Eleanor Gates

“ Ain’t it funny what little bits of things can sorta change a feller’s life all ’round ev’ry which direction–shuffle it up, you might say, and throw him out a brand new deal? Now, take my case: If a sassy greaser from the Lazy X ranch hadn’t ’a’ plugged Bud Hickok, Briggs City ’d never ’a’ got the parson; if the parson hadn’t ’a’ came, I’d never ’a’ gone to church; and mebbe if I hadn’t never ’a’ gone to church, it wouldn’t ’a’ made two cents diff’rence whether ole man Sewell was down on me ’r not–fer the reason that, likely, I’d never ’a’ met up with Her. ”

“ I says to myself; “aw, little Macie!” Say! I come mighty nigh prayin’ over it!
“The count fer the prettiest gal,” goes on the Judge, “is complete. Miss de Mille, kindly bring for’ard the watch. I shall have to ast some gent to escort the fortunate young lady to the platform.” (I seen a brakeman start over to Mollie Brown.)
“I don’t intend”–the Judge again–“to keep you in suspenders no longer. And I reckon you’ll all be glad to know” (here he give a bow) “that the winner is–Miss Macie Sewell.”
Wal, us punchers let out a yell that plumb cracked the ceiling. “Wow! wow! wow! Macie Sewell!” ”

“ Wal, ta-ta, Chub!
And, behind, there was the widda at the winda, all eyes fer that sand-pile.
We never knowed what she said to Dutchy’s brother, August. But he come back to town 114 lookin’ madder’n a wet hen. “Huh!” he says, “I don’t vant her nohow. She couldn’t vork. She’s pretty fer nice, all right, but she’s nichts fer stoudt.”
When ole stingy Curry tried his luck over, he took his lead from Chub’s experience. Seems he put one arm ’round the kid, and then he said no man could kick about havin’ to adopt Willie, and he knowed that with Mrs. Bridger it was “love me, love my dawg.” ”

“ I was turrible disappointed. (I reckon I was worryin’ over the book worse’n he was.) “Why, say, couldn’t you make nothin’ outen that bad man who was a-paintin’ the town the other night?”
“Just a bad man don’t make a book,” says Boston; “leastways, only a yalla-back. But take a bad man, and a gal, and you git a story of ad-venture.”
A gal. Yas, you need a gal fer a book. And you need the gal if you want t’ be right happy. I knowed that. Pretty soon, I ast, “Have you picked on a gal?”
“Here’s Carlota,” he says. “She’d make a figger fer a book.” ”

“ Of a evenin’, like this, the boss, he sits on the east porch, smokin’; the boys ’re strung along the side of the bunk-house t’ rest and gass and laugh; and, out yonder, is the cottonwoods, same as ever, and the ditch, and the mesquite, leveler’n a floor; and–up over it all–the moon, white and smilin’.
Then, outen the door nigh where the sun-flowers ’re growin’, mebbe she’ll come–a slim, little figger in white. And, if it’s plenty warm, and not too late, why, she’ll be totin’ the smartest, cutest––
Listen! y’ hear that?
That’s my little wife,–that’s Macie, now–a-singin’ to the kid! ”

“ I hunted up Billy. “Doc,” I says, “I hope Briggs ain’t a-goin’ to name that Brown waitress fer its best sample. Now––”
“Aw, wal,” says Billy, “think how it ’d tickle her!”
“Tickle some other gal just as much,” I says.
67“And the prettiest gal ought to be choosed. Now, it could be fixed–easy.”
“Who do you think it oughta be?” ast Billy.
“Strikes me you’ wife’s little sister is the pick.”
“Cupid,” says Billy, lookin’ anxious like, “don’t you git you’self too much interested in Macie Sewell. You know how the ole man feels towards you. And what can I do? He ain’t any too friendly with me yet? ”

“ I says, “–if you’re thinkin’ back to our first little fuss. No, you ain’t. You’re too darned nice fer such cattle.”
By then, I was shakin’ like I had the buck-fever. “Macie,” I goes on, “ain’t you goin’ t’ let me come and see you?”
“Wal–wal––”
I got holt of her other hand. “Aw, little gal,” I says, “nobody wants you t’ win out more ’n I do. I’m no dawg-in-the-manger, Macie. You got a’ awful fine voice. Go ahaid–and be the biggest singer in Amuricaw. But, honey,–that needn’t t’ keep you from likin’ me–from likin’ ole Alec, that cain’t live without his dear little gal––”
“I do like y’! ”

“ First a passel of men come by, all in bloomers, humpin’ fast,–up and down, up and down–Monkey Mike, shore’s you live! None of ’em looked joyful, and you could pretty nigh hear they knees squeak! Then ’long come a gal, humpin’ just the same, and hangin’ on to the side of her cayuse fer dear life, lookin’ ev’ry step like she was goin’ to avalanche. And oncet in a while I passed a feller that was runnin’ a cultivator down the trail,–to keep it nice and soft, I reckon, fer the ladies and gents t’ fall on. ”

“ I knowed she was goin’ to fer the reason that I seen Mexic go over her way, showin’ his teeth like a badger and lettin’ his cigareet singe the hair on his dirty shaps–shaps, mind y’, at a school-house dance! Then I seen her nod.
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.” ”

“ If I could run into the only man I knowed in the city of Noo York, then, sometime, I’d shore come acrosst her.
That was the last day I set on the steps of the statue. About sundown, I ast a police feller if anybody could ride in the park without me seein’ ’em from where I was. “Why, yas,” he says, “they’s plenty of entrances, all right. This is just where a few comes in and out. The best way to see the riders is to go ride you’self.”
Don’t know why I didn’t think of that afore. But I didn’t lose no time. Next mornin’, I was up turrible early and makin’ fer a barn clost to the park. ”

“ Wal, mebbe I wasn’t happy! And mebbe I wasn’t set worse’n ever on havin’ the little gal win in that contest! ’Fore night, I rounded up as many as five people that had a bony fido grunt comin’, and was glad to hear the grand things Doc Trowbridge said about Root-ee!
When the show started up in the hall after supper, and I slid in to take my seat in the winda, a lot of people,–women and kids and men–kinda turned round towards me and whispered and grinned. “They know I’m fer Macie Sewell,” I says to myself, “but that don’t bother me none.” ”

“ He was a new breed, that parson, a genuwine no-two-alike, come-one-in-a-box kind. He was big and young, with no hair on his face, and brownish eyes that ’peared to look plumb through y’ and out on the other side. Good-natured, y’ know, but actin’ as if he meant ev’ry word he said; foolin’ a little with y’, too, and friendly as the devil. And he didn’t wear parson duds–just a grey suit; not like us, y’ savvy–more like what the hotel clerk down to Albuquerque wears, ’r one of them city fellers that comes here to run a game. ”

“ When I turned round again, here was ole man Sewell standin’ in the middle of the floor, lookin’ back and forth from Rose and Billy to the kid–like it’d just struck him that he was goin’ t’ lose his gal and the baby and all them teeth. And if ever a man showed that he was helpless and jealous and plumb hurt, why, that was him. Next, here he was a-gazin’ at me with a queer shine in his eyes–almost savage. And say! it got me some nervous.
“Seems Mister Cupid Lloyd is a-runnin’ things ’round this here ranch-house,” he begun slow, like he was holdin’ in his mad. ”

“ I goes on, “when I ast you fer her, a while back, you said, ‘Git a piece of land as big as the Andrews chunk.’ Wal,” (I handed out my deed) “would you mind lookin’ at this?”
“It’s yourn!” The ole man put his hands to his haid.
“Also,” I says, rattlin’ the little stack of twenties in my right-hand britches pocket, “I’m fixed t’ git some cows; fifty ’r so–a start, boss, just a start.”
“How’d you do it! Why, I’m plumb knocked silly!”
“But you’ ain’t the man to go back on you’ word, Sewell. I can take good keer of Mace now–and I want to be friends with the man that’s goin’ to be my paw.” ”

“ Now, Chub, he knowed a heap about handlin’ a gun, and I reckon he’d pass as a liv’ry-stable keeper, but he didn’t know much about women. So, when he went down to ast the widda fer the second time, he put his foot in it by bein’ kinda short t’ little Willie.
“Say, kid,” he says, “you locate over in that rockin’-chair yonder. Young uns of you’ age should be saw and not heerd.”
Mrs. Bridger, she sit right up, and her eye-winkers just snapped. “Mister Flannagan,” she Says, “I’m feard you’re wastin’ you’ time a-callin’ here. If ever I marry again, it’s goin’ t’ be a man that’s fond of childern.” ”

“ Fer a good reason–he ain’t never ast me.”
(The cholos, they just growled.)
“What?” I ast, turnin’ on Bergin like I was hoppin’. “You love her, and yet you ain’t never ast her to marry you? Wal, you blamed bottle of ketchup, you oughta die!”
130“How could I ast her?” begun the sheriff. “She plumb hates the sight of me.”
“I don’t! I don’t!” sobs the widda. “Mister Lloyd knows that ain’t so. Willie and me, we–we––”
“Y’ see?” I turned to the Mexicans. “He loves her; she loves him. We’re a-goin’ to have a weddin’, not a hangin’.”
“The stone–he iss revenge,” says Pedro. ”

“ A man–any man–when he marries, oughta have a place big enough so’s his chickens can kick up the dirt ’round his house without its fallin’ into somebody else’s yard. Out here, where the hull blamed country’s land–just land fer miles–a man oughta have a piece, say–wal, as big as–as that Andrews chunk of mine.” (When Billy married Rose, Sewell bought over the Andrews’ 282 ranch, y’ savvy. Wanted it ’cause it laid ’twixt hisn and town, and had a fine water-hole fer the stock. But a good share of the hunderd acres in it wasn’t much to brag on–just crick-bottom.) ”

“ That real-estate feller ’d bought up two big tracts just north of town, gittin’ 288 ’em cheap a-course; awful cheap, in fact, ’cause no one ’d smelt a boom when he first showed up. (Wal, first come, first served.) Porky ’d bought, too, and owned some lots ’twixt them tracts and the post-office. To the east, right where the nicest houses is, the parson was plannin’ to import his fambly. More’n that, them four gun-shy gents stood ready to buy all the time. And Goldstone fellers that would ’a’ swapped they lots fer a yalla dawg, and then shot the dawg, was holdin’ out fer fifty plunks. ”

“ All that’s a-keepin’ him anxious is that mebbe he won’t git his gal.”
“Alec,” Hairoil goes on,–turrible solemn, he was–“I have decided that this town has had just about it’s fill of this Cupid business of yourn–and I’m a-goin’ t’ stop it.”
I snickered. “Y’ are?” I ast. “Wal, how?”
6“By marryin’ you off. When you’re hitched up you’self, you won’t be so all-fired anxious t’ git other pore fellers into the traces.”
“That good news,” I says. “Who’s the for-tunate gal you’ve picked fer me?”
“Never you mind,” answers Hairoil. “She’s a new gal, and she’ll be along next week.” ”

“ The judge-lookin’ feller beat the drum, the Injun blowed a big brass dinguss, the gal a clari’net, and the other two fellers some shiny instruments curlier’n a pig’s tail. But it was bully, that’s all I got to say, and drawed like a mustard plaster. ’Cause whilst in Oklahomaw a Injun show don’t count fer much, bein’ that we got more’n our fill of reds, all the same, with music throwed in, Briggs City was there. And Silverstein’s hall was just jampacked.
The front seats was took up by the town kids, a-course. Then come the women and gals,–a sprinklin’ of men amongst ’em ”

“ Say! wouldn’t you ’a’ figgered, after I’d brung Mace back t’ the ole Bar Y, and made her paw so happy that the hull ranch couldn’t hole him, and he had t’ go streak up t’ town and telephone Kansas City fer a grand pyano and a talkin’-machine–now wouldn’t you ’a’ figgered that he’d ’a’ treated me A1 when I come to ast him fer the little gal?
Wal,–listen t’ this!
’Fore ever I spoke to him, I says to myself, “It ain’t no use, when you want to start up a mule, to git behind and push ’r git in front and pull. No, ma’am. The only way is to hunt a pan of feed ’r a pick-axe. ”

“ But he put it plain that he’d got to have a bad man. Said in a Western book you allus got t’ have a bad man.”
“Since we strung up them two Foster boys.” says Bergin, “Briggs ain’t had what you’d call a bad man. In view of this writin’ feller comin’, I don’t know, gents, but what we was a little hasty in the Foster matter.”
“Wal,” I says, “we got t’ do our best with what’s left. This findin’ mawterial fer a book ain’t no dead open-and-shut proposition. ’Cause Briggs ain’t big, and it ain’t what you’d call bad. That’ll hole us back. But let’s dig in and make up fer what’s lackin’.” ”

“ I says, gittin’ on my ear good and plenty, “I’ll just natu’ally take him acrosst my knee and give him a spankin’.”
“And he’ll put enough slugs in you t’ make a sinker,” answers Buckshot. “Why, Cupid, Hank Shackleton can fight his weight in wildcats. You go slow.”
“But he cain’t shoot,” I says.
“He cain’t shoot!” repeats Buckshot. “Why, I hear he was a reg’lar gun-fighter oncet, and so blamed fancy with his shootin’ that he could drive a two-penny nail into a plank at twenty yards ev’ry bit as good as a carpenter.”
“Wal,” I says, “I’ll be blasted if that’s got me scairt any.” ”

“ And t’-night, my dear friends, that boy is in Briggs City!” (A-course, ev’rybody begun to look ’round fer him.) “Prob-’bly,” goes on the Judge, “they’s more’n a hunderd people in this town that’ll thank Providence he come: They’s little children that won’t be orphans; they’s wives that won’t be widdas. Fer he is anxious to tell ’em of a remedy that will cure a-a-all the ills of the body. And, ladies and gents, I–am–that–boy!”
That got the punchers so excited and so tickled, that they hollered and stamped and banged and 62 done about twenty dollars’ worth of damage to the hall. ”

“ ROSE ANDREWS’S HAND AND DOCTOR BUGS’S GASOLINE BRONC
“Now, look a-here, Alec Lloyd,” broke in Hairoil Johnson, throwin’ up one hand like as if to defend hisself, and givin’ me a kinda scairt look, “you shut you’ bazoo right this minute–and git! ”