I drummed up a lot of votes that afternoon. Got holt of Buckshot Milliken, who wasn't feelin' more'n ordinary good. Ast him how he was. He put his hand to his belt, screwed up his mug, and said he felt plumb et up inside. "Buckshot," I says, "anybody else 'd give you that ole sickenin' story about it bein' the nose-paint you swallered last night. Reckon you' wife's tole you that a'ready." "That's what she has," growls Buckshot. "Wal, _I_ knowed it! But is she _right?_ Now, _I_ think, Buckshot,--I think you've got the bliggers." (Made it up on the spot.) "The bliggers!" he says, turrible scairt-like. "That's what I think. But all you need is that Root-ee they sell over yonder." He perked up. "Shore of it?" he ast. "Buy a bottle and try. And leave off drinkin' anythin' else whilst you're takin' the stuff, so's it can have a fair chanst. In a week, you'll be a new man." "I'll do it," he says, makin' fer that prairie-schooner. I calls after him: "And say, Buckshot, ev'ry two dollars you spend with them people, you git the right to put in ten votes fer the prettiest gal. Now, most of us is votin' fer ole man Sewell's youngest daughter." Then, like I was tryin' hard to recollect, "I _think_ her name is Macie." "All right, Cupid. So long." Seen Sewell a little bit later. And braced right up to him. 'Cause fer two reasons: First, I wanted _him_ t' do some buyin' fer his gal; then, I wanted t' find out if he didn't need another puncher out at the Bar Y. (Ketch on t' my little game?) The ole man was pretty short, and wouldn't do a livin' lick about them votes. Said _he_ knowed his gal, Mace, was the prettiest gal in Oklahomaw, and it didn't need no passel of breeds 'r quacks to cut her out of the bunch of heifers and give her the brand. Then, I says, "S'pose you ain't lookin' fer no extra punchers out at the Bar Y? I'm thinkin' some of quittin' where I am." ('Twixt you and me and the gate-post, I knowed from Hairoil that the Sewell outfit was shy two men--just when men was wanted _bad_.) Fer a minute, Sewell didn't answer anothin'. (Stiff-necked, y' savvy,--see a feller dead first 'fore he'd give in a' inch.) Pretty soon, he looked up, kinda sheepish. "I _could_ use another puncher," he says, "t' ride line. Forty suit y'?" "Shore, boss. Be out the first. So long." I was goin' to the Bar Y, where _she_ was! Wal, mebbe I wasn't happy! And mebbe I wasn't set worse'n ever on havin' the little gal win in that contest! 'Fore night, I rounded up as many as five people that had a bony fido grunt comin', and was glad to hear the grand things Doc Trowbridge said about Root-ee! When the show started up in the hall after supper, and I slid in to take my seat in the winda, a lot of people,--women and kids and men--kinda turned round towards me and whispered and grinned. "They know I'm fer Macie Sewell," I says to myself, "but that don't bother _me_ none."