Y' know, Bergin's heart 's as big as a' ox. He's tender and _awful_ kind, and kids like him straight off. He likes kids. So, 'fore you could say Jack Robinson, that Bridger young un was histed up. I nodded to his maw, and the four of us went into the eatin'-house, where we all had some dinner t'gether. Leastways, me and the kid and Mrs. Bridger et. The sheriff, he just sit, not sayin' a word, but pullin' at that cow-lick of hisn and orderin' things fer the baby. And whilst we grubbed, Mrs. Bridger tole us about herself, and how she 'd happened to come out Oklahomaw way. Seems she 'd been livin' in Buffalo, where her husband was the boss of a lumber-yard. Wal, when the kid was three years old, Bridger up and died, not leavin' much in the way of cash fer the widda. Then she had to begin plannin' how to git along, a-course. Chicken-ranchin' got into her haid. Somebody said Oklahomaw was a good place. She got the name of a land-owner in Briggs City and writ him. He tole her he had a nice forty acres fer sale--hunderd down, the balance later on. She bit--and here she was. "Who's the man?" I ast. The widda pulled a piece of paper outen her hand-satchel. "Frank Curry," she answers. Bergin give a jump that come nigh to tippin' the table over. (Ole Skinflint Curry was the reason.) "And where's the ranch?" I ast again. "This is where." She handed me the paper. I read. "Why, Bergin," I says, "it's that place right here below town, back of the section-house--the Starvation Gap Ranch." The sheriff throwed me a quick look. "I hope," begun the widda, leanin' towards him, "--I hope they's nothin' _agin_ the property." Fer as much as half a minute, neither of us said nothin'. The sheriff, a-course, was turrible flustered 'cause she 'd spoke _di_rect to him, and he just jiggled his knee. _I_ was kinda bothered, too, and got some coffee down my Sunday throat. "Wal, as a _chicken_ ranch," I puts in fin'lly "it's O. K.,--shore _thing_. On both sides of the house--see? like this," (I took a fork and begun drawin' on the table-cloth) "is a stretch of low ground,--a swale, like, that keeps green fer a week 'r so ev'ry year, and that'll raise Kaffir-corn and such roughness. You git the tie-houses of the section-gang plank in front--here. But behind, you' _po_ssessions rise straight up in to the air like the side of a house. Rogers's Butte, they call it. See it, out there? A person almost has to use a ladder to climb it. On top, it's all piled with big rocks. Of a mornin', the hens can take a trot up it fer exercise. The fine view 'll encourage 'em to lay." "I'm _so_ glad," says the widda, kinda clappin' her hands. "I can make enough to support Willie and me easy. And it'll seem awful fine to have a little home all my own! I ain't never lived in the country afore, but I know it'll be lovely to raise chickens. In pictures, the little bits of ones is allus so cunnin'."