into a chair, while everybody tries to
pour water on her. Several used soup.
Just then Hicks comes in and whispers to my wife:
“Pardon, ma’am, but there is somebody on the telephone who insists that
they must talk with you. They insists, ma’am.”
Just then the yaller-haired lady comes out of it, and my wife beats it
out of the room.
Everybody is fanning the lady and asking questions, and she just sets
there and gulps and makes fool motions with her hands.
I just slides my old coat-tail around to where I can hook the butt of
that .45, and waits for what is to happen next.
Then my wife comes over to me and says:
“Very queer. The call was from somebody who wanted to know if you were
really the original Jack Wardner, of Montana. He said he wanted you--I
don’t know what for. I--I told him I was the maid, and he said, ‘Well,
you keep this under your hat.’ Isn’t it awful what a mess has been made
of this dinner?”
“Did he say he was coming up here?” I asks. She says:
“Yes, I guess he wants to surprize you, Jack. Who do you suppose it is?”
“I know,” says I. “It’s a secret. I’ll go an’ meet him. Ex-cuse me.”
I grabbed a hat off the hat-rack, and I traveled half-way to the depot
before I finds that I’ve got one of them high, shiny ones.
There is a train just leaving, and I hooks the last coach as it pulls
out. I turns around, tips my hat to Hillsdale, and sails that hat as
far as I can. I walks inside and meets the conductor.
“I ain’t got no ticket for my ride or sleep,” says I, “but I’ve got the
_dinero_. Do I get along?”
“You do.” He hauls out a slip of paper, and says, “I’ve got one upper
left, but maybe tomorrow I can do better.”
“I don’t mind being a bird for one more night,” says I and lets the
porter send me up the ladder.
The next morning I shoves my face out of the curtains to see what the
chances are to come out and dress, when I happens to look down into a
familiar face.
“Honeymoon?” he asks.
“Honey ----! What did you stampede for? Was that Box 1234?”
“Nope. That was the lady I held up, Yallerstone. She never forgot me, I
reckon, and I saw life imprisonment in her eyes. Things might have been
different. You married Box 1234.”