The Complete Short Stories. O. Hooper Henry

to Zimmerman and Nesbit’s pens. I spoke to Zimmerman about it some time ago.”

      Bud turned on his high bootheels.

      “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 rawhide. 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 Frio that ought to be moved away from timber. Lobos 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 sheepman — 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 mayordomo 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 Nopalito ranch save when the gulf-breeze created undulations in the grass of its wide acres.

      For several years the Nopalito had been making experiments with an English breed of cattle that looked down with aristocratic contempt upon the Texas long-horns. The experiments were found satisfactory; and a pasture had been set aside for the blue-bloods. The fame of them had gone forth into the chaparral and pear as far as men ride in saddles. Other ranches woke up, rubbed their eyes, and looked with new dissatisfaction upon the long-horns.

      As a consequence, one day a sunburned, capable, silk-kerchiefed nonchalant youth, garnished with revolvers, and attended by three Mexican vaqueros, alighted at the Nopalito ranch and presented the following businesslike epistle to the queen thereof:

      Mrs. Yeager — The Nopalito Ranch:

      Dear Madam:

      I am instructed by the owners of the Rancho Seco to purchase 100

      head of two and three-year-old cows of the Sussex breed owned by

      you. If you can fill the order please deliver the cattle to the

      bearer; and a check will be forwarded to you at once.

      Respectfully,

      Webster Yeager,

      Manager the Rancho Seco.

      Business is business, even — very scantily did it escape being written “especially” — in a kingdom.

      That night the 100 head of cattle were driven up from the pasture and penned in a corral near the ranch-house for delivery in the morning.

      When night closed down and the house was still, did Santa Yeager throw herself down, clasping that formal note to her bosom, weeping, and calling out a name that pride (either in one or the other) had kept from her lips many a day? Or did she file the letter, in her business way, retaining her royal balance and strength?

      Wonder, if you will; but royalty is sacred; and there is a veil. But this much you shall learn:

      At midnight Santa slipped softly out of the ranch-house, clothed in something dark and plain. She paused for a moment under the live-oak trees. The prairies were somewhat dim, and the moonlight was pale orange, diluted with particles of an impalpable, flying mist. But the mock-bird whistled on every bough of vantage; leagues of flowers scented the air; and a kindergarten of little shadowy rabbits leaped and played in an open space near by. Santa turned her face to the southeast and threw three kisses thitherward; for there was none to see.

      Then