LITMIR.BIZ

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Mac laughs, and he says to me: 'Pumpin' lead into the best ranch-boss in West Texas don't seem to me good business policy. I don't know where I could get as good a one. It's the son-in-law idea, Webb, that makes me admire for to use you as a target. You ain't my idea for a member of the family. But I can use you on the Nopalito if you'll keep outside of a radius with the ranch-house in the middle of it. You go upstairs and lay down on a cot, and when you get some sleep we'll talk it over.'"

      Baldy Woods pulled down his hat, and uncurled his leg from his saddle-horn. Webb shortened his rein, and his pony danced, anxious to be off. The two men shook hands with Western ceremony. "Adios, Baldy," said Webb, "I'm glad I seen you and had this talk."

      With a pounding rush that sounded like the rise of a covey of quail, the riders sped away toward different points of the compass. A hundred yards on his route Baldy reined in on the top of a bare knoll, and emitted a yell. He swayed on his horse; had he been on foot, the earth would have risen and conquered him; but in the saddle he was a master of equilibrium, and laughed at whisky, and despised the centre of gravity.

      Webb turned in his saddle at the signal.

      "If I was you," came Baldy's strident and perverting tones, "I'd be king!"

      At eight o'clock on the following morning Bud Turner rolled from his saddle in front of the Nopalito ranch-house, and stumbled with whizzing rowels toward the gallery. Bud was in charge of the bunch of beef-cattle that was to strike the trail that morning for San Antonio. Mrs. Yeager was on the gallery watering a cluster of hyacinths growing in a red earthenware jar.

      "King" McAllister had bequeathed to his daughter many of his strong characteristics – his resolution, his gay courage, his contumacious self-reliance, his pride as a reigning monarch of hoofs and horns. Allegro and fortissimo had been McAllister's tempo and tone. In Santa they survived, transposed to the feminine key. Substantially, she preserved the image of the mother who had been summoned to wander in other and less finite green pastures long before the waxing herds of kine had conferred royalty upon the house. She had her mother's slim, strong figure and grave, soft prettiness that relieved in her the severity of the imperious McAllister eye and the McAllister air of royal independence.

      Webb stood on one end of the gallery giving orders to two or three sub-bosses of various camps and outfits who had ridden in for instructions.

      "Morning," said Bud briefly. "Where do you want them beeves to go in town – to Barber's, as usual?"

      Now, to answer that had been the prerogative of the queen. All the reins of business – buying, selling, and banking – had been held by her capable fingers. The handling of cattle had been entrusted fully to her husband. In the days of "King" McAllister, Santa had been his secretary and helper; and she had continued her work with wisdom and profit. But before she could reply, the prince-consort spake up with calm decision:

      "You drive that bunch to Zimmerman and Nesbit's pens. I spoke to Zimmerman about it some time ago."

      Bud turned on his high boot-heels.

      "Wait!" called Santa quickly. She looked at her husband with surprise in her steady gray eyes.

      "Why, what do you mean, Webb?" she asked, with a small wrinkle gathering between her brows. "I never deal with Zimmerman and Nesbit. Barber has handled every head of stock from this ranch in that market for five years. I'm not going to take the business out of his hands." She faced Bud Turner. "Deliver those cattle to Barber," she concluded positively.

      Bud gazed impartially at the water-jar hanging on the gallery, stood on his other leg, and chewed a mesquite-leaf.

      "I want this bunch of beeves to go to Zimmerman and Nesbit," said Webb, with a frosty light in his blue eyes.

      "Nonsense," said Santa impatiently. "You'd better start on, Bud, so as to noon at the Little Elm water-hole. Tell Barber we'll have another lot of culls ready in about a month."

      Bud allowed a hesitating eye to steal upward and meet Webb's. Webb saw apology in his look, and fancied he saw commiseration.

      "You deliver them cattle," he said grimly, "to – "

      "Barber," finished Santa sharply. "Let that settle it. Is there anything else you are waiting for, Bud?"

      "No, m'm," said Bud. But before going he lingered while a cow's tail could have switched thrice; for man is man's ally; and even the Philistines must have blushed when they took Samson in the way they did.

      "You hear your boss!" cried Webb sardonically. He took off his hat, and bowed until it touched the floor before his wife.

      "Webb," said Santa rebukingly, "you're acting mighty foolish to-day."

      "Court fool, your Majesty," said Webb, in his slow tones, which had changed their quality. "What else can you expect? Let me tell you. I was a man before I married a cattle-queen. What am I now? The laughing-stock of the camps. I'll be a man again."

      Santa looked at him closely.

      "Don't be unreasonable, Webb," she said calmly. "You haven't been slighted in any way. Do I ever interfere in your management of the cattle? I know the business side of the ranch much better than you do. I learned it from Dad. Be sensible."

      "Kingdoms and queendoms," said Webb, "don't suit me unless I am in the pictures, too. I punch the cattle and you wear the crown. All right. I'd rather be High Lord Chancellor of a cow-camp than the eight-spot in a queen-high flush. It's your ranch; and Barber gets the beeves."

      Webb's horse was tied to the rack. He walked into the house and brought out his roll of blankets that he never took with him except on long rides, and his "slicker," and his longest stake-rope of plaited raw-hide. These he began to tie deliberately upon his saddle. Santa, a little pale, followed him.

      Webb swung up into the saddle. His serious, smooth face was without expression except for a stubborn light that smouldered in his eyes.

      "There's a herd of cows and calves," said he, "near the Hondo water-hole on the Frio1 that ought to be moved away from timber. Lobos2 have killed three of the calves. I forgot to leave orders. You'd better tell Simms to attend to it."

      Santa laid a hand on the horse's bridle, and looked her husband in the eye.

      "Are you going to leave me, Webb?" she asked quietly.

      "I am going to be a man again," he answered.

      "I wish you success in a praiseworthy attempt," she said, with a sudden coldness. She turned and walked directly into the house.

      Webb Yeager rode to the southeast as straight as the topography of West Texas permitted. And when he reached the horizon he might have ridden on into blue space as far as knowledge of him on the Nopalito went. And the days, with Sundays at their head, formed into hebdomadal squads; and the weeks, captained by the full moon, closed ranks into menstrual companies crying "Tempus fugit" on their banners; and the months marched on toward the vast camp-ground of the years; but Webb Yeager came no more to the dominions of his queen.

      One day a being named Bartholomew, a sheep-man – and therefore of little account – from the lower Rio Grande country, rode in sight of the Nopalito ranch-house, and felt hunger assail him. Ex consuetudine, he was soon seated at the mid-day dining table of that hospitable kingdom. Talk like water gushed from him: he might have been smitten with Aaron's rod – that is your gentle shepherd when an audience is vouchsafed him whose ears are not overgrown with wool.

      "Missis Yeager," he babbled, "I see a man the other day on the Rancho Seco down in Hidalgo County by your name – Webb Yeager was his. He'd just been engaged as manager. He was a tall, light-haired man, not saying much. Perhaps he was some kin of yours, do you think?"

      "A husband," said Santa cordially. "The Seco has done well. Mr. Yeager is one of the best stockmen in the West."

      The dropping out of a prince-consort rarely disorganises a monarchy. Queen Santa had appointed as mayordomo3 of the ranch a trusty subject, named Ramsay, who had been one of her father's faithful vassals. And there was scarcely a ripple on the

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