Alec Lloyd, Cowpuncher. Gates Eleanor
him since ’fore the Oklahomaw Rushes, and long ’fore he’s wired-up half this end of the Terrytory. And I’d knowed his oldest gal, Rose, since she was knee-high to a hop-toad. Daisy gal, she allus was, by thunder! And mighty sweet. Wal, when, after tyin’ up t’ that blamed fool Andrews, she’d got her matreemonal hobbles off in less’n six months–owin’ t’ Monkey Mike bein’ a little sooner in the trigger finger–why, d’you think I was a-goin’ to stand by and see a tin-horn proposition like that Noo York Simpson put a vent brand on her? Nixey!
It was ole man Sewell that bossed the first job and cut out Andrews fer Rose’s pardner. Sewell’s that breed, y’ know, hard-mouthed as a mule, and if he cain’t run things, why, he’ll take a duck-fit. But he shore put his foot in it that time. Andrews was as low-down and sneakin’ as a coyote, allus gittin’ other folks into a fuss if he could, but stayin’ outen range hisself. The little gal didn’t have no easy go with him–we all knowed that, and she wasn’t happy. Wal, Mike easied the sittywaytion. He took a gun with a’ extra long carry and put a lead pill where it’d do the most good; and the hull passel of us was plumb tickled, that’s all, just plumb tickled–even t’ the sheriff.
I said pill just now. Funny how I just fall into the habit of usin’ doctor words when I come to talk of this particular mix-up. That’s ’cause Simpson, the tin-horn gent I mentioned, is a doc. And so’s Billy Trowbridge–Billy Trowbridge is the best medicine-man we ever had in these parts, if he did git all his learnin’ right here from his paw. He ain’t got the spondulix, and so he ain’t what you’d call tony. But he’s got his doctor certificate, O. K., and when it comes t’ curin’, he can give cards and spades to any of you’ highfalutin’ college gezabas, and then beat ’em out by a mile. That’s straight!
Billy, he’d allus liked Rose. And Rose’d allus liked Billy. Wal, after Andrews’s s-a-d endin’, you bet I made up my mind that Billy’d be ole man Sewell’s next son-in-law. Billy was smart as the dickens, and young, and no drunk. He hadn’t never wore no hard hat, neither, ’r roached his mane pompydory, and he was one of the kind that takes a run at they fingernails oncet in a while. Now, mebbe a puncher ’r a red ain’t par-ticular about his hands; but a profeshnal gent’s got to be. And with a nice gal like Rose, it shore do stack up.
But it didn’t stand the chanst of a snow-man in Yuma when it come to ole man Sewell. Doc Simpson was new in town, and Sewell’d ast him out to supper at the Bar Y ranch-house two ’r three times. And he was clean stuck on him. To hear the ole man talk, Simpson was the cutest thing that’d ever come into the mesquite. And Billy? Wal, he was the bad man from Bodie.
Say! but all of us punchers was sore when we seen how Sewell was haided!–not just the ole man’s outfit at the Bar Y, y’ savvy, but the bunch of us at the Diamond O. None of us liked Simpson a little bit. He wore fine clothes, and a dicer, and when it come to soothin’ the ladies and holdin’ paws, he was there with both hoofs. Then, he had all kinds of fool jiggers fer his business, and one of them toot surreys that’s got ingine haidlights and two seats all stuffed with goose feathers and covered with leather–reg’lar Standard Sleeper.
It was that gasoline rig that done Billy damage, speakin’ financial. The minute folks knowed it was in Briggs City, why they got a misery somewheres about ’em quick–just to have it come and stand out in front, smellin’ as all-fired nasty as a’ Injun, but lookin’ turrible stylish. The men was bad enough about it, and when they had one of Doc Simpson’s drenches they haids was as big as Bill Williams’s Mountain. But the women! The hull cavvieyard of ’em, exceptin’ Rose, stampeded over to him. And Billy got such a snow-under that they had him a-diggin’ fer his grass.
I was plumb crazy about it. “Billy,” I says one day, when I met him a-comin’ from ’Pache Sam’s hogan on his bicycle; “Billy, you got to do somethin’.” (Course, I didn’t mention Rose.) “You goin’ to let any sawed-off, hammered-down runt like that Simpson drive you out? Why, it’s free grazin’ here!”
Billy, he smiled kinda wistful and begun to brush the alkali offen that ole Stetson of hisn, turnin’ it ’round and ’round like he was worried. “Aw, never mind, Cupid,” he says; “–just keep on you’ shirt.”
But pretty soon things got a darned sight worse, and I couldn’t hardly hole in. Not satisfied with havin’ the hull country on his trail account of that surrey, Simpson tried a new deal: He got to discoverin’ bugs!
He found out that Bill Rawson had malaria bugs, and the Kelly kid had diphtheria bugs, and Dutchy had typhoid bugs that didn’t do business owin’ to the alcohol in his system. (Too bad!) Why, it was astonishin’ how many kinds of newfangled critters we’d never heard of was a-livin’ in this Terrytory!
But all his bugs didn’t split no shakes with Rose. She was polite to Simpson, and friendly, but nothin’ worse. And it was plainer ’n the nose on you’ face that Billy was solid with her. But the ole man is the hull show in that fambly, y’ savvy; and all us fellers could do was to hope like sixty that nothin’ ’d happen to give Simpson a’ extra chanst. But, crimini! Somethin’ did happen: Rose’s baby got sick. Wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep, kinda whined all the time, like a sick purp, and begun to look peaked–pore little kid!
I was out at the Bar Y that same day, and when the news got over to the bunk-house, we was all turrible excited. “Which’ll the ole man send after,” we says, “–Simpson ’r Billy?”
It was that bug-doctor!
He come down the road two-forty, settin’ up as stiff as if he had a ramrod in his backbone. I just happened over towards the house as he turned in at the gate. He staked out his surrey clost to the porch and stepped down. My! such nice little button shoes!
“Aw, maw!” says Monkey Mike; “he’s too rich fer my blood!”
The ole man come out to say howdy. When Simpson seen him, he says, “Mister Sewell, they’s some hens ’round here, and I don’t want ’em to hop into my machine whilst I’m in the house.” Then, he looks at me. “Can you’ hired man keep ’em shooed?” he says.
Hired man! I took a jump his direction that come nigh to splittin’ my boots. “Back up, m’ son,” I says, reachin’ to my britches pocket. “I ain’t no hired man.”
Sewell, he puts in quick. “No, no, Doc,” he says; “this man’s one of the Diamond O cow-boys. Fer heaven’s sake, Cupid! You’re gittin’ to be as touchy as a cook!”
Simpson, he apologised, and I let her pass f er that time. But, a-course, far’s him and me was concerned–wal, just wait. As I say, he goes in,–the ole man follerin’–leavin’ that gasoline rig snortin’ and sullin’ and lookin’ as if it was just achin’ t’ take a run at the bunk-house and bust it wide open. I goes in, too,–just t’ see the fun.
There was that Simpson examinin’ the baby, and Rose standin’ by, lookin’ awful scairt. He had a rain-gauge in his hand, and was a-squintin’ at it important. “High temper’ture,” he says; “ ’way up to hunderd and four.” Then he jabbed a spoon jigger into her pore little mouth. Then he made X brands acrosst her soft little back with his fingers. Then he turned her plumb over and begun to tunk her like she was a melon. And when he’d knocked the wind outen her, he pro-duced a bicycle pump, stuck it agin her chest, and put his ear to the other end. “Lungs all right,” he says; “heart all right. Must be––” Course, you know–bugs!
“But–but, couldn’t it be teeth?” ast Rose.
Simpson grinned like she was a’ idjit, and he was sorry as the dickens fer her. “Aw, a baby ain’t all teeth,” he says.
Wal, he left some truck ’r other. Then he goes out, gits into his Pullman section, blows his punkin whistle and departs.
Next day,