Part 10 (1/2)
”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?”