"I don't neither, parson. He's crooked as a cow-path, that feller.

Have you tole her paw?"

"No, but I will," says the parson.

I went over to the deepot again. Havin' done a little thinkin', I wasn't so scairt about Simpson by now. 'Cause why? Wal, y' see, I knowed

Mace didn't have no money; ole Sewell wouldn't give her none; and she wasn't the kind of a gal t' borra. So it was likely she'd be in Briggs fer quite a spell.

I found Up-State settin' outside the eatin'-house. I sit down byside him. Allus, them days, whenever I come in sight of the station, he was a-hangin' 'round, y' savvy. He'd be on a truck, say, 'r mebbe on the edge of the platform. If it was all quiet inside at the lunch-counter, he'd be watchin' the mesquite, and sorta swingin' his shoes. But if Macie was singin', he'd be all scrooched over with his face covered up--and pretty quiet.

When Macie sung, it was The Mohawk Vale ev'ry time. Now, that seemed funny, bein' she was mad at me and that was my fav'rite song. Then, it didn't seem so funny. One of the eatin'-house gals tole me, confidential, that Up-State had lots of little chins with Macie acrosst the lunch-counter, and that The Mohawk Vale was "by request."

_I_ didn't keer. Let Up-State talk to her as much as he wanted to.

_He_ couldn't make me jealous--not on you' life! I wasn't the finest lookin' man in Oklahomaw, and I wasn't on right good terms with Mace.

But Up-State--wal, Up-State was pretty clost t' crossin' the Big Divide.

All this time not a word 'd pa.s.sed 'twixt Macie and her paw. The ole man was too stiff-necked t' give in and go to her. (He was figgerin'

that she'd git tired and come home.) And Macie, she wasn't tired a blamed bit, and she was too stiff-necked t' give in and go t' Sewell.

Wal, when the boss heerd about Up-State and Mace, you never _seen_ a man so sore. He said Up-State was aigin' her on, and no white man 'd do _that_.

Y' see, he had some reason fer not goin' shucks on the singin' and actin' breed. We'd had two bunches of op'ra folks in Briggs at diff'rent times. One come down from Wichita, and was called "The Way to Ruin." (Wal, it sh.o.r.e looked its name!) The other was "The Wild West Troupe" from Dallas. This last wasn't West--it was from Noo York _di_rect--but you can bet you' boots it was _wild_ all right. By thunder! you couldn't 'a' helt nary one of them young ladies with a hoss-hair rope!

But fer a week of Sundays, he didn't say nothin' to Up-State. He just boiled inside, kinda. Then one day--when he'd got enough steam up, I reckon,--why, he opened wide and let her go.

"Up-State," he begun, "I'm sorry fer you, all right, but----"

Up-State looked at him. "Sewell," he whispers, "I don't want _no_ man's pity."

"Listen to me," says the boss. "Macie's my little gal--the only child I got left now, and I warn you not to go talkin' actress to her."

"Don't holler 'fore you git hit," whispers Up-State, smilin'.

The boss got worse mad then. "Look a-here," he says, "don't give me none of that. You know you lie----"

Up-State shook his haid. "I'm not a man any more, Sewell," he whispers. "I'm just what's left of one. I didn't used to let _no_body hand out things that flat to me."

I stuck in _my_ lip. (_One_ more time couldn't hurt.) "Now, Sewell,"

I says, "put on the brake."

He got a holt on hisself then. "This ain't no josh to me, Cupid," he says. (He was tremblin', pore ole cuss!) "What you think I heerd this mornin'? Mace ain't makin' enough money pa.s.sin' slumgullion to them pa.s.senger cattle all day, so she's a-goin' over to Silverstein's ev'ry night after this to fix up his books. I wisht now I'd never sent her t' business college."

Just then--

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

Up-State lent over, his elbows on his knees, and his face in his hands.

The boss looked at me. I give a jerk of my haid to show him he'd best go. And he walked off, grindin' his teeth.

It seemed to me I could hear Up-State whisperin' into his fingers. I stooped over. "What is it, pardner?" I ast.

"It's full of home," he says, "--it's full of home! Cupid! Cupid!"

(Darned if I don't wisht them lungers wouldn't come down here, anyhow.

They plumb give a feller the misery.)

Doc Trowbridge stopped by just then. "How you makin' it t'-day, Up-State?" he ast.

Up-State got to his feet, slow though, and put a hand on Billy's shoulder. "The next sandstorm, ole man," he says; "the next sandstorm."

"Up-State," says Billy, "buck up. You got more lives'n a cat."

"No show," Up-State whispers back.

He was funny that-a-way. Now, most lungers fool theyselves. Allus "goin' to git better," y' savvy. But Up-State--_he knew_.

"Come over to my tent t'-night," he goes on to Billy. "I got somethin' I want to talk to you about."

"All right," says Billy. "Two haids is better 'n one, if one _is_ a sheep's haid."

After supper, I pa.s.sed Silverstein's two 'r three times, and about nine o'clock I seen Macie. She was 'way back towards the end of the store, a lamp and a book in front of her; and she was a-workin' like a steam-thrasher.

Somehow it come over me all to oncet then that she'd meant ev'ry single word she said, and that, sooner 'r later--she was goin'.

_Goin'_. And I'd be stayin' behind. I looked 'round me. Say! Briggs City didn't show up _much_. "Without _her,_" I says, (they was that red-hot-iron feelin' inside of me again) "--without her, what is it?--the jumpin'-off place!"

Beyond me, a piece, was Up-State's tent. A light was burnin' inside it, too, and Doc Trowbridge was settin' in the moonlight by the openin'.

Behind him, I could see Up-State, writin'.

I trailed home to my bunk. But you can understand I didn't sleep good.

And 'way late, I had a dream. I dreamed the Bar Y herd broke fence and stampeded through Briggs, and after 'em come about a hunderd bull-whackers, all a-layin' it on to them steers with the flick of they lashes _-zip, zip, zip, zip_.

Next mornin, I woke quick--with a jump, y' might say. I looked at my nickel turnip. It was five-thirty. I got up. The sun was shinin', the air was nice and clear and quiet and the larks was just singin' away.

But outside, along the winda-sill, was stretched _a' inch-wide trickle of sand!_

In no time I was hoofin' it down the street. When I got to Up-State's tent, Billy Trowbridge was inside it, movin' 'round, puttin' stuff into a trunk, and--wipin' the sand outen his eyes.

"He was right?" I says, when I goes in, steppin' soft, and whisperin'--like Up-State 'd allus whispered. Billy turned to me and kinda smiled, fer all he felt so all-fired bad. "Yas, Cupid," he says, "he was right. One more storm."

Just then, from the station--

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

Billy walked over to the bed and looked down. "Up-State, ole man," he says, "you're a-goin' back to the Mohawk."

Up-State left two letters behind him--one fer me and one fer Billy. The doc didn't show hisn; said it wouldn't be just _pro_feshnal--yet. But mine he ast me to read to the boss.