We saw Conajo mount and ride up on a gallop, but we held our course for the grove.  We were busy making camp when the two rode in with a fine two-year-old buck across the pommel of Cushion’s saddle.  They had only disemboweled him, but Conajo had the heart as a trophy of the accuracy of the shot, though Cushion hadn’t a word to say.  It was a splendid heart shot.  Conajo took it over and showed it to the two Mexican prisoners.  It was an object lesson to them.  One said to the other, “Es un buen tirador.”

We put the prisoners to roasting the ribs, and making themselves useful in general.  One man guarded them at their work, while all the others attended to the hobbling and other camp duties.

It proved to be a delightful camp.  We aimed to stay until sunset, the days being sultry and hot.  Our appetites were equal to the breakfast, and it was a good one.

“To do justice to an occasion like this,” said Smoky as he squatted down with about four ribs in his hand, “a man by rights ought to have at least three fingers of good liquor under his belt.  But then we can’t have all the luxuries of life in the far West; sure to be something lacking.”

“I never hear a man hanker for liquor,” said Conajo, as he poured out a tin cup of coffee, “but I think of an incident my father used to tell us boys at home.  He was sheriff in Kentucky before we moved to Texas.  Was sheriff in the same county for twelve years.  Counties are very irregular back in the old States.  Some look like a Mexican brand.  One of the rankest, rabid political admirers my father had lived away out on a spur of this county.  He lived good thirty miles from the county seat.  Didn’t come to town over twice a year, but he always stopped, generally over night, at our house.  My father wouldn’t have it any other way.  Talk about thieves being chummy; why, these two we have here couldn’t hold a candle to that man and my father.  I can see them parting just as distinctly as though it was yesterday.  He would always abuse my father for not coming to see him.  ‘Sam,’ he would say,—­my father’s name was Sam,—­’Sam, why on earth is it that you never come to see me?  I’ve heard of you within ten miles of my plantation, and you have never shown your face to us once.  Do you think we can’t entertain you?  Why, Sam, I’ve known you since you weren’t big enough to lead a hound dog.  I’ve known you since you weren’t knee to a grasshopper.’

“‘Let me have a word,’ my father would put in, for he was very mild in speaking; ’let me have a word, Joe.  I hope you don’t think for a moment that I wouldn’t like to visit you; now do you?’

“’No, I don’t think so, Sam, but you don’t come.  That’s why I’m complaining.  You never have come in the whole ten years you’ve been sheriff, and you know that we have voted for you to a man, in our neck of the woods.’  My father felt this last remark, though I think he never realized its gravity before, but he took him by one hand, and laying the other on his shoulder said, ’Joe, if I have slighted you in the past, I’m glad you have called my attention to it.  Now, let me tell you the first time that my business takes me within ten miles of your place I’ll make it a point to reach your house and stay all night, and longer if I can.’