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Page 4
I THE LAST OF THE TROUBADOURS
Inexorably Sam Galloway saddled his pony. He was going away from the
Rancho Altito at the end of a three-months' visit. It is not to be
expected that a guest should put up with wheat coffee and biscuits
yellow-streaked with saleratus for longer than that. Nick Napoleon, the
big Negro man cook, had never been able to make good biscuits: Once
before, when Nick was cooking at the Willow Ranch, Sam had been forced to
fly from his _cuisine_, after only a six-weeks' sojourn.
On Sam's face was an expression of sorrow, deepened with regret and
slightly tempered by the patient forgiveness of a connoisseur who cannot
be understood. But very firmly and inexorably he buckled his
saddle-cinches, looped his stake-rope and hung it to his saddle-horn, tied
his slicker and coat on the cantle, and looped his quirt on his right
wrist. The Merrydews (householders of the Rancho Altito), men, women,
children, and servants, vassals, visitors, employes, dogs, and casual
callers were grouped in the "gallery" of the ranch house, all with faces
set to the tune of melancholy and grief. For, as the coming of Sam
Galloway to any ranch, camp, or cabin between the rivers Frio or Bravo del
Norte aroused joy, so his departure caused mourning and distress.
And then, during absolute silence, except for the bumping of a hind elbow
of a hound dog as he pursued a wicked flea, Sam tenderly and carefully
tied his guitar across his saddle on top of his slicker and coat. The
guitar was in a green duck bag; and if you catch the significance of it,
it explains Sam.
Sam Galloway was the Last of the Troubadours. Of course you know about
the troubadours. The encyclopaedia says they flourished between the
eleventh and the thirteenth centuries. What they flourished doesn't seem
clear - -- you may be pretty sure it wasn't a sword: maybe it was a
fiddlebow, or a forkful of spaghetti, or a lady's scarf. Anyhow, Sam
Galloway was one of 'em.
Sam put on a martyred expression as he mounted his pony. But the
expression on his face was hilarious compared with the one on his pony's.
You see, a pony gets to know his rider mighty well, and it is not unlikely
that cow ponies in pastures and at hitching racks had often guyed Sam's
pony for being ridden by a guitar player instead of by a rollicking,
cussing, all-wool cowboy. No man is a hero to his saddle-horse. And even
an escalator in a department store might be excused for tripping up a
troubadour.
Oh, I know I'm one; and so are you. You remember the stories you memorize
and the card tricks you study and that little piece on the piano -- how
does it go? -- ti-tum-te-tum-ti-tum -- those little Arabian Ten Minute
Entertainments that you furnish when you go up to call on your rich Aunt
Jane. You should know that _omnae personae in tres partes divisae sunt_.
Namely: Brons, Troubadours, and Workers. Barons have no inclination to
read such folderol as this; and Workers have no time: so I know you must
be a Troubadour, and that you will understand Sam Galloway. Whether we
sing, act, dance, write, lecture, or paint, we are only troubadours; so
let us make the worst of it.
The pony with the Dante Alighieri face, guided by the pressure of Sam's
knees, bore that wandering minstrel sixteen miles southeastward. Nature
was in her most benignant mood. League after league of delicate, sweet
flowerets made fragrant the 'gently undulating prairie. The east wind
tempered the spring warmth; wool-white clouds flying in from the Mexican
Gull hindered the direct rays of the April sun. Sam sang songs as he
rode. Under his pony's bridle he had tucked some sprigs of chaparral to
keep away the deer flies. Thus crowned, the long-faced quadruped looked
more Dantesque than before, and, judging by his countenance, seemed to
think of Beatrice
Straight as topography permitted, Sam rode to, the sheep ranch of old man
Ellison. A visit to a sheep ranch seemed to him desirable just then.
There had been too many people, too much noise, argument, competition,
confusion, at Rancho Altito. He had never conferred upon old man Ellison
the favour of sojourning at his ranch; but he knew he would be welcome.
The troubadour is his own passport everywhere. The Workers in the castle
let down the drawbridge to him, and the Baron sets him at his left hand at
table in the banquet hall. There ladies smile upon him and applaud his
songs and stories, while the Workers bring boars' heads and flagons. If
the Baron nods once or twice in his carved oaken chair, he does not do it
maliciously.
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