“I thought,” mourned this pale sister of sorrow, “that maybe the state might be willing to give me some relief.  I’ve heard of such things being done for the families of old settlers.  I’ve heard tell that the state used to give land to the men who fought for it against Mexico, and settled up the country, and helped drive out the Indians.  My father did all of that, and he never received anything.  He never would take it.  I thought the governor would be the one to see, and that’s why I came.  If father was entitled to anything, they might let it come to me.”

“It’s possible, ma’am,” said Standifer, “that such might be the case.  But ’most all the veterans and settlers got their land certificates issued, and located long ago.  Still, we can look that up in the land office, and be sure.  Your father’s name, now, was—­”

“Amos Colvin, sir.”

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Standifer, rising and unbuttoning his tight coat, excitedly.  “Are you Amos Colvin’s daughter?  Why, ma’am, Amos Colvin and me were thicker than two hoss thieves for more than ten years!  We fought Kiowas, drove cattle, and rangered side by side nearly all over Texas.  I remember seeing you once before, now.  You were a kid, about seven, a-riding a little yellow pony up and down.  Amos and me stopped at your home for a little grub when we were trailing that band of Mexican cattle thieves down through Karnes and Bee.  Great tarantulas! and you’re Amos Colvin’s little girl!  Did you ever hear your father mention Luke Standifer—­just kind of casually—­as if he’d met me once or twice?”

A little pale smile flitted across the lady’s white face.

“It seems to me,” she said, “that I don’t remember hearing him talk about much else.  Every day there was some story he had to tell about what he and you had done.  Mighty near the last thing I heard him tell was about the time when the Indians wounded him, and you crawled out to him through the grass, with a canteen of water, while they—­”

“Yes, yes—­well—­oh, that wasn’t anything,” said Standifer, “hemming” loudly and buttoning his coat again, briskly.  “And now, ma’am, who was the infernal skunk—­I beg your pardon, ma’am—­who was the gentleman you married?”

“Benton Sharp.”

The commissioner plumped down again into his chair, with a groan.  This gentle, sad little woman, in the rusty black gown, the daughter of his oldest friend, the wife of Benton Sharp!  Benton Sharp, one of the most noted “bad” men in that part of the state—­a man who had been a cattle thief, an outlaw, a desperado, and was now a gambler, a swaggering bully, who plied his trade in the larger frontier towns, relying upon his record and the quickness of his gun play to maintain his supremacy.  Seldom did any one take the risk of going “up against” Benton Sharp.  Even the law officers were content to let him make his own terms of peace.  Sharp was a ready and an accurate shot, and as lucky as a brand-new penny at coming clear from his scrapes.  Standifer wondered how this pillaging eagle ever came to be mated with Amos Colvin’s little dove, and expressed his wonder.