Missed it a mile--the hull of us. Minute, and in run Sam Barnes, face redder'n a danger-signal.

"Boys," he says, all up in the air, "did y' see It? Wal, what d'

you think? It's from Boston, and It writes. I was at the Arnaz feed shop, ga.s.sin' Carlota, when It sha.s.sayed in. Said It was down here fer the first time in a-a-all Its life, and figgers t' work this town fer book mawterial. Gents, It's a liter'toor sharp!"

"Of all the _gall!_" growls Chub Flannagan, gittin' hot. "Goin' t'

take a shy outen us!" And I seen that some of the other boys felt like _he_ did.

Buckshot Milliken spit in his hands. "I'll go over," he says, "and just natu'lly settle that dude's hash. I'd _admire_ t' do it."

I haided him off quick. Then I faced the bunch. "Gents," I begun, "ain't you just a little bit hasty? Now, don't git in a sweat.

_Con_-sider this subject a little 'fore you act. Sam, I thought you _liked_ t' read liter'toor books."

Sam hauled out "Stealthy Steve"--a fav'-rite of hisn. "Sh.o.r.e I do,"

he answers. "But, as I tole this Boston feller, no liter'toor's been happenin' in Briggs lately--no killin's, 'r train hole-ups."

"_That's_ right, Sam," I says, sarcastic; "go and switch him over t' Goldstone,--when they won't be another book writer stray down this way fer a c.o.o.n's age. Say! You got a haid like a tack!"

Sam dried up. I come back at the boys. "Gents," I _con_tinues, "don't you see this is Briggs City's one big chanst?--the chanst t' git put in red letters on the railroad maps! T' git five square mile of this mesquite staked out into town lots! You all know how we've had t'

take the slack of them jay-hawk farmers over Cestos way; and they ain't such a _much,_ and cain't raise nothin' but shin-oak and peanuts and chiggers. But they tell how _we_ git all the cyclones and rattlesnakes.

"Now, we'll curl they hair. Listen, gents,--Oklahomaw City's got element streets, Guthrie's got a Carniggie lib'rary, and Bliss's got the Hunderd-One Ranch. _And we're a-goin' t' cabbage this book!_"

"Wal, that's a hoss of another colour," admits Chub.

"Yas," says Buckshot, "Cupid's right. We certainly got to attend to this visitor that's come to our enterprisin' city, and give him a fair shake."

"_But,_" puts in Sam, "we're up a tree. Where's his mawterial?"

"Mawterial," I says, "--I don't just savvy what he means by that.

But, boys, whatever it is, we got t' see that he _gits_ it. Now, s'posin' I go find him, and sorta feel 'round a little, and draw him out."

They was agreed, and I split fer the rest'rant. Boston was there, all right, talkin' to ole lady Arnaz (but keepin' a' eye peeled towards Carlota), and pickin' the shucks offen a tamale. I sit down and ast fer flapjacks. And whilst I was waitin' I sized him up.

Clost to, I liked his looks. And from the jump, I seen one thing--they wasn't _no_ showin' off to him, and no extra dawg ('r he wouldn't 'a' come to a joint where meals is only two-bits). He was a book-writer, but when he talked he didn't use no ten-dollar-a-dozen words. And, in place of seegars, he smoked cigareets--and rolled 'em hisself with _one_ hand, by jingo!

Wal, we had a nice, long parley-voo, me gittin' the hull sittywaytion as _re_gards his book, and tellin' him we'd sh.o.r.e lay ourselves out t' help him--if we didn't, it wouldn't be white; him, settin' down things ev'ry oncet in a while, 'r whittlin' a stick with one of them self-c.o.c.kin' jackknives.

We chinned fer the best part of a' hour. Then, he made me a proposition.

This was it: "Mister Lloyd," he says, "I'd like t' have you with me all the time I'm down here,--that'll be three weeks, anyhow. You could _ex_plain things, and--and be a kinda bodyguard."

"Why, my friend," I says, "_you_ don't need no bodyguard in Oklahomaw. But I'll be glad t' _ex_plain anythin' I can."

"Course, I want t' pay you," he goes on; "'cause I'd be takin'

you' time----"

"I couldn't take no pay," I breaks in. "And if I was t' have to go, why any one of the bunch could help you just as good."

"Let's talk business," he says. "I like you, and I don't _want_ you t' go. Now, what's you' time worth?"

"I git forty a month."

"Wal, that suits me. And you' job won't be a hard one."

"Just as you say."

So, then, we shook hands. But, a-course, I didn't swaller that bodyguard story,--I figgered that what he wanted was t' git in with the boys through me.

Wal, when I got back t' the thirst-parlour, I acted like I was loco.

"Boys! boys! _boys!_" I hollered, "I got a job!" And I give 'em all a whack on the back, and I done a jig.

Pretty soon, I was calmer. Then, I says, "I ain't a-goin' t' ride fer Mulhall,--not _this_ month, anyhow. This liter'toor gent's hired me as his book foreman. As I understand it, they's some things he wants, and I'm to help corral 'em. He says that just now most folks seem t' be takin' a lot of interest in the West. He don't reckon the fashion'll keep up, but, a-course a book-writer has t' git on to the band-wagon. So, it's up t' me, boys, to give him what's got to be had 'fore the _ex_citement dies down."

Hairoil come over t' me. "Cupid," he says, "the hull kit and boodle of us'll come in on this. We want t' help, that's the reason. We _owe_ it to y', Cupid."

"Boys," I answers, "I appreciate what you mean, and I _ac_cept you'

offer. Thank y'."

"What does this feller want?" ast Sam.

"Wal," I says, "he spoke a good bit about colour----"

"They's sh.o.r.e colour at the Arnaz feed shop," puts in Monkey Mike; "--them strings of red peppers that the ole lady keeps hung on the walls. And we can git blue shirts over to Silverstein's."

"No, Mike," I says, "that ain't the idear. Colour is _Briggs,_ and _us._"

"Aw, punk!" says Sam. "What kind of a book is it goin' t' be, anyhow, with us punchers in it!"

"Wait till you hear what I got t' _do,_" I answers. "To _con_tinue: He mentioned char_ac_ters. Course, I had to _ad_mit we're kinda shy on _them._"

"Wisht we had a few Injuns," says Hairoil. "A scalpin' makes _mighty_ fine readin'. Now, mebbe, 'Pache Sam'd pa.s.s,--if he was lickered up proper."

"Funny," I says, "but he didn't bring up Injuns. Reckon they ain't stylish no more. But he put it plain that he'd got to have a bad man.

Said in a Western book you _allus_ got t' have a bad man."

"Since we strung up them two Foster boys." says Bergin, "Briggs ain't had what you'd call a bad man. In view of this writin' feller comin', I don't know, gents, but what we was a little _hasty_ in the Foster matter."

"Wal," I says, "we got t' do our best with what's left. This findin' mawterial fer a book ain't no dead open-and-shut proposition.

'Cause Briggs ain't big, and it ain't what you'd call bad. That'll hole us back. But let's dig in and make up fer what's lackin'."

Wal, we rustled 'round. First off, we togged ourselves out the way punchers allus look in magazines. (I knowed that was how he wanted us.) We rounded up all the shaps in town, with orders to wear 'em constant--and made Dutchy keep 'em on, too! Then, guns: Each of us carried six, kinda like a front fringe, y' savvy. Next, one of the boys loped out t' the Lazy X and brung in a young college feller that'd come t' Oklahomaw a while back fer his health. It 'pears that he'd been readin' a Western book that was writ by a' Eastern gent somewheres in Noo Jersey. And, say! he was the wildest lookin' cow-punch that's ever been saw in these parts!

We'd no more'n got all fixed up nice when, "Ssh!" says Buckshot, "here he comes!"

"Quick, boys!" I says, "we got t' sing. It's expected."

The sheriff, he struck up----

"Paddy went to the Chinaman with only one shirt.

How's that?"