Alec Lloyd, Cowpuncher

It was that takin’ to the woods the second time that done it. In Central Park is a place where they have ducks and geese (keep the Mayor in aigs, I heerd). Wal, just to east, like, of that place, is a butte, all rocks and wash-outs. The blue roan made that butte slick as a Rocky Mountain goat. (We’d shook off the police gent.) At the top, she pitched plumb over, losin’ Mace so neat it didn’t more ’n jar her. My hoss got down on his knees, and I come offen my perch. Then both broncs went on.

I was winded, so I didn’t speak up fer a bit. Fact is, I didn’t exac’ly know what to remark. Oncet I thought I’d say, “You ridin’ a diff’rent hoss t’day, Mace?” ’r “That roan of yourn can lope some.” But both bein’ kinda personal, I kept still.

But pretty soon, I got a hunch. “I just knowed that blamed muley saddle ’d butt me off some day,” I says. “It was shore accomodatin’, though, to let me down right here.”

She didn’t say nothin’. She was settin agin a tree, another of them two-mile looks in her eyes, and she was gazin’ off west.

I lent her way just a little. “What you watchin’, honey?” I ast.

She blushed, awful cute.

I could feel my heart movin’ like a circular saw–two ways fer Sunday. “Honey, what you watchin’?” This time I kinda whispered it.

She reached fer her George Washington, and begun fixin’ to go. “The sky,” she says, some short.

I sighed, and pretended t’ watch the sky, too. It looked yalla, like somebody ’d hit it with a aig.

After while, I couldn’t stand it no longer–I started in again. “Give me a fair shake, Macie,” I says. I was lookin’ at her. Say! they wasn’t no squaw paint on her cheeks, and no do-funny, drug-store stuff in that pretty hair of hern. And them grey eyes––!

But she seemed a hull county off from me, and they was a right cold current blowin’ in my direction.

“Mace,” I begun again, “since you come t’ Noo York you ain’t got you’self promised, ’r nothin’ like that, have you? If you have, I’ll go back and make that Briggs City bunch look like a lot of colanders.”

She shook her haid.

“Aw, Mace!” I says, turrible easied in my mind. “And–and, little gal, has that bug doc been a-holdin’ down a chair at you’ house of Sunday nights?”

“No,–he come just oncet.”

“Why just oncet, honey?”

“I didn’t want him t’ come no more.”

“He said somethin’ insultin.’ I know. And when I see him again––”

She looked at me square then, and I seen a shine in them sweet eyes. “Alec,” she says, “you ast me oncet t’ cut that man out. Wal, when I got here, it was the only thing I could do fer–fer you.”

“My little gal!–and nobody else ain’t been visitin’ you. Aw! I’m a jealous critter!”

“Nobody else. People ain’t very sociable here.” Her lip kinda trembled.

That hurt me, and I run outen talk, fer all I had a heap t’ say. They was a lot of twitterin’ goin’ on overhaid, and she was peekin’ up and ’round, showing a chin that was enough t’ coop the little birds right outen the trees.

I lent closter. “Say, Mace,” I begun again, “ain’t this park O. K. fer green grass? I reckon the Bar Y cows ’d like to be turned loose here.”

She smiled a little, awful tender. “Bar Y!” she says, pullin’ at her gauntlets.

It give me spunk. “Mace,” I says again, “if I’d ’a’ been mean, I’d ’a’ let the parson go on marryin’ us, wouldn’t I? Did you ever think of that, little gal?”

She looked down, blinkin’.

I reached over and got holt of one of her hands. I was breathin’ like pore Up-State. “Honey,” I says, “honey, dear.”

She looked square at me. “Alec,” she says, “you didn’t understand me. I ain’t the kind of a gal that can be roped and hobbled and led on a hackamore.”

“And you ain’t the kind t’ dance with greasers,” 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’! And didn’t I allus say you was t’ come on when I made a success?”

She come into my arms then. And, aw! I knowed just how lonesome she’d been, pore little sweetheart! by the way she clung t’ me.

“Alec!–my Alec!”

“Never mind! honey dear, never mind! I’m here t’ take keer of y’.”

Pretty soon, I says, “Macie, I bought somethin’ fer you a while back.” (I felt in my vest pocket.) “Here it is. Will you look at it?”

She looked. And her pretty face got all smiles and blushes, and her eyes tearful. “Alec!” she whispered. “Aint it beautiful!” And she reached out her left hand t’ me.

I took it in both of mine–clost, fer a second. Then I sorted out that slim third finger of hern,–and slipped on my little brandin’-iron.

CHAPTER TEN
MACIE AND THE OP’RA GAME

“Ma’am, I’m tickled t’ death.”

“Hair Von” (somethin’-r’-other), “Mister Lloyd.” (Don’t wonder she called him “Hair.” By thunder! he had a mane two feet long!) “And Mister Jones.” (I ketched that name O. K.)

“Mister Lloyd,” says the ole lady, “will you have some breakfast?”

I felt like sayin’ they ’d likely be blamed little fer me, ’cause them two gezabas was just a-hoppin’ it in to ’em. But I only answers, “Thank y’, I just et in one of them bong-tong rest’rants that’s down in a cellar, and so, ma’am, my breadbasket’s plumb full.”

I sit down on a trunk (it had a tidy over it, but I knowed it was a trunk all right), and Macie, she sit down byside me.

“Alec,” she begun,–say! she looked mighty sweet!–“t’-night is a’ awful important night in my life. I been a-studyin’ with Hair Von” (you know), “and now I’m a-goin’ to have a recital. And what d’ you think? Seenyer” (I fergit who, this minute), “the grea-a-at impressyroa, is comin’ to hear me. And he’s goin’ to put me into grand op’ra.”

“You don’t say!”

“Yas,” says Long-hair, swellin’ up. “The Seenyer is my friend, and any favour––”

I turned and looked clost at Macie. Her face was all alive, she was so happy, and her eyes was dancin’. “You’re a-goin’ t’ make you’ big stab t’-night,” I says. “Wal, I shore wish you luck.”

Then I took another look at that Perfessor–and of a suddent I begun to wonder if all the cards was on the table. ’Cause he was too oily to be genuwine. And I’d saw his stripe afore–“even up on the red and white, five to one on the blue, and ten to one on the numbers.”

“She’ll be a second Patty,” he says, puttin’ out a bread-hooker fer more feed.

“I’ll take another slice of toast,” says Melon-face, “and a’ aig and a third cup–it’s so good, Miss Sewell, I’m really ashamed, yas, I am.”

After that, I didn’t say much–just plumb petryfied watchin’ them two gents shovel. Talk about you’ grizzly in the springtime! And you bet they was no gittin’ shet of ’em till they couldn’t hole no more.

But, fin’lly, they moseyed, and me and Macie and the ole lady had a chin. It come out that Long-hair (and his friend) showed up ev’ry mornin’.

“And allus gits his breakfast,” I says.

“Wal, in Noo York, folks drop ’round that–a-way,” she answers. “It’s Bohemia.”

“Bohemia–you mean a kinda free hand-out.”

“Alec! No! Bohemians divvy with each other.”

“Seem’s t’ me Macie Sewell does most of the divvyin’.”

“You don’t understand,” she says. “People with artistic temper’ments don’t think about such–such common things.”

“No? Just the same, that artistic team of yourn was shore stuck on boiled aigs.”

That ruffled her up some. “Alec,” she says, “you mustn’t run down the Perfessor. He’s a big musician.”

“Wal,” I answers, “if hair makes a big musician, ’Pache Sam oughta lead the band.”

“And he’s been awful good to me. Why, he’s let go dozens and dozens of rich pupils to come here ev’ry day and give me my lesson.”

“Fer how much?”

“What?” She got red.

“Fer how much?” I ast again.

“Five dollars,” she answers.

I snickered.

“But he charges all the others ten,” she puts in quick. “He come down in the price ’cause he was so wrapped up in my career.”

“Money lastin’?” I ast, and looked at the ole lady.

She give me the high sign.

But Macie answered cheerful. “It’s carried me good so far,” she says; “and after t’-night I can stand on my own feet.”

“Reckon you won’t mind my comin’ t’ hear you,” I says. (’Cause I’d got a’ idear what I was goin’ to do.) She said come ahaid. Then I skun out.

First off, I hunted one of them sun-bonnet keeriges. The feller that owned it was h’isted ’way up on top, and he had a face like a cured ham. I tole him who I was goin’ t’ visit, and ast him what ’d be the damage if he carted me that far. He said a two spot ’d do the trick, so I clumb in, he give his broomtail a lick, and we was off in a bunch.

Wal, fer the balance of that day, you can bet I didn’t let no grass sprout under my moccasins. And when I turned up, ’twixt eight and nine o’clock at that recital, I was a-smilin’ like Teddy–and loaded fer bear!

It was at Long-Hair’s shebang. He took me into a big room where they was about a dozen ladies and gents. But I couldn’t hardly see ’em. They was plenty of gas fixin’s, only he had ’em turned ’way down, and little red parasol-jiggers over ’em. And they was some punk-sticks a-burnin’ in a corner.

If you want t’ ast me, I think I hit the funny spot of that bunch right good and hard. The women kinda giggled at each other, and the men cocked they eyes at the ceilin’ and put they hands to they mouths. But I wasn’t nigh as big a freak to them as they was t’ me!

“Say!” I says to Macie, ’way low, “where ’d you round up this passel of what-is-its?”

“Ssh!” she whispers back. “They’ll hear you! Most of ’em is big artists.”

“No!” I got turrible solemn. “Have they brought they temper’ments with ’em?”

She laughed.

“Now, don’t devil me, Alec,” she says. “But honest, ain’t this Bohemian atmosphere just grand?”

“Wal,” I says, sniffin’ it, “it reminds me of a Chinee wash-house.”

That wasn’t the worst of it. The men was tankin’ up like the Ole Harry–right in front of the women! And on beer! What d’ you think! Beer!

And the ladies–say! if they was t’ wear them kind of dresses out our way (not more’n a pocket-handkerchief of cloth in the waist, that’s straight), why, they ’d git run in to the cooler shore. And, by thunder! some of ’em was smokin’! Smokin’! And they wasn’t a greaser gal amongst ’em, neither.

“What kind of a place I got in to?” I ast Macie. Gee! I felt turrible.

“Ssh! Long-hair is goin’ to play a pyano piece he made up a-a-all by hisself.”

And he done it. First, he goes soft, fingerin’ up and down, and movin’ from side t’ side like his chair was hot. Then, he took a runnin’ jump at hisself and worked harder. But they wasn’t the sign of a tune–just jiggles. Next, by jingo! it was help you’self to the gravy! He everlastin’ly lambasted them keys, and knocked the lights plumb outen that pore instrument.

Jumpin’ buffalo! I got t’ laughin’ so I kinda tipped over again a’ iron thing that was set clost to the wall, and come blamed nigh burnin’ the hand offen me.

When I come to, he was done and down, and a bleached lady, so whitewashed and painted she was plumb disguised, was settin’ afore the pyano. Then up gits a tall gal, skinny, long neck, forrid like a fish, hair that hadn’t been curried since week a-fore last.

She begun t’ sing like a dyin’ calf–eyes shut, and makin’ faces. But pretty soon, she took a new holt, and got to goin’ uphill and down, faster ’n Sam Hill; then ’round and ’round, like a dawg after its tail; then hiccupin’; then–she kinda shook herself–and let out a last whoppin’ beller.

“Macie,” I says, “do you have t’ herd with this outfit reg’lar? Why, say, all the wild Injuns ain’t out West.”

She didn’t say nothin’. Pore little gal, she was watchin’ the door. And Mister Long-hair? He was wanderin’ ’round, lookin’ powerful oneasy. (He’d ’a’ better, the scale-haid!) ’Fore long, he goes outside.

Up gits a short, stumpy feller with a fiddle. All the rest begun t’ holler and clap. Stumpy, he bowed and flopped his ears, and then he went at that little, ole fiddle of hisn like he’d snatch it bald-haided. Wal, that was bully!

And now it was Macie they wanted.

“But he ain’t here yet,” she says.

Long-hair come back just then. “I regret to say, Miss Sewell,” he begun, “that Seenyer” (the impressyroa) “cain’t run over t’-night. But he’ll be to my next little recital a month from now.”

“A month,” repeats Macie. Her face fell a mile, and she got as white as chalk-rock.

“It’s all right,” says the Perfessor, rubbin’ his hands. “Go ahaid and sing anyhow.”

So she stood up, tremblin’ a little. Long-hair sit down to the pyano, and this was it!

It was a shame. But Macie done her best. When she ended up, they hollered fer more, and Long-hair like to break hisself in two, bowin’.

She just stood there–like she’d been run to ground. The Perfessor waved his hand. “The Jew’s song from Fowst,” he calls out.

I couldn’t stand it no longer. I lent towards her. “The Mohawk Vale,” I says; “please sing The Mohawk Vale.”

The crowd giggled. The Perfessor, he started to laugh, too–but ketched my eye, and coughed.

Macie turned towards him. “A’ ole friend; I’d like to,” she says. And sit down to play fer herself.

She helt herself straight, and tried t’ stick it out. But she couldn’t. I seen her shake a little, her voice got husky,–and she bent ’way over, her face in her hands.

“Why, Miss Sewell!” they exclaims, “why, what’s the matter?”

Then, I gits up. “Excuse me,” I says, “fer puttin’ a kibosh on you’ party. But I just want to say that this Bohemia-artistic-temper’ment fandango stands adjourned. Ev’rybody please vamose–’ceptin’ the Perfessor.”

My goodness! the pow-wow! But they skedaddled just the same. Then I turned to Long-hair.

“You’ little game is over,” I begun. “You don’t flimflam this gal another minute. You don’t bum offen her fer another meal. You don’t give her no more of that Patty song-and-dance.”

Macie come at me. “Alec! that’s insultin’,” she says.

The Perfessor starts a-gabblin’.

“Hole you’ hosses,” I says. “You knowed all the time that the impressyroa wasn’t goin’ to show up.”

“Miss Sewell, this is too much,” says Long-hair, clawin’ at his mane.

“They’s more a-comin’,” I says. “Macie, I was shore somethin’ was skew-gee about this mealy-mouth here, so I had a talk with that Seenyer this afternoon.”

That give Long-hair a jolt. “Impossible!” he yells; “the secretaries––”

“They was about eight, not to mention some office kids,” I says; “but when I give ’em some straight ole Oklahomaw, I went in O. K.”

Long-hair backed off, plumb kaflummuxed.

“The Seenyer said he’d heerd of this gent,” I goes on, “and wouldn’t let him learn a cow of hisn to sing. Friend? any little favour? come here? Nixey.”

I walks over to him. “Acknowledge the corn, you polecat,” I says.

He seen the jig was up. But he made his bluff.

“Miss Sewell, this coarse feller––”

Macie cut in. “It’s all so,” she says. “You’ve put me off and put me off. All my money’s gone. I’d banked on t’-night. And now–what am I goin’ to do!” She dropped on to a chair, her face in her hands again.

“My pore little gal!”

She sit up. “No, Alec,” she says, “I ain’t pore. I’ve got you, and the best paw a gal ever had, and my home–aw, the dear ole Bar Y! And, Alec, I’m goin’.”

“Goin’ where, little gal?”

She come over and stood in front of me, and put her two hands on my arm. “Alec,” she says, tears and smiles all to oncet, “I’m goin’ t’ start home to Oklahomaw.”

“Start home to Oklahomaw”–them words made me think, of a suddent, about what Billy ’d said t’ me at the train. I reached into my inside coat-pocket. “Wait, little gal,” I says, “we must read this first. It’s that other letter of Up-State’s.”

She opened it, her fingers all thumbs, she was so excited. And standin’ there byside me, with the Perfessor a-watchin’ us from a corner, she begun:

“‘Dear Alec Lloyd––’Why, it ain’t fer me, Alec.”

“Go right on, honey.”

Mace peeked inside the envelope. “Why, here’s a bill!” she says. “Alec!” And she drawed it out.

“A bill?” I turned it over. “Why–why, it’s fer five hunderd dollars! Macie!”

Long-Hair got up and started our way, grinnin’.

“But you don’t git a cent of it,” I says, turnin’ on him quick.

He dodged.

“You’d better be keerful,” I says. Then, to Macie, “Honey, here’s another chanst t’ make a try. You can git a good teacher, this time–yas, that’s what I said, Perfessor, a good teacher–and you’ll be the biggest singer in Amuricaw yet.” And I helt the bill out to her.

The only answer she give was t’ run to the door and pull at one of them round thing-um-a-jigs that brings a telegraph kid. Next, she come back to a table, found a piece of paper and writ somethin’ on it.

“Here, Alec,” she says, “here. Read this.”

It said:

CHAPTER ELEVEN
A BOOM THAT BUSTED

“Now, Sewell’s shore one of them long-eared critters–hardmouthed, and goin’ ahaid like blazes whenever you wanted him to come short; then, again, balkin’ till it’s a case of grandfather’s clock, and you git to thinkin’ that ’fore he’ll move on he’ll plumb drop in his tracks. So no drivin’. Coaxin’ is good enough fer you’ friend Cupid.”

The first time I got a good chanst, I took in my belt, spit on my hands, shassayed up to the ole man, and sailed in–dead centre.

“Boss,” I begun, “some fellers marry ’cause they git plumb sick and tired of fastenin’ they suspenders with a nail, and some fellers marry––”

“Wal? wal? wal?” breaks in Sewell, offish all of a suddent, and them little eyes of hisn lookin’ like two burnt holes in a blanket. “What you drivin’ at? Git it out. Time’s skurse.”

“Puttin’ it flat-footed, then,” I says, “I come to speak to you about my marryin’ Macie.”

He throwed up his haid–same as a long-horn’ll do when she’s scairt–and wrinkled his forrid. Next, he begun to jingle his cash (ba-a-ad sign). “So that’s what?” (He’d guessed as much a’ready, I reckon.) “Wal,–I’m a-listenin’.”

Then I got a turrible rush of words to the mouth, and put the case up to him right strong. Said they was no question how I felt about Mace, and that this shore was a life-sentence fer me, ’cause I wasn’t the kind of a man to want to ever slip my matreemonal hobbles. And I tacked on that the little gal reckoned she knowed her own mind.

“No gal ever lived that knowed her own mind,” puts in Sewell, snappy as the dickens, and actin’ powerful oneasy.

“But Mace ain’t the usual brand,” I says. “She’s got a good haid–a fine haid. She’s like you, Sewell.”

“You can keep you’ compliments to home,” says the boss. Then, after a little bit, “S’pose you been plannin’ a’ready where you’d settle.” (This sorta inquirin’.)

“Ya-a-as,” I says, “we’ve talked some of that little house in Briggs City which Doc Trowbridge lets–the one over to the left of the tracks.”

That second, I seen a look come over his face that made me plumb goose-flesh. It was the sorta look that a’ ole bear gives you when you’ve got him hurt and into a corner–some appealin’, y’ savvy, and a hull lot mad.

“Gosh!” I says to myself, “I put my foot in it when I brung up Billy’s name. Sewell recollects the time I stuck in my lip.”

“You plan t’ live in Briggs,” he says. He squz his lips t’gether, and turned his face towards the ranch-house. Mace was inside, goin’ back’ards and for’ards ’twixt the dinin’-room and the kitchen. She looked awful cute and pretty from where we was, and was callin’ sassy things to the Chinaman. Sewell watched her and watched her, and I recalled later on (when I wasn’t so all-fired anxious and excited), that the ole man’s face was some white, and he was kinda all lent over.

“Ya-a-as,” I continues (some trembley, though), “that place of Billy’s ’d suit.”

Two seconds, and Sewell come round on me like as if he’d chaw me into bits. “What you goin’ to rent on?” he ast. “What you goin’ to live on?”

“Wal,” I answers, sorta took back, “I got about three hunderd dollars left of the money Up-State give me. Wal, that’s my nest-aig. And I can make my little forty a month–and grub–any ole day in the week.”

Sewell drawed his breath in, deep. (Look out when a man takes up air that-a-way: Somethin’s shore a-comin’!) “Forty a month!” he says. “Forty a month! That just about keeps you in ca’tridges! Forty a month!–and you without a square foot of land, ’r a single, solitary horned critter, ’r more’n a’ Injun’s soogin’ ’twixt you and the floor! Do y’ think you can take that little baby gal of mine into a blank shack that ain’t got a stick of anythin’ in it, and turn her loose of a Monday, like a Chink, to do the wash?”

“Now, ease up, boss,” I says. “I reckon I think almost as much of Mace as you do. And I’m figgerin’ to make her life just as happy as I can.”

Wal, then he walked up and down, up and down (this all happened out by the calf-corral), and blowed and blowed and blowed. Said that him and his daughters had allus made the Bar Y ranch-house seem like home to the Sewell punchers, and they was men in the outfit just low-down mean enough to take advantage of it. Said he’d raised his gal like a lady–and now she was goin’ to be treated like a squaw.

If it’d ’a’ been any other ole man but Mace’s, I’d ’a’ made him swaller ev’ry one of them words ’fore ever he got ’em out. As it stood, a-course, I couldn’t. So I just helt my lip till he was over his holler. (By now, y’ savvy, I’d went through enough–from sayin’ the wrong thing back when Paw Sewell ’r his daughter was a-talkin’–t’ learn me that the best I could do was just t’ keep my blamed mouth shut.)

Pretty soon, I says, “You spoke of land, Mister Sewell,” I says, politer’n pie, and as cool as if I had the hull of Oklahomaw up my sleeve. (Been a beefsteak, y’ savvy, fer him to git the idear he had me anxious any.) “Wal, how much land do you figger out that you’ next son-in-law oughta have?”

He looked oneasy again, got red some, and begun workin’ his nose up and down like a rabbit. “Aw, thunder!” he says, “what you astin’ that fer? 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’ 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.)

“The Andrews place?” I says, smooth and easy. “Wal, Sewell, I’ll keep that in mind. And, now, you spoke of cows––”

“Fifty ’r so,” puts in the ole man, quick, like as if he was ’shamed of hisself. (His ranges is plumb alive with cattle.) “A start, Cupid,–just a start.”

Wal, a-course, whatever he said went with me. If he’d ’a’ advised walkin’ on my hands as far as Albuquerque, you’d ’a’ saw me a-startin’, spurs in the air!

“So long,” I says then, and walked off. When I turned round, a little bit later, Sewell was standin’ there yet, haid down, shoulders hunched over, arms a-hangin’ loose at his sides, and all his fingers twitchin’. As I clumb on to that pinto bronc of mine and steered her outen the gate, I couldn’t help but think that, all of a suddent, seems like, the boss looked a mighty lot older.

“Maud,” I says, as I loped fer town, “Maud, I’m shore feazed! I been believin’, since I got back from Noo York, that it was settled I was to marry Mace. And here, if I don’t watch out, that Injun-giver’ll take her back. I was a blamed idjit to give him any love-talk. The only thing he cares fer is money–money!” Wal, some men ’re like that–and tighter’n a wood-tick. When they go to pay out a dollar, they hole on to it so hard they plumb pull it outen shape, yas, ma’am. Why, I can recollect seein’ dollars that looked like the handle of a jack-knife.

But if I was brash in front of Sewell, I caved in all right when I got to Briggs City. Say! did you ever have the blues–so bad you didn’t want to eat, and you didn’t want to talk, and you didn’t want to drink, but just wanted to lay, nose in the pilla, and think and think and think? Wal, fer three days, that was me!

And I was still sullin’ when Sheriff Bergin come stompin’ in with a copy of the Goldstone Tarantula. “Here’s bum luck!” he growls. “A-course Briggs couldn’t hump herself none; but that jay town down the line has to go have a boom.”

“A boom?” I says, settin’ up.

“Reg’lar rip-snorter of a Kansas boom. Some Chicago fellers with a lot of cash has turned up and is a-buyin’ in all the sand. Wouldn’t it make y’ sick?”

I reached fer that paper with both fists. Yas, there it was–a piece about so long. “Goldstone offers the chanst of a lifetime,” it read. “Now is when a little money’ll make a pile. Land is cheap t’-day, but later on it’ll bring a big price.”

I got on to my feet. They was about a quarter of a’ inch of stubble on my face, and I was as shaky as a quakin’ asp. But I had my spunk up again. “Ain’t I got a little money,” I says, “–that nest-aig? Wal, I’ll just drop down to Goldstone, and, if that boom is bony fido, and growin’, I’ll git in on it.”

Next mornin’, I went over to the deepot, borraed some paper from the agent, and writ Mace a note. “Little gal,” I says in the letter, “don’t you go back on me. I’m prepared to work my fingers down to the first knuckle fer you, and it’s only right you’ paw should want you took care of good.”

Then Number 201 come in and I hopped abroad. “It’s land ’r no lady,” I says to myself, puttin’ my little post-card photo of Macie into my pocket as the train pulled out; “–land ’r no lady.”

But when I hit Goldstone, I plumb got the heart-disease. The same ole long street was facin’ the track; the same scatterin’ houses was standin’ to the north and south; and the same bunch of dobe shacks was over towards the east, where the greasers lived. The town wasn’t changed none!

Another minute, and I felt more chipper. West of town, two ’r three fellers was walkin’ ’round, stakin’ out the mesquite. And nigh the station, ’twixt them and me, was a brand-new, hip-roofed shanty with a long black-and-white sign acrosst it. The sign said “Real Estate.” Wal, that looked like business!

I bulged in. They was a’ awful dudey feller inside, settin’ at a table and makin’ chicken-tracks on a big sheet of blue paper. “Howdy,” I says, “you must be one of them Chicago gents?”

He jumped up and shook hands. “Yas, I am,” he says; “but only a land-agent, y’ savvy. They’s three others in town that’s got capital. The one that lives over yonder at the hotel is a millionaire. Then they’s a doctor (left a fine practice to come), and a preacher. But the preacher ain’t just one of you’ ord’nary pulpit pounders.”

I stooped over to git a look at that sheet of blue paper. It had lines all criss-cross on it, same as a checker-board, and little, square, white spots showin’ now and again.

“Excuse me fer astin’,” I says, “but what’s this?”

“This is the new map of Goldstone,” he says, “and drawed two mile square. Here”–pointin’ to a white spot–“’ll be the Normal College, and here”–pointin’ to another–“the Merchants’ Exchange. Then, a-course, the Pavilion fer Indus’tral Exhibitions––”

“Pardner,” I broke in, “if Goldstone was in the middle ’r east part of Oklahomaw, where crops is allus fine, this boom wouldn’t surprise me a little bit. But out this way, where they’s only a show fer cattle, I cain’t just understand it. Now, they must be some reason.”

The real estate agent, he smiled awful sly like, and wunk. “Mebbe,” he says.

Later on, I seen the gent that was stoppin’ at the hotel. He was tonier’n the other. Wore one of them knee coats that’s got a wedge outen it, right in front, and two buttons fastened in the small of the back. He was walkin’ up and down the porch and smokin’ a seegar. Rich? Wal, I guess! Had the finest room in the house, and et three six-bit meals a day! About fifty, he was, and kinda porky; not a tub, y’ savvy, but plenty fat.

That same day, a new Tarantula come out. In it was a piece haided “More Capital Fer Goldstone.” It went on like this: “Our City has lately acquired four new citizens whose confidence and belief in her future ’d put some of the old hangers-on and whiners to the blush if they faces wasn’t made of brass, and didn’t know how to blush. Wake up,” goes on the Tarantula, “wake up, Goldstone, and shake you’self. And gents, here’s a hearty welcome! Give us you’ paw!”

Goldstone was woke up, all right, all right. She was as lively and excited as a chicken with its haid cut off. That real-estate feller ’d bought up two big tracts just north of town, gittin’ ’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.

Wal, I had that three hunderd. But I helt back. What I wanted to know was the why behind the boom.

I just kinda happened past that real-estate corn-crib. The land-agent was to home, and I ast him to come over and have one with me. He said O. K., that suited him. So we greased our hollers a few times. And, when he was feelin’ so good that he could make out to talk, I drawed from him that Goldstone was likely to stand ’way up yonder at the haid of her class account of “natu’al developments.”

“Natu’al developments,” I says. “Wal, pardner, when it comes to them big, dictionary words, I shore am a slouch. And you got me all twisted up in my picket-rope.”

But I had to spend another dollar ’fore he’d talk some more. Then he begun, turrible confidential: “I been sayin’ nothin’ and sawin’ wood, Lloyd. I ain’t let no man git information outen me. But I like you, Lloyd, and, say! I’m a-goin’ to tell you. Natu’al developments is coal and oil and gas.”

Same as the Tusla country! Wal, I was plumb crazy. “Blamed if it ain’t likely,” I says to myself. “Wal, that settles things fer me.”

I got shet of that real-estate feller quick as I could (didn’t want him to remember that he’d talked in his sleep), and hunted up the post-master. The postmaster was one of the china-eyed, corn-silk Swedes, and he owned quite a bit of Goldstone. I tole him I wanted to buy a couple of lots ’cause I was goin’ to be married, and figgered to build. (That wasn’t no lie, neither.) Said I didn’t want to live in the part of town where the greasers was fer the reason that I’d rather settle down in a Sioux Camp in August any day than amongst a crowd of blamed cholos.

The postmaster wasn’t anxious to sell. Said he didn’t have more’n a block left, and he wanted a big price fer that. “’Cause this boom is solid,”–he kinda half whispered it. “How do I know? Wal, I pumped one of them suspender-cityzens this mornin’.”

That showed me I’d got to hump myself. If that real-estate feller blabbed any more, I wouldn’t be able to buy. The station-agent owned some lots. I hiked fer the deepot.

When I looked into the ticket-office through the little winda, I seen that agent–one hand on the tick-machine, other holdin’ his haid–with his mouth wide open, like a hungry wall-eye.

“Lloyd,” he says, pantin’ hard, “I ain’t got no right to tell, but I can’t hole it in. Them Chicago fellers, Lloyd, are a Standard Oil bunch. Look a-here!” And he pushed out a telegram.

I wouldn’t ’a’ believed it if I hadn’t saw it writ down in black and white. But there it was, haided Chicago, addressed to Porky, and as plain as day: “Buy up all that’s possible. Price no object. Rockafeller.”

Say! I come nigh lettin’ out a yell. Then, knowin’ they was no use to ast the agent to sell, I split fer the liv’ry-stable. And when I got back into town late that night, I’d been down to a ranch below Goldstone and handed over my nest-aig fer a quarter-section just south of town.

Next mornin’, they was a nice pile of stakes throwed out on to that sand patch of mine, all them stakes white on the one end and sharp on the other. And they was a big sign onloaded, too. Yas, ma’am. It said, “The Lloyd Addition.”

And that same noon, Number 201 brung me a letter from little Macie!

I didn’t cut up my quarter into lots straight off. Made up my mind it’d be best to see that real-estate feller first, ast his advice, and see if he’d handle the property. So I made fer his office in a turrible sweat.

Heerd awful loud talkin’ as I come nigh, and seen they was a big crowd ’round the door. And here was Porky and the parson, just havin’ it–up and down!

“The idear!” the parson was sayin’, “–the idear of you’ thinkin’ you can go stick a pavilion where licker’ll be sold right next to the Cathedral!” (He was madder ’n all git out!)

Porky shrug his shoulders. “My dear sir,” he says, “I got to use my own land in my own way.”

“Aw!” answers the parson, solemn, “–aw! my friend, give you’ heart a housecleanin’. Think not so muchly about worldly possessions, but seecure a lot in the New Jerusalem!”

Then Porky flew up. Said the parson ’d insulted him. “And,” he almost yelled, “this is how it stands. Either you got to buy the block where the pavilion’s goin’ to be, ’r I’ll buy the Cathedral property.”

“I ain’t got you’ means at my command,” says the parson.

“Never mind. I’ll take the church lots. Name you’ figger.”

“Three thousand.”

Porky pulled out his check-book and begun to scribble with one of them squirt-gun pens. “The matter is settled,” he says.

Say! the feller who’d sole that property to the parson fer a hunderd–we had to prop him up!

Just afterwards, I had my chin with the real-estate dude, and I tell you it made me pretty blue. “Sorry, Lloyd,” he says; “you know I never tole you to buy south of town. And I don’t keer to bother with you’ Addition. ’Cause Goldstone is goin’ to grow to the north and east.”

Porky was there, and he said the very same thing. And a few minutes later on, when the doc come in, I couldn’t git him to even consider lookin’ over my buy. But fer a lot on the north side, belongin’ to the parson, he put down the good, hard coin.

North and east was the hull talk now, and them Goldstone fellers who’d sole out cheap in that end of town felt some pale. But the Chicago gents was as pert as prairie-dawgs, and doin’ a thunderin’ lot of buyin’. Now, the doc owned sev’ral lots east of Porky’s tract. “New drug-store here,” he says, “and a fine town hall over it. I’ll put ten thousand into the buildin’.” And the parson bought next to the site fer the Normal College. “The city,” he says, “’ll want a spot fer its High School.”

All the time this was goin’ on, I was livin’ on nothin’, you might say, and not even spendin’ a cent fer a shave. My haid had a crop of hay on it that would ’a’ filled a pilla; I had a Santy Claus beard, and if I couldn’t afford to grub at the hotel, I wasn’t mean enough to use they soap. So, far as looks goes, I was some changed.

Then–the Tarantula showed up with the hull story about coal and oil and gas! Say! the cat was outen the bag. And Goldstone come nigh havin’ a fit and fallin’ in. Here it’d been over a gold-mine, and didn’t know it! And here it’d gone and sole itself out to a passel of strange ducks!

“Feller citizens,” says the paper, “this beautiful city of yourn is destined to rival South McAlester and Colgate.”

That was on a Thursday, if I recollect right. Wal, say! fer the next two days, more things happened in that there town than’d ever happened in the hull county afore. Ev’rybody that could rake, scrape, beg ’r borra was a-doin’ it–so’s they could buy. Friday, the postmaster got a big block from the real-estate gent; same day, kinda as a favour, the doc sold the ticket-agent two ’r three lots. I felt blamed sore ’cause I didn’t have no money to git in on some good deals. But I hung on to the “Lloyd Addition”–I wouldn’t let that git outen my hands. Aw, I ain’t a-goin’ to lie–I had the boom-fever bad as anybody. Fact is, I had it worse. And who wouldn’t–when gettin’ that little gal depended on it?

Saturday, Goldstone went plumb crazy. They was buyin’ and sellin’ back’ards and for’ards, this way and that way, in circles and cater-corners. From sun-up on, that real-estate shanty had half a dozen fellers in it all the time; more was over to the hotel, dickerin’ with Porky; and a lot of others trailed up the parson and the doc. Nobody et ’cause they was too blamed excited. Nobody drunk ’cause they wouldn’t spare the cash. The sun went down, and they kept on a-buyin’. And at midnight, the town went to bed–rich!

The day afterwards was Sunday. And I hope I may die if I ever fergit that Sunday!

When the sun come up, as a story-book’d put it, Goldstone lay as calm and peaceful as a babe, ’cept where some poor devil of a cow-punch was gittin’ along towards his bunk when he oughta been comin’ outen it. But all else was O. K. Weather fine, ev’rybody well, thank y’, and land so high it’s a wonder the temper’ture wasn’t gittin’ low.

But ain’t it funny how quick things can change?

First off, some of us boys went over to that real-estate hogan–and found the door open and the place stripped. Yas, ma’am; duds gone, pictures gone. Only the bench and the table left.

“What struck him?” ast the postmaster, who was comin’ by.

“I guess,” says a feller, careless, “–I guess he’s moved into a better office, mebbe.”

“I reckon,” agrees the postmaster. Then, his voice gittin’ holler, like, “But ain’t that the map of Goldstone, with a rip in it?”

It was–tore clean in two!

We wasn’t anxious any. Just the same, we drifted over to the hotel. When we got to the door, we met the clerk comin’ out. “Where’s you’ millionaire friend this mornin’?” we ast him.

“Started fer Chicago last night.”

“What–what’s that?”

“Gone to raise more capital, I guess,” says the clerk. “’Cause he didn’t settle–is comin’ back right off.”

Without nobody sayin’ nothin’ more, we all made up the street to the doctor’s, the crowd growin’ as we went along. Even after bein’ knocked plumb flat with a sledge-hammer, we didn’t know yet what’d bit us. But they was another whopper a-comin’–the doc wasn’t to be found.

“I think,” says the postmaster, swallerin’ hard, “that if we ast the parson––”

Up pipes a kid. “The parson wasn’t to Sunday school this mornin’.”

Fer a spell, we all just looked at each other. Then, the procession formed and moved east–towards the parson’s.

A square table was inside. On it was a lot of bottles and glasses and a pack of cards–nothin’ more.

Ole sin-killer, too!

I spoke up: “They’s gone, boys,–but what about they land?”

“Wal,” answers one feller, “I don’t think the doc had none. ’Cause I bought the Merchants’ Exchange site offen him yesterday.”

“And I bought the Normal School block offen the parson,” says Number Two.

“And what I got from the real-estate feller last night,” adds the hotel clerk, “must ’a’ come nigh to cleanin’ him out.”

Another spell of quiet. Then––

“I wonder,” remarks the station-agent, “if that Rockafeller telegram was genuwine.”

The postmaster throwed up his hands. “We’re it!” he says. “We sole our sand fer a song, and we bought it back at a steep figger.”

“With all that money,” adds the hotel clerk, “they must ’a’ had to walk bow-laigged.”

“My friends,” says the station-agent, “the drinks is on us!”

And me? Wal, I wandered ’round fer a while–like I was plumb loco. When I landed up at last, I seen somethin’ white in front of me. It was a sign, and it said, “The Lloyd Addition.”

I sit down on my little pile of stakes, and pulled out the last letter I’d got from Macie.