Sixes and Sevens | Page 8

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?"
Then there was a little silence in the castle except for the spluttering of
a venison steak that the Kiowa was cooking.
"Sam," said old man Ellison, stroking his white whiskers with a
tremulous hand, "would you mind getting the guitar and playing that
'_Huile, huile, palomita_' piece once or twice? It always seems to be
kind of soothing and comforting when a man's tired and fagged out."
There is no more to be said, except that the title of the story is wrong. It
should have been called "The Last of the Barons." There never will be