Alec Lloyd, Cowpuncher Part 12

"But think of the lucky gal that don't marry such a yap," says Mace.

"If she _was_ to, by some hook 'r crook, why, he'd throw it up to her fer the balance of his life that she'd ketched him like a rat in a trap."

"_I_ never could git no such notion about you," I says; "aw, little gal, we'll be _so_ happy, you and me, won't we, honey,----"

Wal, to _con_tinue with the Bridger story: You recollect what I said about that kid needin' a father? Wal, say! if he'd 'a' wanted one, he sh.o.r.e could 'a' picked from plenty of can_di_-dates. Why, 'fore long, ev'ry bach in town had his cap set fer Mrs. Bridger--that's _straight_. All other subjects of _po_lite conversation was fergot byside the subject of the widda. Sam Barnes was in love with her, and went 'round with that red face of hisn lookin' exac'ly like the full moon when you see it through a sandstorm. Chub Flannagan was in love with her, too, and 'd sit by the hour on Silverstein's front porch, his pop eyes shut up tight, a-rockin' hisself back'ards and for'ards, back'ards and for-'ards, and a-hummin'. Then, they was Dutchy's brother, August. Aw, he had it _bad_. And took t' music, just like Chub, yas, ma'am. Why, that feller spent _hours_ a-knockin' the wind outen a' pore accordion. And next come Frank Curry--haid over heels, too, _mean_ as he was, and to hear him talk you'd 'a' bet they wasn't _nothin'_ he wouldn't 'a' done fer Mrs. Bridger. But big talk's cheap, and he was small potatoes, _you_ bet, and few in the hill.

Wal, one after the other, them four fellers blacked they boots, wet they hair down as nice and shiny as Hairoil's, and went to see the widda.

She ast 'em in, a-course, and was neighbourly; fed 'em, too, if it was nigh meal-time, and acted, gen'ally speakin', as sweet as pie.

But she treated 'em all _alike_. And they knowed it. _Con_sequently, in order so's all of 'em would git a' even chanst, and so's they wouldn't be no gun-play account of one man tryin' to cut another out by goin' to see her twicet to the other man's oncet, the aforesaid boys fixed up a calendar. Sam got Monday, Curry, Wednesday, Dutch August, Friday, and Chub, Sunday afternoons. That tickled Chub. He owns a liv'ry-stable, y' savvy, and ev'ry week he hitched up a rig and took the widda and her kid fer a buggy ride.

And, Bergin? Wal, I'd took Macie's _ad_vice and stayed away from him.

But--the stay-away plan hadn't worked worth a darn. The sheriff, he kept to his shack pretty steady. And one mornin', when I seen him at the post-office, he didn't have nothin' t' say to n.o.body, and looked sorta down on creation.

That fin'lly riled Mace. "What's the _matter_ with him?" she says one day. "Why, havin' saw the widda, how can he _help_ fallin' in love with her! She's the _nicest_ little woman! And she's learned me a new crochet st.i.tch."

"Little gal," I answers, "you' idear has been carried out faithful--and has gone fluey. Wal, let Cupid have a try. A-course, I was sit on pretty hard in that confab I had with him, but, all the same, I'll just happen 'round fer a little neighbourly call."

His shack was over behind the town cooler, and stood by itself, kinda--a' ashes dump on one side of it and Sparks's hoss-corral on the other. It had one room, just high enough so's Bergin wouldn't crack his skull, and just wide enough so's when he laid down on his bunk he wouldn't kick out the side of the house. And they was a rusty stove with a dictionary toppin' it, and a saddle and a fryin'-pan on the bed, and a big sack of flour a-spillin' into a pair of his boots.

I put the fryin'-pan on the floor, and sit down. "Wal, Sheriff,"

I begun (he had a skittle 'twixt his knees and was a-peelin' some spuds fer his dinner), "I ain't come t' sponge offen you. Me and Macie Sewell had our dinner down to Mrs. Bridger's t'-day."

He let slip the potato he was peelin', and it rolled under the stove.

"Yas?" he says; "that so?"

"And _such_ a dinner as she give us!" I goes on. "Had a white oilcloth on the table,--white, with little blue vi'lets on it--and all her dishes is white and blue. She brung 'em from Buffalo. And we had fried chicken, and corn-dodgers, and prune somethin'-'r-other. Say! I--I s'pose _you_ ain't been down."

"No,"--kinda wistful, and eyes on his peelin'--"no. How--how is she?"

"Aw, _fine!_ The kid, he ast after you."

"Did he?" He looked up, awful tickled. Then, "He's a nice, little kid," he adds thoughtful.

"He _sh.o.r.e_ is." I riz. "Sorry," I says, "but I got to mosey now.

Promised Mrs. Bridger I'd take her some groceries down." I started out, all business. But I stopped at the door. "Reckon I'll have to make two trips of it--if I cain't git someone t' help me."

Say! it was plumb pitiful the way Bergin grabbed at the chanst. "Why, _I_ don't mind takin' a stroll," he answers, gittin' some red. So he put down the spuds and begun to curry that cowlick of hisn.

First part of the way, he walked as spry as me. But, as we come closter to the widda's, he got to hangin' back. And when we reached a big pile of sand that was out in front of the house--he balked!

"Guess I won't go in," he says.

"O. K.," I answers. (No use to cross him, y' savvy, it'd only 'a'

made him worse.)

When I knocked, and the widda opened the door, she seen him.

"Why, how d' you do!" she called out, lookin' mighty pleased.

"Willie, dear, here's Mister Bergin."

"How d' do," says the sheriff.

Willie come nigh havin' a duck-fit, he was so happy. And in about two shakes of a lamb's tail, he was outen the house and a-climbin' the sheriff.

Inside, I says to Mrs. Bridger, "Them chickens of yourn come, ma'am.

And Hairoil Johnson'll drive 'em down in a' hour 'r so. The most of 'em looked fat and sa.s.sy, but one 'r two has got the pip."

She didn't act like she'd heerd me. She was watchin' the sandpile.

"One 'r two has got the pip," I repeats.

"What?--how's that?" she ast.

"Don't worry about you' boy," I says. "Bergin'll look after him.

Y' know, Bergin is one of the whitest gents in Oklahomaw."

"_I_ ain't a-worryin'," answers the widda. "_I_ know Mister Bergin is a fine man." And she kept on lookin' out.

"In this wild country," I begun, voice 'way down to my spurs, "--this wild country, full of rattlesnakes and Injuns and tramps, ev'ry ranch needs a good man 'round it."

She turned like lightnin'. "What you mean?" she ast, kinda short.

(Reckon she thought _I_ was tryin' t' spark her.)

"A man like Bergin," I _con_tinues.

"Aw," she says, plumb relieved.

And I left things that-a-way--t' sprout.

Walkin' up the track afterwards, I remarked, casual like, that they wasn't _many_ women nicer 'n Mrs. Bridger.

"They's _one_ thing I like about her," says the sheriff, "--she's got eyes like the kid."

(Dang the kid!)

Wal, me and Macie and them four sparkers wasn't the only folks that thought the widda was mighty nice. She'd made lots of friends at the section-house since she come. The section-boss's wife said they was _no_body like her, and so did all the greaser women at the tie-camp.

She was so handy with a needle, and allus ready to cut out calico dingusses that the peon gals could sew up. When they'd have one of them everlastin' fiestas of theirn, she'd make a big cake and a keg of lemonade, and pa.s.s it 'round. And when you _con_sider that a ten-cent package of cigareets and a smile goes further with a Mexican than fifty plunks and a cuss, why, you can git some idear of how that hull outfit just _worshipped_ her.

Wal, they got in and done her a _lot_ of good turns. Put up a fine chicken-coop, the section-boss overseein' the job; and, one Sunday, cleaned out her cellar. _Think_ of it! (Say! fer a man to appreciate that, he's got to know what lazy critters greasers is.) Last of all, kinda to wind things up, the cholos went out into the mesquite and come back with a present of a nice black-and-white Poland China hawg.

Wal, she _was_ tickled at that, and so was the kid. (Hairoil Johnson was shy a pig that week, but you bet _he_ never let on!) The gang made a nice little pen, usin' ties, and ev'ry day they packed over some feed in the shape of the camp leavin's.

The widda was settled fine, had half a dozen hens a-settin' and some castor beans a-growin' in the low spots next her house, when things begun to come to a haid with the calendar gents. I got it straight from her that in just one solitary week, she collected four pop-the-questions!

She handed out exac'ly that many pairs of mittens--handed 'em out with such a sorry look in them kind eyes of hern, that the courtin'

quartette got worse in love with her 'n ever. Anybody could a' seen _that_ with one eye. They all begun shavin' twicet a week, most ev'ry one of 'em bought new things to wear, and--best sign of _any_--they stopped drinkin'! Ev'ry day 'r so, back they'd track to visit the widda.