Alec Lloyd, Cowpuncher Part 15

Wal, sir, that "By George" done it. Soon as the Mexicans heerd him speak out what _they_ thought, they set up a Comanche yell, and, with the whites of they eyes showin' like a n.i.g.g.e.r's, they made towards the sheriff on the dead run.

He kept a-comin'. Most men, seein' a pa.s.sel of locoed greasers makin'

towards 'em with pickaxes, would 'a' turned and run, figgerin' that leg-bail was good enough fer _them_. But the sheriff, he wasn't scairt.

A second, and the Mexicans 'd made a surround. He pulled his gun. They jerked it outen his hand. He throwed 'em off.

I drawed _my_ weapon.

Just then--"Sheriff! sheriff!" (It was the widda, one hand helt out towards him.)

A great idear come to me then. I put my best friend back into my pocket.

"I won't interfere fer a while yet," I says to myself. "Mebbe this is where they'll be a show-down."

"Cupid," says Bergin, "what's the matter?"

I fit my way to him. "They think you throwed this rock, here," I answers.

"The low-down, ornery, lay-in-the-sun-and-snooze good-fer-nothin's is likely t' think 'most _any_ ole thing," he says. "Pedro, let go my arm."

Just then, one of the cholos come runnin' up with a rope!

The section-boss seen things was gittin' pretty serious. He begun to wrastle with the feller that had the rope. Next, all the women and kids set up another howlin', Mrs. Bridger cryin' the worst. But I wasn't ready to play my last card. I stepped out in front of the gang and helt up my hand.

"Boys," I says; "_boys! Give_ the man a chanst t' talk. Why, this rock ain't like the rocks on the b.u.t.te."

"You blamed idjits!" yells Bergin. "Use you' haids! How could _I_ 'a' hefted the darned thing?"

"Aw, he _couldn't_ 'a' done it!" (This from the widda, mind y',--hands t'gether, and comin' clost.)

"Thank y', little woman," says the sheriff.

(Say! that was _better_.)

[Ill.u.s.tration: "_He pulled his gun, they jerked it outen his hand_"]

But the cholos wasn't a-foolin'--they was in dead earnest. Next minute, part of 'em grabbed Bergin, got that rope 'round him, and begun draggin' him towards a telegraph pole.

I was some anxious, but I knowed enough to hole back a while more.

"Aw, boys," begged the widda, droppin' Willie and runnin' 'longside, "don't hurt him! _don't!_ What does the pigs matter?"

"I'll discharge ev'ry one of you," says the section-boss.

"Boys," I begun again, "_why_ should this gent want to harm this lady.

Why, I can tell you----"

Pedro Garcia stuck his black fist into my face. "He lof her," he says, "and she say no. So he iss revenge hisself." (Say! the grammar they use is plumb fierce.)

"He iss revenge hisself!" yells the rest of the bunch. Then they all looked at the widda.

"Boys," she sobs, "I ain't _never_ refused him. 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!"

"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.

"The stone," I answers, "come outen the sky. It's a mete'rite."

"I felt it hit!" cries the widda.

Wal, you couldn't expect a Mexican t' swaller _that_. So we'd no more'n got the words outen our mouths when they begun to dance 'round Bergin again with the halter.

Wal, how do you think it come out?

Mebbe you figger that Mrs. Bridger drawed a knife and sa-a-aved him, 'r I pulled my gun and stood there, tellin' 'em they 'd only hang the sheriff over my dead body. But that ain't the way it happened. No, ma'am. _This_ is how:

'Round the bend from towards Albuquerque come the pay-car. Now, the pay-car, she stops just one minute fer ev'ry section-hand, and them section-hands was compelled to git into line and be quick about it, 'r not git they money. So they didn't have no spare time. They let go of Bergin's rope and run--the section-boss leadin'.

The sheriff, he slung the rope to one side--and the widda goes into his arms. "Little woman," he says, lookin' down at her, "I'll--I'll be a good father to the boy." Then he kissed her.

(Wal, that's about all you could reas'nably expect from _Bergin_.)

Next thing, he borraed my gun and just kinda happened over towards the pay-car. And when a cholo got his time and left the line, he showed him the way he was to go. And you bet he _minded!_

Wal, things come out _fine_. A big museum in Noo York bought that rock (If you don't believe it, just go to that museum and you'll see it a-settin' out in front--big as life.) A-course, Mrs. Bridger got a nice little pile of money fer it, and paid Curry the balance she owed him.

Then, the sheriff got Mrs. Bridger!

And the bunch that didn't git her? Wal, the bunch that didn't git her just natu'lly got _left!_

CHAPTER FIVE

THINGS GIT STARTED WRONG

UP to the day of the sheriff's weddin', I reckon I was about the happiest feller that's ever been in these parts. Gee! but I was in high spirits! It'd be Macie's and my turn next, I figgered, and if the ole man didn't like it, he could just natu'lly lump it. So when I walked through Briggs, why, I hit both sides of the street, exac'ly as if I was three sheets in the wind.