White as that paper, he was, and nervous, and so all-fired shaky and caved-in that they couldn't be no question what was the matter. _The sheriff was scairt._ First off, I wasn't hardly able to believe what I seen with my own _eyes_. Next, I begun to think 'round fer the cause why. Didn't have to think much. Knowed they wasn't a _pinch_ of 'fraid-cat in Bergin--no crazy-drunk greaser 'r no passel of bad men, _red_ 'r white, could put _him_ in a sweat, _no,_ sir-_ree_. They was just _one_ thing on earth could stampede the sheriff. I kinda tip-toed over to him. "Bergin," I says, "_who is she?_" He looked up--slow. He's a six-footer, and about as heavy-set as the bouncer over to the eatin'-house. Wal, I'm another if ev'ry square inch of him wasn't tremblin', and his teeth was chatterin' so hard I looked to see 'em fall out--that's _straight_. Them big, blue eyes of hisn was sunk 'way back in his haid, too, and the rest of his face looked like it 'd got in the way of the hose. "Cupid," he whispered, "you've struck it! Here--read this." It was a telegram. Say, you know I ain't got _no_ use fer telegrams. The blamed things _allus_ give y' a dickens of a start, and, nine times outen ten, they've got somethin' to say that no man wants to hear. But I opened it up. "sheriff george bergin," it read,--all little letters, y' savvy. (Say! what's the matter that they cain't send no capitals over the wire?) "briggs city oklahomaw meet mrs bridger number 201 friday phillips." "Aw," I says, "Mrs. Bridger. Wal, Sheriff, who's this Mrs. Bridger?" Pore Bergin just wagged his haid. "You'll have to give me a goose-aig on that one," he answers. "Wal, who's Phillips, then?" I _con_tinued. "The Sante Fee deepot-master at Chicago." "Which means you needn't to worry. Mrs. Bridger is likely comin' on to boss the gals at the eatin'-house." "If that's so, what 'd he telegraph to _me_ fer?" "Don't know. Buck up, anyhow. I'll bet she's gone _'way_ past the poll-tax age, and has got a face like a calf with a blab on its nose." "Cupid," says the sheriff, standin' up, "thank y'. I feel better. Was worried 'cause I've had bad luck lately, and bad luck most allus runs in threes. Last week, my dawg died--remember that one with a buck tooth? I was turrible fond of that dawg. And yesterday----" He stopped then, and a new crop of drops come out on to his face. "Look!" he says, hoarse like, and pointed. 'Way off to the north was a little, dark, puffy cloud. It was a-travelin' our _di_rection. Number 201! "Gosh!" says the sheriff, and sunk down on to the truck again.