Alec Lloyd, Cowpuncher Part 10

"Sweet is the vale where the Mohawk gently glides On its fair, windin' way to the sea----"

A wait--ten seconds 'r so (it seemed longer); then, the same part of the song, over again, and----

Outen the side door of the porch next me come a slim, little figger in white. It stepped down where some sun-flowers was a-growin' agin the wall. Say! it was just sunflower high! Then it come acrosst the alfalfa--like a b.u.t.terfly. And then----

"Don't you want a shawl 'round you' shoulders, honey? It's some chilly."

"No." (Did you ever see a gal that'd own up she needed a wrap?)

"Wal, you got to have _somethin'_ 'round you." And so I helt her clost, and put my hand under her chin t' tip it so's I could see her face.

"You _mustn't,_ Alec!" (She was allus shy about bein' kissed.)

"I tole Mike to give me ten minutes' lee-way 'fore he played that tune. But he must 'a' waited a hull hour." And then, with the mouth-organ goin' at the bunk-house (t' keep the ole man listenin', y' savvy, and make him fergit t' look fer Mace), we rambled north byside the ditch, holdin' each other's hand as we walked, like two kids. And the ole moon, it smiled down on us, awful friendly like, and we smiled back at the moon.

Wal, when we figgered that Mike 'd blowed hisself plumb outen breath, we started home again. And under the cottonwoods, the little gal reached up her two arms t' me; and they wasn't nothin' but love in them sweet, grey eyes.

"You ain't never liked n.o.body else, honey?"

"No--just you, Alec!--_dear_ Alec!"

"Same here, Macie,--and this is fer keeps."

Wal, 'most ev'ry night it was just like that. And the follerin' day, mebbe I wouldn't know whether I was a-straddle of a hoss, drivin'

steers, 'r a-straddle of a steer, drivin' hosses. And it's a blamed good thing my bronc savvied how t' tend to business without _me_ doin'

much!

Then, mebbe, I'd be ridin' line. Maud 'd go weavin' away up the long fence that leads towards Kansas, and at sundown we'd reach the first line-shack. And there, with the little bronc a-pickin', and my coffee a-coolin' byside me on a bench, I'd sit out under the sky and watch the moon--alone. Mebbe, when I got home, it 'd be ole man Sewell's lodge-night, so he'd start fer town 'long about seven o'clock, and Mace and me 'd have the porch to ourselves--the side-porch, where the sun-flowers growed. But the next night, we'd meet by the ditch again, and the next, and the next. Aw! them first happy days at the ole Bar Y!

And I reckon it was just _'cause_ we was so turrible happy that we got inter_ested_ in Bergin's case--Mace and me both. (Next t' Hairoil, Bergin's my best friend, y' savvy.) Figgerin' on how t' fix things up fer him--speakin' matreemonal--brung us two closter t'gether, and showed me what a _dandy_ little pardner she was a-goin' t' make.

But I want t' say right here that we wasn't _re_-sponsible fer the way that case of hisn turned out--and neither was _no other livin' soul.

No,_ ma'am. The hull happenstance was the kind that a feller cain't _ex_plain.

It begun when I'd been out at the Sewell ranch about two weeks. (I disremember the exac' day, but _that_ don't matter.) I'd rid in town fer somethin', and was a-crossin' by the deepot t' git it, when I ketched sight of Bergin a-settin' on the end of a truck,--all by hisself. Now, that was funny, 'cause they wasn't a man in Briggs City but liked George Bergin and would 'a' hoofed it a mile to talk to him. "What's skew-gee?" I says to myself, and looked at him clost; then,--"Caesar Augustus Philabustus Hennery Jinks!" I kinda gasped, and brung up so suddent that I bit my cigareet clean in two and come nigh turnin' a somerset over back'ards.

White as that paper, he was, and nervous, and so all-fired shaky and caved-in that they couldn't be no question what was the matter. _The sheriff was scairt._

First off, I wasn't hardly able to believe what I seen with my own _eyes_. Next, I begun to think 'round fer the cause why. Didn't have to think much. Knowed they wasn't a _pinch_ of 'fraid-cat in Bergin--no crazy-drunk greaser 'r no pa.s.sel of bad men, _red_ 'r white, could put _him_ in a sweat, _no,_ sir-_ree_. They was just _one_ thing on earth could stampede the sheriff. I kinda tip-toed over to him. "Bergin," I says, "_who is she?_"

He looked up--slow. He's a six-footer, and about as heavy-set as the bouncer over to the eatin'-house. Wal, I'm another if ev'ry square inch of him wasn't tremblin', and his teeth was chatterin' so hard I looked to see 'em fall out--that's _straight_. Them big, blue eyes of hisn was sunk 'way back in his haid, too, and the rest of his face looked like it 'd got in the way of the hose. "Cupid," he whispered, "you've struck it! Here--read this."

It was a telegram. Say, you know I ain't got _no_ use fer telegrams.

The blamed things _allus_ give y' a d.i.c.kens of a start, and, nine times outen ten, they've got somethin' to say that no man wants to hear. But I opened it up.

"sheriff george bergin," it read,--all little letters, y' savvy. (Say!

what's the matter that they cain't send no capitals over the wire?) "briggs city oklahomaw meet mrs bridger number 201 friday phillips."

"Aw," I says, "Mrs. Bridger. Wal, Sheriff, who's this Mrs. Bridger?"

Pore Bergin just wagged his haid. "You'll have to give me a goose-aig on that one," he answers.

"Wal, who's Phillips, then?" I _con_tinued.

"The Sante Fee deepot-master at Chicago."

"Which means you needn't to worry. Mrs. Bridger is likely comin' on to boss the gals at the eatin'-house."

"If that's so, what 'd he telegraph to _me_ fer?"

"Don't know. Buck up, anyhow. I'll bet she's gone _'way_ past the poll-tax age, and has got a face like a calf with a blab on its nose."

"Cupid," says the sheriff, standin' up, "thank y'. I feel better.

Was worried 'cause I've had bad luck lately, and bad luck most allus runs in threes. Last week, my dawg died--remember that one with a buck tooth? I was turrible fond of that dawg. And yesterday----"

He stopped then, and a new crop of drops come out on to his face.

"Look!" he says, hoa.r.s.e like, and pointed.

'Way off to the north was a little, dark, puffy cloud. It was a-travelin' our _di_rection. Number 201!

"Gosh!" says the sheriff, and sunk down on to the truck again.

I didn't leave him. I recollected what happened that time he captured "Cud" and Andy Foster and brung 'em into town, his hat shot off and his left arm a-hangin' floppy agin his laig. Y' see, next day, a bunch of ladies--_ole_ ladies, they was, too,--tried to find him and give him a vote of thanks. But when he seen 'em comin', he swore in a deputy--_quick_--and vamosed. Day 'r two afterwards, here he come outen that cellar back of Dutchy's thirst-parlour, his left arm in a red bandaner, a rockin'-chair and a pilla under his right one, and a lantern in his teeth!

But _this_ time, he wasn't a-goin' to _have_ no deputy. I made up my mind to stay right byside him till he'd did his duty. Yas, ma'am.

"Cupid," he begun again, reachin' fer my fist, "Cupid, when it comes to feemales----"

_Too-oo-oot! too-oo-oot!_ Couldn't make him hear, so I just slapped him on the shoulder. Then I hauled him up, and we went down the platform to where the crowd was.

When the train slowed down, the first thing I seen was the conductor with a kid in his arms,--a cute kid, about four, I reckon,--a boy. Then the cars stopped, and I seen a woman standin' just behind them. Next, they was all out on to the platform, and the woman was holdin' the kid by one hand.

The woman was cute, too. Mebbe thirty, mebbe less, light-complected, yalla-haired, kinda plump, and about so high. Not pretty like Mace 'r Carlota Arnaz, but _mighty_ good t' look at. Blabbed calf? Say! this was _awful!_

"Ber-r-gin!" hollers the corn-doc.

"Bergin," I repeats, encouragin'. (Hope I never see a man look worse.

He was all blue and green!)

Bergin, he just kinda staggered up. He'd had _one_ look, y' savvy. Wal, he didn't look no more. Pulled off his Stetson, though. Then he smoothed the cow-lick over his one eye, and sorta studied the kid.

"Sheriff," goes on the corn-doc, "here's a lady that has been _con_signed to you' care. Good-bye, ma'am, it's been a pleasure to look out fer you. Good-bye, little feller," (this to the kid).

"Aw-aw-awl abroad!"

As Number 201 pulled out, you can bet you' little Cupid helt on to that sheriff! "Bergin," I says, under my breath, "fer heaven's sake, remember you' oath of office! And, _boys,_" (they was about a dozen cow-punchers behind us, a-smilin' at Mrs. Bridger so hard that they plumb laid they faces open) "you'll have us all shoved on to the tracks in a minute!"

It was the kid that helped out. He'd been lookin' up at Bergin ever since he hit the station. Now, all to oncet, he reached towards the sheriff with both his little hands--as friendly as if he'd knowed him all his life.

Y' know, Bergin's heart 's as big as a' ox. He's tender and _awful_ kind, and kids like him straight off. He likes kids. So, 'fore you could say Jack Robinson, that Bridger young un was histed up. I nodded to his maw, and the four of us went into the eatin'-house, where we all had some dinner t'gether. Leastways, me and the kid and Mrs. Bridger et. The sheriff, he just sit, not sayin' a word, but pullin' at that cow-lick of hisn and orderin' things fer the baby. And whilst we grubbed, Mrs. Bridger tole us about herself, and how she 'd happened to come out Oklahomaw way.