Alec Lloyd, Cowpuncher. Gates Eleanor
his riggin’, we liked the way he grabbed you’ paw, and he was no quitter when it come to a hoss. Say! but he could ride! One day when he racked into the post-office, his spur-chains a-rattlin’ like a puncher’s, and a quirt in his fist, one of the Bar Y boys rounded him up agin the meanest, low-down buckin’ proposition that ever wore the hide of a bronc. But the parson was game from his hay to his hoofs. He clumb into the saddle and stayed there, and went a-hikin’ off acrosst the prairie, independent as a pig on ice, just like he was a-straddlin’ some ole crow-bait!
So, when Sunday night come, and he preached in the school-house, he had quite a bunch of punchers corralled there to hear him. And I was one of ’em. (But, a-course, that first time, I didn’t have no idear it was a-goin’ to mean a turrible lot to me, that goin’ to church.) Wal, I’m blamed if the parson wasn’t wearin’ the same outfit as he did week days. We liked that. And he didn’t open up by tellin’ us that we was all branded and ear-marked a’ ready by the Ole Long-horn Gent. No, ma’am. He didn’t mention everlastin’ fire. And he didn’t ramp and pitch and claw his hair. Fact is, he didn’t hell-toot!
A-course, that spoiled the fun fer us. But he talked so straight, and kinda easy and honest, that he got us a-listenin’ to what he said.
Cain’t say we was stuck on his text, though. It run like this, that a smart man sees when a row’s a-comin’ and makes fer the tall cat-tails till the wind dies down. And he went on to say that a man oughta be humble, and that if a feller gives you a lick on the jaw, why, you oughta let him give you another to grow on. Think o’ that! It may be O. K. fer preachers, and fer women that ain’t strong enough t’ lam back. But fer me, nixey.
But that hand-out didn’t give the parson no black eye with us. We knowed it was his duty t’ talk that-a-way. And two ’r three of the boys got t’ proposin’ him fer the polo team real serious–pervided, a-course, that he’d stand fer a little cussin’ when the ’casion required. It was a cinch that he’d draw like wet rawhide.
Wal, the long and short of it is, he did. And Sunday nights, the Dutchman lost money. He begun t’ josh the boys about gittin’ churchy. It didn’t do no good,–the boys didn’t give a whoop fer his gass, and they liked the parson. All Dutchy could do was to sic his purp on to chawin’ spots offen that keerige dawg.
But pretty soon he got plumb tired of just dawg-fightin’. He prepared to turn hisself loose. And he advertised a free supper fer the very next Sunday night. When Sunday night come, they say he had a reg’lar Harvey layout. You buy a drink, and you git a stuffed pickle, ’r a patty de grass, ’r a wedge of pie druv into you’ face.
No go. The boys was on to Dutchy. They knowed he was the stingiest gezaba in these parts, and wouldn’t give away a nickel if he didn’t reckon on gittin’ six-bits back. So, more fer devilment ’n anythin’ else, the most of ’em fooled him some–just loped to the school-house.
The parson was plumb tickled.
But it didn’t last. The next Sunday, the “Life Savin’ Station” had Pete Gans up from Apache to deal a little faro. And as it rained hard enough t’ keep the women folks away, why, the parson preached to ole man Baker (he’s deef), the globe and the chart and the map of South Amuricaw. And almost ev’ry day of the next week, seems like, that purp of Dutchy’s everlastin’ly chawed the parson’s. The spotted dawg couldn’t go past the thirst-parlour, ’r anywheres else. The parson took to fastenin’ him up. Then Dutchy’d mosey over towards Hairoil’s shack. Out’d come Mister Spots. And one, two, three, the saloon dawg ’d sail into him.
Then a piece of news got ’round that must ’a’ made the parson madder ’n a wet hen. Dutchy cleaned the barrels outen his hind room and put up a notice that the next Sunday night he’d give a dance. To finish things, the dawgs had a worse fight’n ever Friday mornin’, and the parson’s lost two spots and a’ ear.
I seen a change in the parson that evenin’. When he come down to the post-office, them brown eyes of his’n was plumb black, and his face was redder’n Sam Barnes’s. “Things is goin’ to happen,” I says to myself, “ ’r I ain’t no judge of beef.”
Sunday night, you know, a-course, where the boys went. But I drawed lots with myself and moseyed over to the school-house to keep a bench warm. And here is when that new deal was laid out on the table fer you’ little friend Cupid!
I slid in and sit down clost to the door. Church wasn’t begun yet, and the dozen ’r so of women was a-waitin’ quieter’n mice, some of ’em readin’ a little, some of ’em leanin’ they haids on the desks, and some of ’em kinda peekin’ through they fingers t’ git the lay of the land. Wal, I stretched my neck,–and made out t’ count more’n fifty spit-balls on a life-size chalk drawin’ of the school-ma’am.
Next thing, the parson was in and a-pumpin’ away–all fours–at the organ, and the bunch of us was on our feet a-singin’––
| “Yield not to tempta-a-ation, ’Cause yieldin’ is sin. Each vic’try––” |
We’d got about that far when I shut off, all of a suddent, and cocked my haid t’ listen. Whose voice was that?–as clear, by thunder! as the bugle up at the Reservation. Wal, sir, I just stood there, mouth wide open.
| “Some other to win. Strive manfully onwards––” |
Then, I begun t’ look ’round. Couldn’t be the Kelly kid’s maw (I’d heerd her call the hawgs), ner the teacher, ner that tall lady next her, ner––
Spotted the right one! Up clost to the organ was a gal I’d never saw afore. So many was in the way that I wasn’t able t’ git more’n a squint at her back hair. But, say! it was mighty pretty hair–brown, and all sorta curly over the ears.
When the song was over, ole lady Baker sit down just in front of me; and as she’s some chunky, she cut off nearly the hull of my view. “But, Cupid,” I says to myself, “I’ll bet that wavy hair goes with a sweet face.”
Minute after, the parson begun t’ speak. Wal, soon as ever he got his first words out, I seen that the air was kinda blue and liftin’, like it is ’fore a thunder-shower. And his text? It was, “Lo, I am full of fury, I am weary with holdin’ it in.”
Say! that’s the kind of preachin’ a puncher likes!
After he was done, and we was all ready t’ go, I tried to get a better look at that gal. But the women folks was movin’ my direction, shakin’ hands and gabblin’ fast to make up fer lost time. Half a dozen of ’em got ’round me. And when I got shet of the bunch, she was just a-passin’ out at the far door. My! such a slim, little figger and such a pert, little haid!
I made fer the parson. “Excuse me,” I says to him, “but wasn’t you talkin’ to a young lady just now? and if it ain’t too gally, can I in-quire who she is?”
“Why, yas,” answers the parson, smilin’ and puttin’ one hand on my shoulder. (You know that cuss never oncet ast me if I was a Christian? Aw! I tell y’, he was a gent.) “That young lady is Billy Trowbridge’s sister-in-law.”
“Sister-in-law!” I repeats. (She was married, then. Gee! I hated t’ hear that! ’Cause, just havin’ helped Billy t’ git his wife, y’ savvy, why––) “But, parson, I didn’t know the Doc had a brother.” (I felt kinda down on Billy all to oncet.)
“He ain’t,” says the parson. “(Good-night, Mrs. Baker.) This young lady is Mrs. Trowbridge’s sister.”
“Mrs. Trowbridge’s sister?”
“Yas,–ole man Sewell’s youngest gal. She’s been up to St. Louis goin’ t’ school.” He turned out the bracket lamp.
Ole