217 
American Agriculturist, September 27, 1924 
The Girl clt V ciCclClcl — By J. Allan Dunn 
As Jimmy “ Trouble ” Hughes comes riding 
gaily into sight of the little settlement of Vacada, 
he passes a newly-made grave, beside which a 
young girl, clad in black, is struggling against 
the unwelcome advances of a man. Jimmy 
promptly “horns in,” routs the man—a formi¬ 
dable-looking opponent—and steadies the girl, 
who has twisted her ankle in trying to run from 
her annoyer. Bluff Furniss, “Boss” of Vacada, 
goes off muttering ugly threats, at which the cow¬ 
boy only laughs. 
Jimmy Hughes turned to the girl. 
“Hurt yore ankle bad?” 
“I twisted it. I think I can walk. 
I’ve got to.” She tested her foot and 
turned pale with the pain of it. 
“You got to do nothin’ of the sort 
while I got a hawss,” he said. “Nellie 
Blv’s got good manners. I'll set you up 
and then we’ll strap up that ankle. It 
ain’t swollen yet. Just a wrench.” 
Before she realized it he had lifted her 
with an easy strength that brought a 
flush to her cheeks as he put her sideways 
in the saddle, speaking a word to the mare 
who swung back her head, looking at the 
new burden with intelligent eyes, out- 
breathing a soft purr-r of complaisance. 
Jimmy took the injured foot in his hand 
and handled it gently, removing the shoe 
that was sadly scuffed and worn. 
“Adhesive ’ud be the best,” he said, 
talking casually, not looking up at her. 
“Get some later, maybe. This’ll help 
right now.” He produced some even 
strips of latigo that had been about his 
saddle roll, wetted them from his canteen 
and deftly bound them firmly about the 
ankle, strapping it with the dexterity of a 
surgeon. “It’ll shrink a bit as it dries, 
likely, an’ grip it fine. Now, then, where 
can I take you?” 
The girl had been observing him, almost 
anxiously, with growing approval. He 
had taken off his hat and his brown hair, 
sun-scorched here and there, seemed 
foolishly to reassure her. That and the 
shape of his head, she told herself. His 
question took the interest from her eyes. 
“I—-I don’t know. I have nowhere 
to go.” 
“No home? No folks?” 
“No. I only had my uncle, my aunt’s 
husband. We just buried him.” Slow 
tears welled over and trickled down her 
cheeks. Jimmy affected not to see them. 
“Furniss owns the shack. I can’t go back 
there. He—he—” She hesitated. 
“You go on, miss. You’ll feel better 
if you tell it, I reckon. Ain’t there some 
women folk round here who’d take you 
in?” 
“None.” Her voice trembled. She 
was crying frankly now, the tears that 
had been repressed flowing without check. 
“None that he don’t own—or their 
husbands. There are only two in Vacada, 
aside from the girls at the dance hall. 
He owns that. He wanted me to go 
there on the floor—” 
J IMMY looked up at her and saw her 
face flood with hot blood. His own 
rose in sympathy. Involuntarily his 
hand went to his gun. 
“The darned snake. I shu’d have shot 
him on sight.” 
Her hand went down and clutched his 
arm. 
“No, no,” she cried in quick alarm. 
“You must not do that.” 
“I’ve a notion that’s what he intends 
to do to me,” said Jimmy grimly. 
“Please! Not on .my account. It 
would not help me. And you must go on. 
He’s a deputy sheriff.” 
“I never did admire that breed of 
cats.” 
“And he runs the country. He has 
his own crowd. Mexicans, some of them. 
And—” 
“You tryin’ to scare me?” He looked 
at her with genuine good humor. “A 
bad man and a bad gang, includin’ 
greasers. You figger I’m goin’ to shack 
on an’ leave you to handle ’em? I told 
you trouble was my middle name. Jimmy 
f'rouble Hughes. I take it he didn’t 
offer to marry you?” 
She shook her head. 
“You’ve told me quite a heap. Won’t 
hurt you to finish it.” 
She bit her lip, made decision in her 
helplessness. 
“My name is Alice Joyce,” she told 
him. “I have lived here for six years— 
since I was twelve. I came out to my 
aunt when my own father died. My 
mother was dead then for two years.” 
“You poor kid.” Jimmy said it under 
his breath, but she caught it. 
“He did the best he could for me, but 
Furniss had something on him. And he 
drank.” ^Her voice quickened and she 
told her story in a few sentences, Jimmy 
listening, plaiting strands of the mare’s 
black mane. 
“You got as much chance with this 
bunch as a lamb in a ring of coyotes,” 
he said. “No one to write to?” 
She shook her head. “I have written. 
But they have moved—or they have 
forgotten me. They never answered.” 
“Maybe Brother Furniss monkeys with 
the mails. No beau?” 
“No.” 
He worked at the plaiting, his face 
judicious. His eyes were a little em¬ 
barrassed when he finally looked at her 
again. 
“I reckon that ’ud be the best thing 
for you. To be married to some chap 
that ’ud treat you right. Take care of 
you an’ take you away from here, 
'pronto.” 
T HEIR glances clung in a strange 
silence. Jimmy went on, his easy 
glibness reduced to palpable effort. 
“How about me? I ain’t married. 
I ain't seen no one I aimed to marry, so 
far. I’m sure no angel, but I ain’t a 
bad lot altogether. And I’d treat you 
right.” He stole a glance at her averted 
face and found courage to go on. “I'm 
trailin’ across to Big Nose Gap in the 
Bitter Root range. Goin’ to a friend of 
mine who owns a ranch. Big Bill Axtell, 
who’s a white man if God ever made one. 
And a wife better’n he is. Two kiddies. 
They’d be glad to see you. How about 
it? You’re sure in one tight hole. It 
’ud be a way out. I’ll make the goin’ 
good as I can.” 
She gazed at him long and steadily 
Jimmy felt the probe of her searching 
through his being. At last she shook her 
head, slowly. 
“I couldn’t do that.” 
“Why not?” 
“It wouldn’t be right. I—I don’t 
love you.” 
“How do you know that? I figgered 
you ain’t been in love before. No more’n 
I have.” He flushed a little as he said 
that but maintained his look. 
“If I loved you, I’d know it. I’m 
grateful, but a girl ought to want to go 
with the man she marries. She ought to 
ache to go with him. And it ought to 
be the same with you. You are trying 
to help me out of the hole, but I can’t 
accept it.” 
“Never hear of love at first sight?” 
He saw she took this wrongly and 
changed his manner. “You got any¬ 
thing better to suggest? You don’t have 
to treat me like I was yore husband unless 
you happen to want to, some time. It’s 
a day an’ night ride to Axtell’s but I’d 
sure.treat you like you was my sister. 
If we didn’t make out you c’ud leave me 
easy enough. Jane Axtell’ll take you 
under her wing. She’s alius motherin’ 
something. That ranch is plumb full of 
orphans, ducks an’ calves, pups and 
kittens. She’d admire to have a girl like 
you for company an’ to take care of.” 
The girl broke down, burying her face 
in Nellie Bly’s mane. 
“I don’t know what to do. I don’t 
know,” she sobbed. 
Jimmy’s face tightened to decision. 
“Then you’ll do what I say. Shucks, 
there’s nothin’ else to do. You an’ me 
ought to git along first-rate. Lots of 
folks that git married ain’t half so well 
suited as us. Don’t know any more 
about each other. Do it on trust. You’ll 
trust Jimmy Trouble Hughes, Alice 
Joyce. Won’t you?” She looked at him 
again through wet eyes, her lip caught 
up with her teeth. Then she nodded. 
“Good,” cried Jimmy. “Bueno! Muy 
bueno! Can you ride?” 
“Yes.” 
“Fine. I’ll rustle you a hawss an 
saddle. We’ll go over to yore shack an’ 
git yore duds. He can’t hold them. He 
won’t. First—who did the buryin’, 
meanin’ the service?” 
“The Bee Parson.” 
“That’s a new brand to me. Sure 
enough parson? Bueno! Where’s he 
live? ” 
“Over there.” She pointed. “He 
keeps bees. He’s sick, you see. There’s 
no church.” 
“I hardly figgered one, in this man’s 
town.” 
“He was ill at the funeral. I—” 
“We’ll hang a fee on him an’ make him 
well. Come on—Alice.” 
He turned the mare toward the parson’s 
little sod house, a mile from Yacada, the 
girl riding, Jimmy walking beside her, one 
hand on the horn of the saddle, Nellie 
Bly docile. As they went. Bluff Furniss 
saw them going on together and half 
guessed their errand. 
H ALF-WAY they met the two men 
who had helped the Bee Parson 
and who looked at them curiously. 
Jimmy hailed them. 
“Howdy? I reckon we’ll need you 
two gents, if you’re agreeable. You see 
Alice an’ me are goin’ to be married. I 
come sooner than she expected but, 
seein’ her folks has gone west, there’s 
no sense in waitin’ over.” 
They looked at each other, misled by 
his easy assurance. 
Betty (in the country): Uncle Hiram, why does that pig wear a ring in 
her nose? Is she engaged ? Life. 
“Thet so, Alice?” asked one of them. 
She nodded, her face clear of tears. 
Jimmy sized up his men. 
“No time for a fiesta,” he said. “But 
there’s a bankroll big enough to stand 
fees, witnesses and all. And I got to git 
me a hawss. Maybe one of you got one to 
sell?” Their uncertainty vanished. 
“Might have one to suit you,” ad¬ 
mitted the one who had spoken. “How 
’bout it, Gus?” 
“Suits me, but if you aim to git married 
’thout a county license the parson’ll git 
in trubble. You two got one?” 
T HE girl blanched. Jimmy’s eyes 
widened, narrowed again. 
“How big trouble?” 
“Fine. Fifty bucks. Hundred, 
mebbe.” 
“Shucks! That’s easy. Man’s bound 
to spend some on his weddin’ day.” 
The girl’s hand went out. Jimmy 
caught it, patted it. 
“That’s all right,” he said. “Come 
along, gents. Much obliged.” 
The Bee Parson lay languidly on his 
bed but sat up as the group came in. 
Jimmy explained the situation, cannilv 
leaving much of it to the minister’s 
imagination. The Bee Parson surveyed 
them from eyes deep sunk in sockets 
graved by pain and weakness. 
“You are willing, Alice?” he asked in 
his husky voice, made gentle. “If you 
are I am willing to run the risk.” 
“It will be a real marriage?” 
“In the sight of God and of man. The 
laws of this State permit of such an exi¬ 
gency. There will be a fine, in all proba¬ 
bility. I should advise later registration 
at the county seat. I understand the 
circumstances and I am willing to con¬ 
duct the ceremony.” 
His air of authority dominated the four, 
gathering at his direction while he secured 
his prayer-book. They stood silent, im¬ 
pressed by a certain solemnity that 
weighed most heavily upon the girl, 
affected strongly the more volatile Jimmy. 
The Bee Parson, he decided, was a man. 
He might be sick in body but he was sure a 
he-man. Then a question staggered him. 
“Have you a ring?” Jimmy looked 
helplessly, almost foolishly, at the girl, 
then at the grinning witnesses. “Any 
kind do?” he inquired. “Then hold on a 
minute.” And he went out to where 
Nellie Bly patiently waited. 
“You’re in on this, l’il hawss,” said 
Jimmy, and he plucked hairs from her 
mane, swiftly braiding them in a black 
circlet that he tested on the end of his 
little finger, figuring that about right for 
measurement, before he finished off the 
ends of the plait, trimmed the ring and 
exhibited it to the Bee Parson, who 
gravely approved the device. 
The ceremony proceeded. To Alice 
Joyce, becoming Alice Hughes, it seemed 
incredibly brief and momentarily unreal. 
Jimmy made no attempt to kiss his bride 
but retained her hand in his while the 
Bee Parson made out the certificate and 
the two witnesses appended sprawling 
signatures. Nor did the latter indulge in 
the horseplay that suggested itself in¬ 
evitably to their crude minds. 
There was something about the Bee 
Parson, something too about the kid, 
as they styled Jimmy, that handicapped 
familiarities. Then Jimmy drew a roll of 
bills from his pocket that made them 
gasp. The girl’s eyes distended at the 
denominations. For a cowboy such a 
stake was a phenomenal. To the Bee 
Parson he gave a hundred-dollar bill and 
a fifty, to each witness a twenty. 
“That’ll cover the ante for the fine,” 
he said to the former. “If it’s less than a 
hundred you can pass the change on to 
some one that needs it. Boys, you can 
drink our healths.” 
The witnesses thrust away their bills: 
the Bee Parson held his unfolded with a 
questioning look at Jimmy Hughes. 
“You came by this money rightfully?” 
he asked. 
(Continued on page 218) 
