Loco or Love

Author of “A Prevaricated Parade,” “Dough or Dynamite,” etc.

“If you’d ’a’ cooked them two eggs at the same time, ‘Magpie,’ mine wouldn’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, and glares at me.

“Ike Harper,” says he, “tend to your own cooking. A person what is as ungrateful as you are can’t partake of my cooking, neither will I break bread with such as he.”

I got my boots on, cooks me some bacon, and eats as far from that hombre 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 and Magpie. 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 that scantling-shaped hombre have been pardners ever since gold was discovered on bedrock, and this is the first rift in our lute. Of course there has been discords, but this is the first time that the strings have all been busted!

Love cometh at strange times. Me and Magpie have been over in the Medicine Hills, sort of looking for an alleged rustler, and are coming out, when we sees a nester’s cabin with smoke coming out of the stovepipe. 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 smells fried 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 door opens, 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 big as the end of a shotgun shell.

She’s got a bowl full of dough in her hands, and she stares at us like we’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 the odors 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’t for the looks of the thing. I’m your obedient servant, Ike Harper. You living here alone?”

“Yes,” she nods. “A poor, defenseless woman. I hope there ain’t no objection to me using this cabin. I’ll take care of it.”

“She’s yours,” pronounces Magpie. “If anybody interferes with your habitation you send for me.”

“And in case he’s too busy I’ll come,” says I. “He’s a busy man. I’m sorry he was so quick to startle yuh, and make yuh bust your dough mug. 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 biscuits was the lightest yuh ever seen. Coffee? Nectar of the gods. There ain’t much furniture in the place, but what is in there looks homelike. She’s got a enlarged picture on the wall, the same of which seems familiar.

“Ma’am,” says Magpie, pointing at it, “would yuh mind telling me who the distinguished-looking gent is?”

“Was,” says she, sad-like. “He’s gone and——”

“Magpie,” says I, “don’t presume on short acquaintance to stir up sad memories. There don’t seem to be nothing sacred to him, ma’am.”