Alec Lloyd, Cowpuncher

“Sweet is the vale where the Mohawk gently glides On its fair, windin’ way to the sea; And dearer by f-a-a-ar––” “Now, look a-here, Alec Lloyd,” broke in Hairoil Johnson, throwin’ up one hand like as if to defend hisself, and givin’ me a kinda scairt look, “you shut you’ bazoo right this minute–and git! Whenever you begin singin’ that song, I know you’re a-figgerin’ on how to marry somebody off to somebody else. And I just won’t have you around!” We was a-settin’ t’gether on the track side of the deepot platform at Briggs City, him a-holdin’ down one end of a truck, and me the other. The mesquite lay in front of us, and it was all a sorta greenish brown account of the pretty fair rain we’d been havin’. They’s miles of it, y’ savvy, runnin’ so far out towards the west line of Oklahomaw that it plumb slices the sky. Through it, north and south, the telegraph poles go straddlin’–in the direction of Kansas City on the right hand, and off past Rogers’s Butte to Albuquerque on the left. Behind us was little ole Briggs, with its one street of square-front buildin’s facin’ the railroad, and a scatterin’ of shacks and dugouts and corrals and tin-can piles in behind.