Say! talk about you' _flyin'_-machines! Simpson let go his holt and took to the air, sailin' up right easy fer a spell, flappin' his wings all the time; then, doublin' back somethin' amazin', and fin'lly comin' down t' light. And that gasoline bronc of hisn--minute she got the bit, she acted plumb loco. She shassayed sideways fer a rod, buckin' at ev'ry jump. Pretty soon, they was a turn, but she didn't see it. She left the road and run agin the fence, cuttin' the wires as clean in two as a pliers-man. Then, outen pure cussedness, seems like, she made towards a cottonwood, riz up on her hind laigs, clumb it a ways, knocked her wind out, pitched oncet 'r twicet, tumbled over on to her quarters, and begun t' kick up her heels. [Illustration: "_He lay the kid lookin' up and put his finger into her mouth_"] I looked at Simpson. He'd been settin' on the ground; but now he gits up, pullin' at the rope gentle, like a lazy sucker. Say! but his face was ornamented! I give him a nod. "Wal, Young-Man-That-Flies-Like-A-Bird?" I says, inquirin'. He began to paw up the road like a mad bull. "I'll make you pay fer this!" he bellered. "You cain't git blood outen a turnip," I answers, sweet as sugar; and Maud backed a step 'r two, so's the rope wouldn't slack. "How _dast_ you do such a' in_fame_ous thing!" he goes on. "You gasoline gents got t' have a lesson," I answers; "you let the stuff go t' you' haids. Why, a _hired man_ ain't got a chanst fer his life when you happen t' be travellin'." He begun t' wiggle his arms. "You lemme go," he says. "Go where?" I ast. "T' my machine." I looked over at her. She was quiet now, but sweatin' oil somethin' awful. "How long'll it take you t' git her on to her laigs?" I ast. "She's ruined!" he says, like he was goin' to bawl. "And I meant t' go down to Goldstone t'night." "That duck-wing lady'll have t' wait fer the train," I says. "But never mind. I'll tell Rose Andrews you got the _en_gagement." Then Maud slacked the rope and I rode up t' him, so's to let him loose. "So long," I says. "I ain't done with you!" he answers, gittin' purple; "I ain't done with you!" "Wal, you know where I live," I says, and loped off, hummin' the tune the ole cow died on. When I rid up to the Bar Y ranch-house, here was Billy, gittin' offen that little bi_cy_cle of hisn. "Cupid," he says, and he was whiter'n chalk-rock, "is the baby worse? And Rose----" I pulled him up on to the porch. "Now's you' chanst, Billy," I answers. "_Do you' darnedest!_" Rose opened the door, and her face was as white as hisn. "Aw, Billy!" was all she says. Then up come that ole fool paw of hern, totin' the kid. "What's this?" he ast, mad as a hornet. "And where's Doc Simpson?"