Part 17 (1/2)

Our polka come next. And when we was about half done, I says, ”They's lemonade outside, honey. Let's git a swig.” But outside I didn't talk no lemonade. ”Did Mexic ast you to dance with him?” I begun.

”Wal, he's one of our boys,” she answers; ”and I'm going to give him a schottische.”

”No, you _ain't,_” I come back. ”I won't stand fer it.”

”Yas, I _am,_ Alec Lloyd,”--she spoke determined,--”and please don't try to boss me.”

I shut up and walked in again. Mexic was talkin' to the school-ma'am--aw, he's got _gall!_ I sha.s.sayed up and took him a little one side. ”Mexic,” I says, soft as hair on a cotton-tail, ”it's gittin' on towards mornin' and, natu'lly, Macie Sewell ain't feelin' just rested; so I wouldn't insist on that schottische, if I was you.”

”Why?” he ast.

”I tole you why,” I says; ”but I'll give you another reason: You'

boots is too tight.”

We fussed a little then. Didn't amount to much, though, 'cause neither of us had a gun. (Y' see, us punchers don't pack guns no more 'less we're out ridin' herd and want t' pick off a coy_o_te; 'r 'less we've had a little trouble and 're lookin' fer some one.) But I managed to change that greaser's countenance consider'ble, and he bit a chunk outen my hand. Then the boys pulled us separate.

They was all dead agin me when I tole 'em what was the matter. They said the other gals danced with Mexic, and bein' Macie was the Bar Y gal, she couldn't give him the go-by if she took the rest of the outfit fer pardners.

Just the same, I made up my mind she wouldn't dance with that _greaser_.

And I says to myself, ”This is where you show you're a-goin' to run the Lloyd house. She'll like you all the better if you git the upper hand.” So when I got her coaxed outside again, I led her to where my bronc was tied. She liked the little hoss, and whilst we was chinnin', I put her into the saddle. Next minute, I was on behind her, and the bronc was makin' quick tracks fer home.

Wal, sir, she was madder'n a hen in a thunder-shower. She tried to pull in the bronc; she twisted and scolted and cried. Tole me she hated me like a.r.s.enic.

”Alec Lloyd,” she says, ”after t'night, I'll never, never speak to you again!”

When we rode up to the corral, I lifted her down, and she went tearin'

away to the house. The ole man heerd her comin', and thought she was singin'. He slung open the door on the porch.

”Aw, give that calf more rope!” he calls out.

Say! she went by him like a streak of lightnin', almost knockin' him down. And the door slammed so hard you could 'a' heerd it plumb t'

Galveston.

I hung 'round the corral fer as much as half a' hour, listenin' to the pow-wow goin' on at the house. But n.o.body seemed to be a-hollerin' fer me t' come in, so I made fer the straw. ”Aw, wal,” I says to myself, ”her dander 'll cool off t'-morra.”

But the next day, she pa.s.sed me by without speakin'. And I, like a sap-head, didn't speak neither. I was on my high hoss,--wouldn't speak till _she_ did. So off I had t' go to Hasty Creek fer three days--and no good-bye t' the little gal.

I got back late one afternoon. At the bunk-house, I noticed a change in the boys. They all seemed just about t' bust over somethin'--not laughin', y' savvy, but anxious, kinda, and achin' to tell news.

Fin'lly, I went over to Hairoil. ”Pardner,” I says, ”spit it out.”

He looked up. ”Cupid,” he says, ”us fellers don't like t' git you stirred up, but we think it's about time someone oughta speak--and put you next.”

”Next about what?” I ast. The way he said it give me a kinda start.

”We've saw how things was a-goin', but we didn't say nothin' to you 'cause it wasn't none of our funeral. Quite a spell back, folks begun to talk about how crazy Macie Sewell was gittin' to be on the singin'

question. It leaked out that she'd been tole she had a A1 voice----”