Alec Lloyd, Cowpuncher. Gates Eleanor
fer a week. Baby got sicker and sicker. Rose got whiter and whiter, and thinned till she was about as hefty as a shadda. Even the ole man begun t’ look kinda pale ’round the gills. But Simpson didn’t miss a trick. And he come t’ the ranch-house so darned many times that his buckboard plumb oiled down the pike.
“Rose,” I says oncet to her, when I stopped by, “cain’t we give Billy Trowbridge a chanst? That Simpson doc ain’t worth a hill of beans.”
Rose didn’t say nothin’. She just turned and lent over the kid. Gee whiz! I hate t’ see a woman cry!
’Way early, next day, the kid had a convul-sion, and ev’rybody was shore she was goin’ to kick the bucket. And whilst a bunch of us was a-hangin’ ’round the porch, pretty nigh luny about the pore little son-of-a-gun, Bill Rawson come–and he had a story that plumb took the last kink outen us.
I hunts up the boss. “Mister Sewell,” I says, by way of beginnin’, “I’m feard we’re goin’ to lose the baby. Simpson ain’t doin’ much, seems like. What y’ say if I ride in fer Doc Trowbridge?”
“Trowbridge?” he says disgusted. “No, ma’am! Simpson’ll be here in a jiffy!”
“I reckon Simpson’ll be late,” I says. “Bill Rawson seen him goin’ towards Goldstone just now in his thrashin’-machine with a feemale settin’ byside him. Bill says she was wearin’ one of them fancy collar-box hats, with a duck-wing hitched on to it, and her hair was all mussy over her eyes–like a cow with a board on its horns–and she had enough powder on her face t’ make a biscuit.”
The ole man begun t’ chaw and spit like a bob-cat. “I ain’t astin’ Bill’s advice,” he says. “When I want it, I’ll let him know. If Simpson’s busy over t’ Goldstone, we got to wait on him, that’s all. But Trowbridge? Not no-ways!”
I seen then that it was time somebody mixed in. I got onto my pinto bronc and loped fer town. But all the way I couldn’t think what t’ do. So I left Maud standin’ outside of Dutchy’s, and went over and sit down next Hairoil on the truck. And that’s where I was–a-hummin’ to myself and a-workin’ my haid–when he give me that rakin’ over about playin’ Cupid, and warned me agin monkeyin’ with ole man Sewell.
Wal, when Hairoil up and left me, I kept right on a-studyin’. I knowed, a-course, that I could go kick up a fuss when Simpson stopped by his office on his trip back from Goldstone. But that didn’t seem such a’ awful good plan. Also, I could––
Just then, I heerd my cow-pony kinda whinny. I glanced over towards her. She was standin’ right where I’d left her, lines on the ground, eyes peeled my way. And such a look as she was a-givin’ me!–like she knowed what I was a-worryin’ about and was surprised I was so blamed thick.
I jumped up and run over to her. “Maud,” I says, “you got more savvy ’n any horse I know, bar none. Danged if we don’t do it!”
First off, I sent word t’ Billy that he was to show up at the Sewell ranch-house about four o’clock. And when three come, me and Maud was on the Bar Y road where it goes acrosst that crick-bottom. She was moseyin’ along, savin’ herself, and I was settin’ sideways like a real lady so’s I could keep a’ eye towards town. Pretty soon, ’way back down the road, ’twixt the barb-wire fences, I seen a cloud of dust a-travellin’–a-travellin’ so fast they couldn’t be no mistake. And in about a minute, the signs was complete–I heerd a toot. I put my laig over then.
Here he come, that Simpson in his smelly Pullman, takin’ the grade like greased lightin’. “Now, Maud!” I whispers to the bronc. And, puttin’ my spurs into her, I begun t’ whip-saw from one fence to the other.
He slowed up and blowed his whistle.
I hoed her down harder’n ever.
“You’re a-skeerin’ my hoss,” I yells back.
“Pull t’ one side,” he answers. “I want to git by.”
But Maud wouldn’t pull. And everywheres Simpson was, she was just in front, actin’ as if she was scairt plumb outen her seven senses. The worse she acted, a-course, the madder I got! Fin’lly, just as Mister Doc was managin’ to pass, I got turrible mad, and, cussin’ blue blazes, I took out my forty-five and let her fly.
One of them hind tires popped like the evenin’ gun at Fort Wingate. Same minute, that hidebound rig-a-ma-jig took a shy and come nigh buttin’ her fool nose agin a fence-post. But Simpson, he geed her quick and started on. I put a hole in the other hind tire. She shied again–opp’site direction–snortin’ like she was wind-broke. He hawed her back. Then he went a-kitin’ on, leavin’ me a-eatin’ his dust.
But I wasn’t done with him, no, ma’am.
Right there the road make a kinda horse-shoe turn–like this, y’ savvy–to git ’round a fence corner. I’d cal’lated on that. I just give Maud a lick ’longside the haid, jumped her over the fence, quirted her a-flyin’ acrosst that bend, took the other fence, and landed about a hunderd feet in front of him.
When he seen me through his goggles, he come on full-steam. I set Maud a-runnin’ the same direction–and took up my little rope.
About two shakes of a lamb’s tail, and it happened. He got nose and nose with me. I throwed, ketchin’ him low–’round his chest and arms. Maud come short.
Say! talk about you’ flyin’-machines! Simpson let go his holt and took to the air, sailin’ up right easy fer a spell, flappin’ his wings all the time; then, doublin’ back somethin’ amazin’, and fin’lly comin’ down t’ light.
And that gasoline bronc of hisn–minute she got the bit, she acted plumb loco. She shassayed sideways fer a rod, buckin’ at ev’ry jump. Pretty soon, they was a turn, but she didn’t see it. She left the road and run agin the fence, cuttin’ the wires as clean in two as a pliers-man. Then, outen pure cussedness, seems like, she made towards a cottonwood, riz up on her hind laigs, clumb it a ways, knocked her wind out, pitched oncet ’r twicet, tumbled over on to her quarters, and begun t’ kick up her heels.
“He lay the kid lookin’ up and put his finger into her mouth”
I looked at Simpson. He’d been settin’ on the ground; but now he gits up, pullin’ at the rope gentle, like a lazy sucker. Say! but his face was ornamented!
I give him a nod. “Wal, Young-Man-That-Flies-Like-A-Bird?” I says, inquirin’.
He began to paw up the road like a mad bull. “I’ll make you pay fer this!” he bellered.
“You cain’t git blood outen a turnip,” I answers, sweet as sugar; and Maud backed a step ’r two, so’s the rope wouldn’t slack.
“How dast you do such a’ infameous thing!” he goes on.
“You gasoline gents got t’ have a lesson,” I answers; “you let the stuff go t’ you’ haids. Why, a hired man ain’t got a chanst fer his life when you happen t’ be travellin’.”
He begun t’ wiggle his arms. “You lemme go,” he says.
“Go where?” I ast.
“T’ my machine.”
I looked over at her. She was quiet now, but sweatin’ oil somethin’ awful. “How long’ll it take you t’ git her on to her laigs?” I ast.
“She’s ruined!” he says, like he was goin’ to bawl. “And I meant t’ go down to Goldstone t’night.”
“That duck-wing lady’ll have t’ wait fer the train,” I says. “But never mind. I’ll tell Rose