But I couldn't, and that was the hull trouble. I know now that when it come to dealin' with Mace, I shore was a darned softy. That little Muggins could twist me right 'round her finger--and me not know it! One minute, she'd pallaver me fer further orders, whilst I'd look into them sweet eyes of hern till I was plumb dizzy; the next, she'd be cuttin' up some dido 'r other and leadin' me a' awful chase. Then, mebbe, I'd git sore at her, and think mighty serious about shakin' the Bar Y dust offen my boots fer good. "Cupid," I'd say to myself, "git you' duds t'gether, and do you' blankets up in you' poncho." Just about then, here she come lopin' home from town, her hoss cuttin' up like Sam Hill, and her a-settin' so straight and cute. She'd look towards the bunk-house, see me, motion me over with her quirt, and--wal, a-course, I'd go. I made my _first_ big beefsteak at the very beginnin'. Somehow 'r other, right from the minute we had our confidential talk t'gether back of Silverstein's, that last night of the Medicine Show. I got it into my fool haid that I as good as had her, and that all they was left to be did was t' git 'round the ole man. Wal, this idear worked fine as long as we was so busy with Bergin's courtin'. But when the sheriff was hitched, and me and the little gal got a recess, my! _my!_ but a heap of things begun t' happen! They started off like this: The parson wanted money fer t' buy some hymn-books with. So he planned a' ice-cream social and entertainment, and ast Mace to go down on the pro_gram_ fer a song. She was willin'; I was, _too_. So far, ev'ry-thin' smooth as glare-ice. But fer a week afore that social, they was a turrible smell of gasoline outside the sittin'-room of the Bar Y ranch-house. That's 'cause Doctor Bugs come out ev'ry day--to fetch a Goldstone woman from the up-train. (That blamed sulky of hisn 'd been stuck t'gether with flour paste by now, y' savvy, and was in apple-pie order.) After the woman 'd git to the ranch-house, why, the organ 'd strike up. Then you could hear Macie's voice--doin', "_do, ray, me._" Next, she'd break loose a-singin'. And pretty soon the doc and the woman 'd go. Wal, I didn't like it. Y' see, I've allus noticed that if a city feller puts hisself out fer you a hull lot, he expects you t' give him a drink, 'r vote fer him, 'r loan him some money. And why was Bugsey botherin' t' make so many trips to the Bar Y? _I_ knowed what it was. It was just like Hairoil 'd said--he wanted my Macie. One night, I says to her, "What's that Goldstone woman doin' out here so much, honey?" "Givin' me music lessons," she answers. "I know," I says. "But you don't need no lessons. You sing good enough t' suit me right now." "Wal, I don't sing good enough t' suit myself. And bein' as I'm on that pro_gram_----" "Wal, just the same," I cut in, "I don't like that Simpson hangin' 'round here."