The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, August 30, 1903, Page 7

THE SUNDAY CALL. 7 L o get myselt be Cha tell you, cow-puncher. up lke this. ee into seys they, “We'll make this supertntendent. and the ranch is all right &t onss.’ Bo out comes Jones from Bos- wasn't & bad-hearted f some ways, was an h 7ot on the whole he felt te & looking-glass the pleas: of refl “Wel ex for e Sreans straight, w 20 § & e egans and thes there was. things , Buck. g before He like a boar pig p and Jonesy yelling, ‘Help! 1 n that did not cure his where 1t y, once—but thunder! long” while to tell you o Jones. % nose dn't hurt Kyle any in he was most as a4 man as she was for a de & pair to draw to, I er the prairie, full ingness! Loys was so happy you feel like 2 boy again to see @ me in private that it was rfu w eir oyt here agreed t was considered let on that e of mind every other. I reckon was the ‘only Aip who didn’t under- as that never t as smooth and easy time for college sledding til it came ng back to e into his confidénce. nished in my whole il him so. *Well, what it? says L and shook his he. ‘Do you think I felt like ‘saying, Well, ¢ the long ears I miss my gues: made allowances, and says 1, ‘Well, about thet, I don’t think I ought to say any- thing; stiil if I had only one eye left I could see plain that her education's finished. Bhe don’'t want any more col- lege, that girl don't." *“ “Think not? s he, bracing up. And then, by and by, they went out to ride, for Jonesy was good to the girl, I'll say that for him. He was willing to do any- ng for her in reason, according to his But Kyle wasn't in them views; out of the picture as far as hus- went. They came back at sunset when the e, world was glowing red, the same as they were. I reached for the flold glasses took & squint at them. There was arm in that, for they were well-be- One look at thelir There were three of -pen—Bob and Wind-River self. ‘Boys,’ says I, un- ‘they’'ve made the riffle.’ and then everybody at the glasses £lad,’ says Smithy. And s of that old hardshell's “They're two of as d in many a weary wish ‘em all the luck ok 1 says I, ‘and T reall we could &o for "em wou! be to on't he sizz!" me us old codgers if we that it was s the says Bob. And had a to young o out and meet ‘em,’ we went. They weren't thought th says L & par- o I suppose th id and self, and we all considerable, but I told iet, “Take that fool grin off want Uncle Jones to hree days left to that was the ack to_college. id & councfl behind calied in Uncle n IS Big Red Saun- ta Seec Red, which means in Sioux language, and as they h and herwise kno ‘Fly for town and get d come back and tell Jonesy a pesky sight stronger ar- him what you have done re going to do.’ quite agree with that. sneaky. e first art of war how to make a grand Put your marker on the r words, take the first d get married. Ten will have the laugh the year is out.’ you are a bit nice to- < Skip,’ married a: ebout it Jt gument to te Be gone. d raflle ' says Kyle. “*That's what I am, young man,’ says I “If I had ten years off my shoulders and a lttle of the glow off my. hair I'd give you & run for your alley that wouid leave you breathiess at the wind-up.’ ‘I think your hair is a beautiful color, Red,” says Loys. ‘Many & woman wouid like to have it. ‘Of course they would,’ I answered. ut they don't get it. I'm foxy, I am.’ t1ll 1 was touched in a tender spot. That young woman knew just the right thing to say, by nature. ‘Well, what are you ng folks going to co? I asked them. ded that they'd think it over until the next day, but that turned out to be too late; for what must Kyle do but get chucked from his horse and have his leg broke near the hip. ' You don’t want to take any love affairs onto the back of & bad horse, now you mark me! Thera was no such thing as downing that boy when he was in his right mind. “Now here was & hurrah! Loys she dasn’t cry for fear of uncle, and Kyle he used the sinfulest language known to the tongue of man. 'Twas the first time I'd ever heard him say anything much, but he made it clear that it wasn't because he couldn’t, “ “What will we do, Red? What will we do? says he. “‘Now, says I ‘don’t bile over like that, because it's bad for your leg.’ “He cussed the leg. ““Go on and tell me what we can do,’ says he. “ “When you ask me that you've pulled the right bell,’ says L ‘I'll tell you exact- ly what we'll do. I go for the doctor. Savvy? Well, I bring back the miriister &t the same time. Angevine he loses the Jersey cow over in the canebrake, and uncle and Angevine go hunting her, for not even Loys is ace high in uncle’s mind alongside that cow. The rest is easy. 'Red, you're & brick—you're the best fellow alive,” says Kyle, nearly squeezing the hand off me. “‘I've tried to conceal it all my life, but I knew it would be discoversd some day,” says 1. “Well, I suppose I'd better break the news to Loys—'twouldn't be any more than polite.’ ‘Oh, Lord! 1 wonder if she'll be will- ing? says he. “She was willing all right—even anx- jous. There’s some women—and men, too, for that matter—who go through life like & cat through a back alley, not caring a cuss for either end or the middle. They would have been content to wait. Not so Loy Bhe wanted her Kyle, her poor Kyle, and she wanted him quick. “Now, I had a minister friend up in town—Father Slade by name. No, he was not a Catholic, I think. They called him ‘Father’ because it fitted him. His church had a steeple on it, anyhow, so it was no maverick. Just what particular kind of religion the old man had, I don't know, but I should say he was a homeopath on a guess. He looked it. 'Twas a comfort to see him coming down the street, his old face shining in his white hair like a shriveled pink apple In a snowdrift, God- blessing everything in sight—good, bad or indifferent. Hé had something pleas- ant to say to all. We was quite friends, and every once’in a_while we'd have a chin about things. “‘Are you keeping straight, Rad?' he’d ask when we part, ““Um,’ I'd say, ‘I'm afraid you'd notice 2 bend here and there if you slid your eves along the edge.’ “‘Well, keep as straight as you can; don’t give up trying, my boy,’ he'd tell me, mighty earnest, and I'd feel ashamed of myself clean around the corner, “I knew the old man would do me a favor if it could be done, so I pulled out easy in my mind. “First place, I stopped at the dmlor’-. because I felt they might mix up the mar- ., rying business some other time, but if a leg that's broke in the upper joint ain't set right you can see a large, dark-com- plected hunk of trouble over the party's left shoulder for the rest of his days. The doctor was out, so I left word for him what was wanted and to'be ready when [ got back, and pulled for Father Slade's. The old gentleman had the rheumatism, and he groaned when I tame in. Rheu- matism's no disease for people who can't swear, ‘‘ ‘How are you, my boy? says he. ‘I'm glad to see you. Here am I, an old man, nipped by the leg, and much wanting to talk to somebody.” “I passeéd the time of day with him, but felt kind of blue. This didn't look like' keepifig my word with the kids. I really hated to\say anything to the ‘old man, * knowing his disposition; still, I felt I had to, and I out with‘my story. | “ ‘Dear, dear!’ says he. ‘The hurry and skurry of young folks! How ldle it seems when you get fifty years away from it, and see how little anything counts. Kor all that, I.thank God,’ says he, ‘that there's a little red left in my blood yet, which makes me sympathize. with them. But the girl's people object, you say?' “I made that all clear to him. ‘The girl’s always all’ right, fathe: says I, ‘and as for the man In this case, my ,Word for him.” “Now.it ainit just the right®thing for me,to say, but seeing as.I've never had anything in partieular to be modest about and I'm proud of what the old gentleman told me, I'm going to repeat it. 7HE QUEEREST “ ‘Your word is good for me, Red," says he. ‘You're a mischievous boy at times, but your heart and your head are both relfable; give me your arm to the wagon." “Then I felt mighty sorry to think of lugging that poor old man all that way. “‘Here,’ says 1. ‘Now you sit down again; don’t you do anything of the sort— you ain't fit." “He put his hand on my shoulder and hobbled his weight off the game leg. * ‘Reddy, I was sitting there thinking when you came in—thinking of how com- fortable it was to be in an easy chair with my foot on a stool, and then I thought, *“If the Lord should send me some work te do I would be willing?"” Now, thanks be to him, I am willing, and lad to find myself so, and I do not be- leve there's any work gore acceptable to him than the union éf young folks who love each other. Ouch!’ says he, as the foot touched the ground. ‘Perhaps you'd better plok me up and earry ‘me bodily.” “So I did it, the ‘old housekeeper: fol- lowing us with an armful of things and jawing the both of us—him for a fool and me for a villain. She was a strong- minded old lady, and I wish I could re- member some of her talk—it was great. “We went around and got the doctor. “‘Hoo! say he. ‘Is it as bad as that? I winked at Father Slade. “‘It's a- plemy ‘worse than that’ says I; * you won't know the hal! of I! l]|l you get_down: there.” “But, of course, we had to tell hlm. and he was tickled. Funny what an interest everybody takes In these happenings. lle wanted all the detalls. AND THEN HE GAVE U3 YoU FVER [HEAED * By Jovel' says he, ‘the man whose feelings ain’'t the least dimmed by a broken leg—horse rolled on him, you sald? Splintered it, probably—that man is one of the right sort. He'll do to tle to." ‘““When we reached the ranch the boys ‘were lined up to meet us. ‘Hurry along,” they called. ‘Angey can't - keep uncle amused all day.’ “So we hustled. Kyle “l for being married first, and then haying his leg set, but I put my foot down flat. It had gone long enough now, and I wash't. going to have him cripping it all his life. But the doctor worked like & man who gets paid by the plece, and in less than no time We were able to call Loys in, ‘“Wind-River Smith spoke to get to give the bride away, and we let him have it. “We'd just got settled to business when in come Angevine, puffing like a buffalo. ‘For heayen sakes! Aln't you finished yet?" says he; ‘well, you want to be at it, for the old man ain't over two minutes behind me, coming fast.” I took the dis- tance in ten-foot steps. Just my luck! Foot slipped when I was. talking 'to him, and I dropped a remark that made him ' FRAY! suspleious—T wouldn't have done it for a ton of money—but it's too late now. I'll down him'and hold him out there if you say so.’ “Well, sir, at this old Father Slade stood right up, forgetting that foot en- tirely. * ‘Children, be ready,’ says he, and he went over the line for a record, * ‘Hurry, there!’ hollered old Bob from the outside, where he was on watch; ‘here comes uncle up the long coulee.’ ‘ “‘What are your names,” says Father Slade. They told him, both red'ning, * ‘Do you, Kyle, take this woman, Loys, to have and keep track of, come-hell or high water, her heirs and assigns for ever”—or such a matter—says he, all in one breath. They both sald they did. “Things flew until we came to the ring. There was & hitch,” We had plumb for- ‘gotten that important article. For a min- ute I felt stingy;.then I cussed ‘myself for a mean old long-horn, and dived into my box. “ *‘Here, take ‘this” T says. ‘It was my mother’s.” ‘“‘Oh, Red! You mustn't pan with that!” cried Loys, her eyes filling up. “‘Don’t waste time talkimg; I put through what I tackle. Hurry, please, father.’ * ‘Has anybedy an objections to these proceedings?’ says he, i “‘F have’ says I, *but I won't mention ’em. Give them the verdict.” e 4 pronounce you man and wife. Let us pray,’ says he, “*What's that?' screeches Uncle Jonesy from the doorway. And then he gave us the queerest prayer you ever heard in your life. He stood on ona toe and clawed chunks out of the air while he delivered it “He seemed to have it in for me In par« ticular. ‘You villain! You rascall You red-headed rascal! You did this! I know , uncle,’ says I, ‘forgive mel’ With gged him right up to me, and he filled my bosom full of smothered lan< guage. “‘Cheess it, you little cuss!" I whis- pered in his ear, ‘or I'll break every rib in your poor old chest!’ I came in on him a trifle just to show him what I could do if I tried. ““Nuff!” he wheezes, ‘Quit. Nuf.’ 'Gg up and congratulate 'em,” I whis- pered agan. oy says he. ‘Ouch] Yes, I willl So up he goes, grinding his teeth. “‘1 wish you every happiness,’ he grunts. *“ ‘Won't you forgive me, uncle? begs Loys. “‘Some other time; some other timel he hollers, and he pranced out ef the house like a hosstyle spider, the maddest little man in the Territory “Loys had a hard time of it until Kyle got so he could travel, and they went up to the Yellowstone with a team for & wedding trip. “The rest of Loys’ folks was in an un- pleasant frame of mind, too. They sent out her brether, and while I'd have took most anything from Loys’ brother, there comes a place where human nature: is human nature, and the upshot of it was I planked that young man gently but firm- ly across my knees. Suffering Ike! he was one sassy young man! Howsom- ever, the whole outfit came r d in time —all except uncle and me. He uged to grit his teeth together till the sparks flew when he saw me. I was afraid he'd bust & blood vessel in one of them fits, so I quit. I hated to let go of the old ranch but I'm pretty well fixed—I'm superinten- dent here. It's Kyle's ranch, you know. That's his brand—the queer-looking thing on the left hip of that cri over the vented hashknife. Loys' invention, that is. She says it's a cherublim, but we call it the ‘fiying flapjack.” There's a right smart lot of beef critters toting that sig- al around this part of the country. Kyle's one of the fellers that rises like a setting of bread—quiet and gentle, but steady and sure. He's going to the State Legislature next year. 'Twon’t do no harm to have one honest man in the outfit. ow, perhaps, if I'd married somse nice woman I might have had 1000 steers of my own, and a chance to make rules and reg- ulations for my feller-citizens—and then, again, T might have took to gambling and drinking and ralsing blazes, and broke my poor wite's broomhandle with my hard head. 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