Alec Lloyd, Cowpuncher Part 14

"Ain't it?" says Curry. "You mean you won't act. All right. If you won't, they's other folks that _will._"

"_Will_ they," answers the sheriff, quiet. But they was a fightin'

look in his eyes. "Curry, go slow. Don't fergit that the Gap property ain't worth such a hull lot."

The next thing, them cholos in the section-gang 'd heerd what Bergin was ordered to do. And, like a bunch of idjits, 'stead of gittin' down on Curry, who was _re_sponsible, they begun makin' all kinds of brags about what they'd do when next they seen the sheriff. And it looked to me like gun-play was a-comin'.

But not just yet. Fer the reason that the sheriff, without sayin' "I,"

"Yas," 'r "No" to n.o.body, all of a suddent _disappeared_.

"What in the d.i.c.kens has struck him!" I says t' Mace.

"Just you wait," she answers. "It's got t' do with Mrs. B. He ain't down in a cellar _this_ time."

Wal, he wasn't. But we was in the dark as much as the rest of the town, till one evenin' when the section-boss called me to one side. He had somethin' t' tell me, he said. Could I keep a secret--cross my heart t' die? Yas. Wal, then--what d' you think it was? _The sheriff was camped right back of the widda's_--_on Rogers's b.u.t.te!_

"Pardner," I says, "don't you cheep that to another soul. Bergin is up there t' keep Curry from puttin' the widda out."

The section-boss begun to haw-haw. "It'd take a hull regiment of soldiers to put the widda out," he says, "--with them greasers of mine so clost."

"I'll go down that way on a kinda scout," I says, and started off.

When I got clost to the widda's,--about as far as from here to that hitchin'-post yonder--I seen a crowd of women and kids a-lookin' at somethin' behind the house. I walked up and stretched _my_ neck. And there in that tie-pen was a' even dozen of new little pigs!

"Ma'am," I says, "this _is_ good luck!"

"Good luck?" repeats the widda. "I reckon it's somethin' more'n just good luck." (Them's _exac'ly_ her words--"Somethin' more'n just good luck.")

"Wal," I goes on, "oncet in a while, a feller's got to _ad_mit that somethin' better'n just or-d'nary good luck _does_ git in a whack.

Mebbe it'll be the case of a gezaba that ain't acted square; first thing you know, _his_ hash is settled. Next time, it's exac'ly the _other_ way 'round, and some nice lady 'r gent finds theyselves landed not a' inch from where they wanted to be. But neither case cain't be called just good _luck, no,_ ma'am. Fer the reason that the contrary facts is plumb shoved in you' face.

"Now, take what happened to Burt Slade. Burt had a lot of potatoes ready to plant--about six sacks of 'em, I reckon. The ground was ready, and the sacks was in the field. Wal, that night, a blamed ornery thief come 'long and stole all them potatoes. (This was in Nebraska, mind y'. Took 'em fifty mile north and planted 'em clost to his house.

So far, you might call it just _bad_ luck. _But_--a wind come up, a _turrible_ wind, and blowed all the dirt offen them potatoes; next, it lifted 'em and sent 'em a-kitin' through the windas of that thief's house--yas, ma'am, it took 'em in at the one side, and outen the other, breakin' ev'ry blamed pane of gla.s.s; then--I'm another if it ain't so!--it sailed 'em all that fifty mile back to Slade's and druv 'em into the ground that he'd fixed fer 'em. And when they sprouted, a little bit later on that spring, Slade seen _they'd been planted in rows!_

"They ain't no doubt about this story bein' _true_. In the first place, Slade ain't a man that'd lie; in the second place, ev'rybody knows his potatoes was _stole,_ and ev'rybody knows that, just the same, he had a powerful big crop that year; and, then, Slade can show you his field any time you happen to be in that part of Nebraska. And no man wants any better proof'n _that._"

"A-_course,_ he don't," says the widda. "And I'd call that potato transaction plumb wonderful."

"It sh.o.r.e was."

She turned back to the hawgs. "I can almost see these little pigs grow," she says, "and I'm right fond of 'em a'ready. I--I hope nothin' bad'll happen to 'em. I'm a little nervous, though.

'Cause--have you noticed, Mister Lloyd?--_they's just thirteen pigs in that pen._"

"Aw, thirteen ain't never hurt n.o.body in Oklahomaw," I says. And I whistled, and knocked on wood.

"Anyhow, I'm happy," she goes on, "I'm better fixed than I been fer a c.o.o.n's age."

"The eatin'-house 'll buy ev'ry one of these pigs at a good price,"

I says, leanin' on the pen till I was well nigh broke in two, "they bein' pen-fed, and not just _common_ razor-backs. That'll mean fifty dollars--mebbe more. Why, it's like _findin'_ it!"

"These and the chickens," she says, "'ll pay that balance, and" (her voice broke, kinda, and she looked over to where pore little Willie was tryin' to play injine all by hisself) "without the help of _no_ man."

I looked up at the b.u.t.te. Was that black speck the sheriff? And wasn't his heart a-bustin' fer her? Wal, it sh.o.r.e was a fool sittywaytion!

"The section-hands is turrible tickled about these pigs," _con_tinues Mrs. Bridger. "They come over this mornin' t' see how the fambly was doin', and they named the hull litter, beginnin' with Carmelita, and ending' with Polky Dot."

You couldn't 'a' blamed _no_body fer bein' proud of them little pigs. They was smarter 'n the d.i.c.kens, playin' 'round, and kickin'

up they heels, and _squee-ee-eelin'_. All black and white they was, too, and favoured they maw strong. Ev'ry blamed one had a pink snoot and a kink in its tail, and reg'lar rolly buckshot eyes. And fat!--say, no josh, them little pigs was so fat they had double chins--just one chin right after another--from they noses plumb back to they hind laigs!

But you never can gamble on t'-morra. And the widda, countin' as she did on them pigs, had to find that out. A-course, if she'd been a'

Irish lady, she'd 'a' just natu'lly _took_ to ownin' a bunch of hawgs, and she'd 'a' likely penned 'em closter to the house. Then nothin' would 'a' hurt 'em. Again, mebbe it _would_--if the hull thing that happened next was accidentally a-purpose. And I reckon that sh.o.r.e was the truth of it.

But I'm a-goin' too fast.

It was the mornin' after the Fourth of July. (That was why I was in town.) I was in the Arnaz bunk-house, pullin' on my coat, just afore daylight, when, all of a suddent, right over Rogers's b.u.t.te, somethin'

popped. Here, acrosst the sky, went a red ball, big, and as bright as if it was on fire. As it come into sight, it had a tail of light a-hangin'

to it. It dropped at the foot of the b.u.t.te.

First off, I says, "More celebratin'." Next, I says, "Curry!"--and streaked it fer the widda's.

'Fore I was half-way, I heerd hollerin'--the scairt hollerin' of women and kids. Then I heerd the grumble of men's voices. I yelled myself, hopin' some of the boys 'd hear me, and foller. "Help! help!" I let out at the top of my lungs, and brung up in Mrs. Bridger's yard.

It was just comin' day, and I could see that section-gang all collected t'gether, some with picks, and the rest with heavy track tools. All the greaser women was there, too, howlin' like a pack of coy_o_tes.

Whilst Mrs. Bridger had the kid in her arms, and her face hid in his little dress.

"What's the matter?" I screeched--_had_ t' screech t' git _heerd_.

The cholos turned towards me. (Say! You talk about mean faces!) "Diablo!" they says, shakin' them track tools.

Wal, it sh.o.r.e looked like the Ole Harry 'd done it! 'Cause right where the pig-pen used to was, I could see the top of a grea-a-at, whoppin'

rock, half in and half outen the ground, and _smokin' hot_. Pretty nigh as big as a box-car, it was. Wal, as big as a wagon, _any_how.

But neither hide 'r hair of them pigs!

I walked 'round that stone.

"My friend," I says to the section-boss, "the maw-pig made just thirteen. It's a proposition you cain't beat."

Them cholos was all quiet now, and actin' as keerful as if that rock was dynamite. Queer and shivery, they was, about it, and it kinda give me the creeps.

Next, they begun pointin' up to the top of the b.u.t.te!

I seen what was comin'. So I used my haid--quick, so's to stave off trouble. "Mebbe, boys," I says, lookin' the ground over some more, "--mebbe they was a cyclone last night to the north of here, and this blowed in from Kansas."

The section-boss walked 'round, studyin'. "I'm from Missoura," he says, "and it strikes _me_ that this rock looks kinda familiar, like it was part iron. Now, mebbe they's been a thunderin' big _ex_plosion in the Ozark Mountains. But, Mrs. Bridger, as a native son of the ole State, I don't want to _ad_vise you to sue fer da----"

I heerd them cholos smackin' they lips. I looked where they was lookin', and here, a-comin' lickety-split, was the sheriff!

That section-boss was as good-natured a feller as ever lived, and never liked t' think bad of _no_ man. But the minute he seen Bergin racin'

down offen that b.u.t.te, he believed like the peons did. He turned t' me.

"By George!" he says--just like that.