"One 'r two has got the pip," I repeats. "What?--how's that?" she ast. "Don't worry about you' boy," I says. "Bergin'll look after him. Y' know, Bergin is one of the whitest gents in Oklahomaw." "_I_ ain't a-worryin'," answers the widda. "_I_ know Mister Bergin is a fine man." And she kept on lookin' out. "In this wild country," I begun, voice 'way down to my spurs, "--this wild country, full of rattlesnakes and Injuns and tramps, ev'ry ranch needs a good man 'round it." She turned like lightnin'. "What you mean?" she ast, kinda short. (Reckon she thought _I_ was tryin' t' spark her.) "A man like Bergin," I _con_tinues. "Aw," she says, plumb relieved. And I left things that-a-way--t' sprout. Walkin' up the track afterwards, I remarked, casual like, that they wasn't _many_ women nicer 'n Mrs. Bridger. "They's _one_ thing I like about her," says the sheriff, "--she's got eyes like the kid." (Dang the kid!) Wal, me and Macie and them four sparkers wasn't the only folks that thought the widda was mighty nice. She'd made lots of friends at the section-house since she come. The section-boss's wife said they was _no_body like her, and so did all the greaser women at the tie-camp. She was so handy with a needle, and allus ready to cut out calico dingusses that the peon gals could sew up. When they'd have one of them everlastin' fiestas of theirn, she'd make a big cake and a keg of lemonade, and pass it 'round. And when you _con_sider that a ten-cent package of cigareets and a smile goes further with a Mexican than fifty plunks and a cuss, why, you can git some idear of how that hull outfit just _worshipped_ her. Wal, they got in and done her a _lot_ of good turns. Put up a fine chicken-coop, the section-boss overseein' the job; and, one Sunday, cleaned out her cellar. _Think_ of it! (Say! fer a man to appreciate that, he's got to know what lazy critters greasers is.) Last of all, kinda to wind things up, the cholos went out into the mesquite and come back with a present of a nice black-and-white Poland China hawg. Wal, she _was_ tickled at that, and so was the kid. (Hairoil Johnson was shy a pig that week, but you bet _he_ never let on!) The gang made a nice little pen, usin' ties, and ev'ry day they packed over some feed in the shape of the camp leavin's. The widda was settled fine, had half a dozen hens a-settin' and some castor beans a-growin' in the low spots next her house, when things begun to come to a haid with the calendar gents. I got it straight from her that in just one solitary week, she collected four pop-the-questions!