Alec Lloyd, Cowpuncher Part 36

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 _sh.o.r.e_. 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.

"Ss.h.!.+ 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 _re_gret to say, Miss Sewell," he begun, "that Seenyer" (the impressyroa) "cain't run over t'-night.

But he'll be to my next little _re_cital 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!

"Oh, oh, oh, sweet sing bird, Oh, oh, sweet sing bird, ety plump plump----"

plump plump Plump

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.

"Sweet is the vale where the Mohawk gently glides On its fair, windin' way to the sea----"

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. "_Ex_cuse me," I says, "fer puttin' a kibosh on you' party. But I just want to say that this Bohemia-artistic-temper'ment fandango stands _ad_journed. 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 b.u.m 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 sh.o.r.e 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 coa.r.s.e 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?"