LOCO OR LOVE
“If you’d ’a’ cooked them two eggs at the same time, ‘Magpie,’ minewouldn’t ’a’ rolled off on the floor and busted,” says I, sad-like,looking at the remains.
Magpie Simpkins rises his full height, which is some elevation, andglares at me.
“Ike Harper,” says he, “tend to your own cooking. A person what is asungrateful as you are can’t partake of my cooking, neither will Ibreak bread with such as he.”
I got my boots on, cooks me some bacon, and eats as far from thathombre as the room allows. A house divided can’t ring with harmony,and love has put a breach as wide as the Grand Cañon between me andMagpie. The little feller with the bow and arrer has rasped us raw.
Magpie is the sheriff of our county, and I’m his deputy. Me and thatscantling-shaped hombre have been pardners ever since gold wasdiscovered on bedrock, and this is the first rift in our lute. Ofcourse there has been discords, but this is the first time that thestrings have all been busted!
Love cometh at strange times. Me and Magpie have been over in theMedicine Hills, sort of looking for an alleged rustler, and are comingout, when we sees a nester’s cabin with smoke coming out of thestovepipe. It’s an old place, and ain’t been occupied for some time,so we decides to investigate.
We’re a heap hungry, and when we gets in shooting range we smellsfried onions and coffee. There’s an aroma of biscuits on the air, too,which don’t hurt our noses none.
We pilgrims into the yard, and as we slips off our broncs the dooropens, and we sees our heart’s desire. She’s a cute little filly.She’s slender, got a lot of eighteen-carat hair, and blue eyes as bigas the end of a shotgun shell.
She’s got a bowl full of dough in her hands, and she stares at us likewe’re curiosities. Sudden-like she smiles.
“I’m Sheriff Simpkins,” states Magpie, removing his hat.
She gives a queer little squeak and drops her bowl on the ground.
“I ain’t done nothing!” says she, sort of vacant-like.
“Ma’am, the queen can do no wrong,” states Magpie. “We smells theodors of Araby, so our noses brings us hither.”
“Onions,” says she. “Don’t they smell.”
“Perfume of the gods,” says I. “I’d wear one all the time if it wasn’tfor the looks of the thing. I’m your obedient servant, Ike Harper. Youliving here alone?”
“Yes,” she nods. “A poor, defenseless woman. I hope there ain’t noobjection to me using this cabin. I’ll take care of it.”
“She’s yours,” pronounces Magpie. “If anybody interferes with yourhabitation you send for me.”
“And in case he’s too busy I’ll come,” says I. “He’s a busy man. I’msorry he was so quick to startle yuh, and make yuh bust your doughmug. He’s abrupt that-away.”
“No matter,” says she, “Won’t yuh come in?”
Just wouldn’t we? Say! Them onions was the greatest and the biscuitswas the lightest yuh ever seen. Coffee? Nectar of the gods. Thereain’t much furniture in the place, but what is in there lookshomelike. She’s got a enlarged picture on the wall, the same of whichseems familiar.
“Ma’am,” says Magpie, pointing at it, “would yuh mind telling me whothe distinguished-looking gent is?”
“Was,” says she, sad-like. “He’s gone and——”
“Magpie,” says I, “don’t presume on s