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Page 8
"Born there," said old man Ellison, "and raised there till I was
twenty-one."
"This man says," went on King James, "that he thinks you was related to
the Jackson County Reeveses. Was he right?"
"Aunt Caroline Reeves," said the old man, "was my half-sister."
"She was my aunt," said King James. "I run away from home when I was
sixteen. Now, let's re-talk over some things that we discussed a few days
ago. They call me a bad man; and they're only half right. There's plenty
of room in my pasture for your bunch of sheep and their increase for a
long time to come. Aunt Caroline used to cut out sheep in cake dough and
bake 'em for me. You keep your sheep where they are, and use all the
range you want. How's your finances?"
The old man related his woes in detail, dignifiedly, with restraint and
candour.
"She used to smuggle extra grub into my school basket -- I'm speaking of
Aunt Caroline," said King James. "I'm going over to Frio City to-day, and
I'll ride back by your ranch to-morrow. I'll draw $2,000 out of the bank
there and bring it over to you; and I'll tell Bradshaw to let you have
everything you want on credit. You are bound to have heard the old saying
at home, that the Jackson County Reeveses and Kings would stick closer by
each other than chestnut burrs. Well, I'm a King yet whenever I run a
cross a Reeves. So you look out for me along about sundown to-morrow, and
don't worry about nothing. Shouldn't wonder if the dry spell don't kill
out the young grass."
Old man Ellison drove happily ranchward. Once more the smiles filled out
his wrinkles. Very suddenly, by the magic of kinship and the good that
lies somewhere in all hearts, his troubles had been removed.
On reaching the ranch he found that Sam Galloway was not there. His
guitar hung by its buckskin string to a hackberry limb, moaning as the
gulf breeze blew across its masterless strings.
The Kiowa endeavoured to explain.
"Sam, he catch pony," said he, "and say he ride to Frio City. What for no
can damn sabe. Say he come back to-night. Maybe so. That all."
As the first stars came out the troubadour rode back to his haven. He
pastured his pony and went into the house, his spurs jingling martially.
Old man Ellison sat at the kitchen table, having a tin cup of
before-supper coffee. He looked contented and pleased.
"Hello, Sam," said he. "I'm darned glad to see ye back. I don't know how
I managed to get along on this ranch, anyhow, before ye dropped in to
cheer things up. I'll bet ye've been skylarking around with some of them
Frio City gals, now, that's kept ye so late."
And then old man Ellison took another look at Sam's face and saw that the
minstrel had changed the man of action.
And while Sam is unbuckling from his waist old man Ellison's six-shooter,
that the latter had left behind when he drove to town, we may well pause
to remark that anywhere and whenever a troubadour lays down the guitar and
takes up the sword trouble is sure to follow. It is not the expert thrust
of Athos nor the cold skill of Aramis nor the iron wrist of Porthos that
we have to fear -- it is the Gascon's fury -- the wild and unacademic
attack of the troubadour -- the sword of D'Artagnan.
"I done it," said Sam. "I went over to Frio City to do it. I couldn't
let him put the skibunk on you, Uncle Ben. I met him in Summers's
saloon. I knowed what to do. I said a few things to him that nobody else
heard. He reached for his gun first -- half a dozen fellows saw him do it
-- but I got mine unlimbered first. Three doses I gave him -- right
around the lungs, and a saucer could have covered up all of 'em. He won't
bother you no more."
"This -- is -- King -- James -- you speak -- of?" asked old man Ellison,
while he sipped his coffee.
"You bet it was. And they took me before the county judge; and the
witnesses what saw him draw his gun first was all there. Well, of course,
they put me under $300 bond to appear before the court, but there was four
or five boys on the spot ready to sign the bail. He won't bother you no
more, Uncle Ben. You ought to have seen how close them bullet holes was
together. I reckon playing a guitar as much as I do must kind of limber a
fellow's trigger finger up a little, don't you think, Uncle Ben?"
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