Alec Lloyd, Cowpuncher Part 16

But--this was one time when you' friend Cupid was just a little bit too previous. And I want to say right here that _no_ feller needs to think he's the hull shootin'-match with a gal, and has the right-a-way, like a wild-cat ingine on a' open track, just 'cause she's ast him to write in her autograph-alb.u.m. It don't mean such a blamed lot, neither, if his picture is stuck 'longside of hern on top of the organ. Them signs is encouragin', a-course; but he'd best take his coat off and _git to work_. Even when she's give all the others the G. B., and has gone to church with him about forty Sunday evenin's, hand runnin', and has allus saved him the grand march and the last waltz at the Fireman's Ball, and mebbe six 'r seven others bysides, why, even _then_ it's a toss-up. Yas, ma'am. It took hard knocks t' learn me that they's nothin' dead certain short of the parson's "amen."

Y' see, you can plug a' Injun, and kick a dawg, and take a club to a mule; but when it's a gal, and a feller thinks a turrible lot of her, and she's so all-fired skittish he cain't manage her, and so eludin'

he cain't find her no two times in the same place, _what's he goin'

to do?_ Wal, they ain't no reg'lar way of proceedin'--ev'ry man has got to blaze his own trail.

But I couldn't, and that was the hull trouble. I know now that when it come to dealin' with Mace, I sh.o.r.e was a darned softy. That little Muggins could twist me right 'round her finger--and me not know it!

One minute, she'd pallaver me fer further orders, whilst I'd look into them sweet eyes of hern till I was plumb dizzy; the next, she'd be cuttin' up some dido 'r other and leadin' me a' awful chase.

Then, mebbe, I'd git sore at her, and think mighty serious about shakin' the Bar Y dust offen my boots fer good. "Cupid," I'd say to myself, "git you' duds t'gether, and do you' blankets up in you'

poncho."

Just about then, here she come lopin' home from town, her hoss cuttin'

up like Sam Hill, and her a-settin' so straight and cute. She'd look towards the bunk-house, see me, motion me over with her quirt, and--wal, a-course, I'd go.

I made my _first_ big beefsteak at the very beginnin'. Somehow 'r other, right from the minute we had our confidential talk t'gether back of Silverstein's, that last night of the Medicine Show. I got it into my fool haid that I as good as had her, and that all they was left to be did was t' git 'round the ole man. Wal, this idear worked fine as long as we was so busy with Bergin's courtin'. But when the sheriff was. .h.i.tched, and me and the little gal got a recess, my! _my!_ but a heap of things begun t' happen!

They started off like this: The parson wanted money fer t' buy some hymn-books with. So he planned a' ice-cream social and entertainment, and ast Mace to go down on the pro_gram_ fer a song. She was willin'; I was, _too_. So far, ev'ry-thin' smooth as glare-ice.

But fer a week afore that social, they was a turrible smell of gasoline outside the sittin'-room of the Bar Y ranch-house. That's 'cause Doctor Bugs come out ev'ry day--to fetch a Goldstone woman from the up-train. (That blamed sulky of hisn 'd been stuck t'gether with flour paste by now, y' savvy, and was in apple-pie order.) After the woman 'd git to the ranch-house, why, the organ 'd strike up. Then you could hear Macie's voice--doin', "_do, ray, me._" Next, she'd break loose a-singin'. And pretty soon the doc and the woman 'd go.

Wal, I didn't like it. Y' see, I've allus noticed that if a city feller puts hisself out fer you a hull lot, he expects you t' give him a drink, 'r vote fer him, 'r loan him some money. And why was Bugsey botherin' t' make so many trips to the Bar Y? _I_ knowed what it was. It was just like Hairoil 'd said--he wanted my Macie.

One night, I says to her, "What's that Goldstone woman doin' out here so much, honey?"

"Givin' me music lessons," she answers.

"I know," I says. "But you don't need no lessons. You sing good enough t' suit me right now."

"Wal, I don't sing good enough t' suit myself. And bein' as I'm on that pro_gram_----"

"Wal, just the same," I cut in, "I don't like that Simpson hangin'

'round here."

"Alec," she come back, stiffenin' right up, "it's my place to say who comes into this ranch-house, and who don't."

"But, look a-here! Folks 'll think you like him better'n you do me."

"Aw, that's crazy."

"It ain't. And I won't have him 'round."

Then, she got _turrible po_lite. "I'm sorry, Mister Lloyd," she says, "but I'm a-goin' t' take my lessons."

Wal, the long and short of it is, she did--right up t' the very day of the social.

"All right," I says to myself; "but just wait till this s.h.i.+ndig is over." And when Mace and her paw started fer town that evenin', I saddled up my bronc and follered 'em.

Simpson was kinda in charge of that social. He got up and made a'

openin' speech, sayin' they was lots of ice-cream and cake fer sale, and he hoped we'd all sh.e.l.l out good. Then, he begun t' read off the pro_gram_.

"We have with us t'night," he says, "one of the finest and best trained voices in this hull United States--a voice that I wouldn't be surprised if it 'd be celebrated some day."

I looked over at Mace. She was gittin' pink. Did he mean her?

"And," Simpson goes on, "the young lady that owns it is a-goin' t'

give us the first number." And he bowed--Sh.o.r.e enough!

Wal, she sung. It was somethin' about poppies, and it was awful sad, and had love in it. I liked it pretty nigh as good as The Mohawk Vale.

But the ole man, he didn't. And when she was done, and settin' next him again, he said out loud, so's a lot of people heerd him, "I'm not stuck on havin' you singin' 'round 'fore ev'ry-body. And that Noo York Doc is too blamed fresh."

"Paw!" she says, like she was ashamed of him.

"I _mean_ it," he says, and jerked his haid to one side.

Wal, y' know, Mace got her temper offen him, and never handed it back.

So all durin' the social, they had it--up and down. I couldn't ketch all what they said--only little bits, now and then. "Cheek," I heard the boss say oncet, and Mace come back with somethin' about not bein'

"a baby."

Afterwards, when the ole man was out gittin' the team, she come over t'

me, lookin' awful appealin'. "Alec," she says, like she expected I'd sh.o.r.e sympathise with her, "did you hear what paw said? Wasn't it mean of him?"

I looked down at my boots. Then, I looked straight at her. "Mace," I says, "he's right. Mebbe you'll git mad at me, too, fer sayin' it.

But that Simpson's tryin' t' cut me out--and so he's givin' you all this taffy about your voice."

"Taffy!" she says, fallin' back a step. "Then you didn't _like my singin'._"

"Why, yas, I did," I answers, follerin' along after her. "I thought it was _fine._"

But she only shook her haid--like she was hurt--and clumb into the buckboard.

I worried a good deal that night. The more I turned over what Simpson 'd said, the more I wondered if I knowed all they was to his game. What was he drivin' at with that "celebrated" business? Then, too, it wouldn't do Mace no good t' be puffed up so much. She'd been 'lected the prettiest gal. Now she'd been tole she had a way-up voice. 'Fore long, she'd git the big haid.

"Wal, I'll put a qui_e_tus on it," I says. And, next mornin', when I seen her, I opened up like this: "Honey, I reckon we've waited just about long enough. So we git married Sunday week."

"That's too soon," she answers. "We got t' git paw on our side. And I ain't got no new clothes."

"We'll splice first and ast him about it afterwards. And when you're Mrs. Alec, I'll git you all the clothes you want." (Here's where I clean fergot the _ad_vice she give me that time in the sheriff's case: "In love affairs," was what she said, "don't never try t' drive _no_body.")

"But, Alec,----" she begun.

"Sunday week, Mace," I says. "We'll talk about it t'-night."

But that night Monkey Mike come nigh blowin' his lungs out; and I waited under the cottonwoods till I was asleep standin'--and no Macie.

Wasn't it cal'lated t' make any man lose his temper? Wal, I lost mine.

And when we went in town to a party, a night 'r two afterwards, the hull business come to a haid.

I was plumb sorry about the blamed mix-up. But _no_ feller wants t'

see his gal dance with a kettle-faced greaser. 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.