Alec Lloyd, Cowpuncher Part 1

Alec Lloyd, Cowpuncher.

by Eleanor Gates.

CHAPTER ONE

ROSE ANDREWS'S HAND AND DOCTOR BUGS'S GASOLINE BRONC

"Sweet is the vale where the Mohawk gently glides On its fair, windin' way to the sea; And dearer by f-a-a-ar----"

"Now, look a-here, Alec Lloyd," broke in Hairoil Johnson, throwin'

up one hand like as if to defend hisself, and givin' me a kinda scairt look, "you shut you' bazoo right this minute--and git! Whenever you begin singin' that song, I know you're a-figgerin' on how to marry somebody off to somebody else. And I just won't have you _around!_"

We was a-settin' t'gether on the track side of the deepot platform at Briggs City, him a-holdin' down one end of a truck, and me the other.

The mesquite lay in front of us, and it was all a sorta greenish brown account of the pretty fair rain we'd been havin'. They's miles of it, y' savvy, runnin' so far out towards the west line of Oklahomaw that it plumb slices the sky. Through it, north and south, the telegraph poles go straddlin'--in the _di_rection of Kansas City on the right hand, and off past Rogers's b.u.t.te to Albuquerque on the left. Behind us was little ole Briggs, with its one street of square-front buildin's facin' the railroad, and a scatterin' of shacks and dugouts and corrals and tin-can piles in behind.

Little ole Briggs! Sometimes, you bet you' life, I been pretty down on my luck in Briggs, and sometimes I been turrible happy; also, I been just so-so. But, no matter how things pan out, darned if I cain't allus say truthful that she just about suits me--that ornery, little, jerkwater town!

The par_ti_cular day I'm a-speakin' of was a jo-dandy--just cool enough to make you want t' keep you' back aimed right up at the sun, and without no more breeze than 'd help along a b.u.t.terfly. Then, the air was all nice and perfumey, like them advertisin' picture cards you git at a drugstore. So, bein' as I was enjoyin' myself, and a-studyin'

out somethin' as I hummed that was _mighty_ important, why, I didn't want t' mosey, no, ma'am.

But Hairoil was mad. I knowed it fer the reason that he'd called me Alec 'stead of Cupid. Y' see, all the boys call me Cupid. And I ain't ashamed of it, neither. _Some_body's got t' help out when it's a case of two lovin' souls that's bein' kept apart.

"Now, pardner," I answers him, as coaxin' as I could, "don't you go holler 'fore you're hit. It happens that I ain't a-figgerin' on no hitch-up plans fer _you._"

Hairoil, he stood up--quick, so that I come nigh fallin' offen my end of the truck. "But you are fer some _other_ pore cuss," he says. "You as good as owned up."

"Yas," I answers, "I are. But the gent in question wouldn't want you should worry about _him_. All that's a-keepin' _him_ anxious is that mebbe he won't git his gal."

"Alec," Hairoil goes on,--turrible solemn, he was--"I have _de_cided that this town has had just about it's fill of this Cupid business of yourn--and I'm a-goin' t' stop it."

I snickered. "Y' are?" I ast. "Wal, how?"

"By marryin' you off. When you're hitched up you'self, you won't be so all-fired anxious t' git other pore fellers into the traces."

"That good news," I says. "Who's the for-tu_nate_ gal you've picked fer me?"

"Never you mind," answers Hairoil. "She's a new gal, and she'll be along next week."

"Is she pretty?"

"Is she pretty! Say! Pretty ain't no name fer it! She's got big grey eyes, with long, black, sa.s.sy winkers, and brown hair that's all kinda curly over the ears. Then her cheeks is pink, and she's got the cutest mouth a man 'most ever seen."

Wal, a-course, I thought he was foolin'. (And mebbe he was--_then_.) A gal like that fer me!--a fine, pretty gal fer such a knock-kneed, slab-sided son-of-a-gun as me? I just couldn't swaller _that_.

But, aw! if I only had 'a' knowed how that idear of hisn was a-goin'

t' grow!--that idear of him turnin' Cupid fer _me,_ y' savvy. And if only I'd 'a' knowed what a turrible bust-up he'd fin'lly be _re_sponsible fer 'twixt me and the same grey-eyed, sa.s.sy-winkered gal! If I had, it's a cinch I'd 'a' sit on him _hard_--right then and there.

I didn't, though. I switched back on to what was a-puzzlin' and a-worryin' me. "Billy Trowbridge," I begun, "has waited too long a'ready fer Rose Andrews. And if things don't come to a haid right soon, he'll lose her."

Hairoil give a kinda jump. "The Widda Andrews," he says, "--Zach Sewell's gal? So you're a-plannin' t' interfere in the doin's of ole man Sewell's fambly."

"Yas."

He reached fer my hand and squz it, and pretended t' git mournful, like as if he wasn't never goin' t' see me again. "My _pore_ friend!"

he says.

"Wal, what's eatin' you now?" I ast.

"Nothin'--only that pretty gal I tole you about, she's----"

Then he stopped short.

"She's what?"

He let go of my hand, shrug his shoulders, and started off. "Never mind," he called back. "Let it drop. We'll just see. Mebbe, after all, you'll git the very lesson you oughta have. Ole man Sewell!" And, shakin' his haid, he turned the corner of the deepot.

Wal, who was Sewell anyhow?--no better'n any other man. I'd knowed him since 'fore the Oklahomaw Rushes, and long 'fore he's wired-up half this end of the Terrytory. And I'd knowed his oldest gal, Rose, since she was knee-high to a hop-toad. Daisy gal, she allus was, by thunder! And mighty sweet. Wal, when, after tyin' up t' that blamed fool Andrews, she'd got her matreemonal hobbles off in less'n six months--owin' t' Monkey Mike bein' a little sooner in the trigger finger--why, d'you think I was a-goin' to stand by and see a tin-horn proposition like that Noo York Simpson put a vent brand on her? _Nixey!_

It was ole man Sewell that bossed the first job and cut out Andrews fer Rose's pardner. Sewell's that breed, y' know, hard-mouthed as a mule, and if he cain't run things, why, he'll take a duck-fit. But he sh.o.r.e put his foot in it _that_ time. Andrews was as low-down and sneakin' as a coy_o_te, allus gittin' other folks into a fuss if he could, but stayin' outen range hisself. The little gal didn't have no easy go with him--we all knowed _that,_ and she wasn't happy. Wal, Mike easied the sittywaytion. He took a gun with a' extra long carry and put a lead pill where it'd do the most good; and the hull pa.s.sel of us was plumb tickled, that's all, just plumb tickled--even t' the sheriff.

I said pill just now. Funny how I just fall into the habit of usin'

doctor words when I come to talk of this par_tic_ular mix-up. That's 'cause Simpson, the tin-horn gent I mentioned, is a doc. And so's Billy Trowbridge--Billy Trowbridge is the best medicine-man we ever had in these parts, if he _did_ git all his learnin' right here from his paw. He ain't got the spondulix, and so he ain't what you'd call tony.

But he's got his doctor certifi_cate,_ O. K., and when it comes t'

curin', he can give cards and spades to _any_ of you' highfalutin'

college gezabas, and _then_ beat 'em out by a mile. That's _straight!_

Billy, he'd allus liked Rose. And Rose'd allus liked Billy. Wal, after Andrews's s-a-d endin', you bet I made up my mind that Billy'd be ole man Sewell's next son-in-law. Billy was smart as the d.i.c.kens, and young, and no drunk. He hadn't never wore no hard hat, neither, 'r roached his mane pompydory, and he was one of the kind that takes a run at they fingernails oncet in a while. Now, mebbe a puncher 'r a red ain't par-_tic_ular about his hands; but a _pro_feshnal gent's _got_ to be. And with a nice gal like Rose, it sh.o.r.e do stack up.

But it didn't stand the chanst of a snow-man in Yuma when it come to ole man Sewell. Doc Simpson was new in town, and Sewell'd ast him out to supper at the Bar Y ranch-house two 'r three times. And he was clean stuck on him. To hear the ole man talk, Simpson was the cutest thing that'd ever come into the mesquite. And Billy? Wal, he was the bad man from Bodie.

Say! but all of us punchers was sore when we seen how Sewell was haided!--not just the ole man's outfit at the Bar Y, y' savvy, but the bunch of us at the Diamond O. None of us liked Simpson a _little_ bit. He wore fine clothes, and a dicer, and when it come to soothin'

the ladies and holdin' paws, he was there with both hoofs. Then, he had all kinds of fool jiggers fer his business, and one of them toot surreys that's got ingine haidlights and two seats all stuffed with goose feathers and covered with leather--reg'lar Standard Sleeper.

It was that gasoline rig that done Billy damage, speakin' financial.

The minute folks knowed it was in Briggs City, why they got a misery somewheres about 'em quick--just to have it come and stand out in front, smellin' as all-fired nasty as a' Injun, but lookin' turrible stylish. The men was bad enough about it, and when they had one of Doc Simpson's drenches they haids was as big as Bill Williams's Mountain.

But the women! The _hull_ cavvieyard of 'em, exceptin' Rose, stampeded over to him. And Billy got such a snow-under that they had him a-diggin'

fer his gra.s.s.

I was plumb crazy about it. "Billy," I says one day, when I met him a-comin' from 'Pache Sam's hogan on his bi_cy_cle; "Billy, you got to do somethin'." (Course, I didn't mention Rose.) "You goin' to let any sawed-off, hammered-down runt like that Simpson drive you out?

Why, it's free grazin' here!"

Billy, he smiled kinda wistful and begun to brush the alkali offen that ole Stetson of hisn, turnin' it 'round and 'round like he was worried.

"Aw, never mind, Cupid," he says; "--just keep on you' shirt."

But pretty soon things got a darned sight worse, and I couldn't hardly hole in. Not satisfied with havin' the hull country on his trail account of that surrey, Simpson tried a _new_ deal: He got to discoverin' bugs!