“Say it again,” said Kinney, leaning his head thoughtfully.  “Of the old, original Lucien Briscoe?”

“Of him.  ‘The man who,’ you know.  The man who carved the state out of the wilderness.  The man who settled the Indians.  The man who cleaned out the horse thieves.  The man who refused the crown.  The state’s favourite son.  Do you see the point now?”

“Wrap up the picture,” said Kinney.  “It’s as good as sold.  Why didn’t you say that at first, instead of philandering along about art.  I’ll resign my seat in the Senate and go back to chain-carrying for the county surveyor the day I can’t make this state buy a picture calcimined by a grandson of Lucien Briscoe.  Did you ever hear of a special appropriation for the purchase of a home for the daughter of One-Eyed Smothers?  Well, that went through like a motion to adjourn, and old One-Eyed never killed half as many Indians as Briscoe did.  About what figure had you and the calciminer agreed upon to sandbag the treasury for?”

“I thought,” said Mullens, “that maybe five hundred—­”

“Five hundred!” interrupted Kinney, as he hammered on his glass for a lead pencil and looked around for a waiter.  “Only five hundred for a red steer on the hoof delivered by a grandson of Lucien Briscoe!  Where’s your state pride, man?  Two thousand is what it’ll be.  You’ll introduce the bill and I’ll get up on the floor of the Senate and wave the scalp of every Indian old Lucien ever murdered.  Let’s see, there was something else proud and foolish he did, wasn’t there?  Oh, yes; he declined all emoluments and benefits he was entitled to.  Refused his head-right and veteran donation certificates.  Could have been governor, but wouldn’t.  Declined a pension.  Now’s the state’s chance to pay up.  It’ll have to take the picture, but then it deserves some punishment for keeping the Briscoe family waiting so long.  We’ll bring this thing up about the middle of the month, after the tax bill is settled.  Now, Mullens, you send over, as soon as you can, and get me the figures on the cost of those irrigation ditches and the statistics about the increased production per acre.  I’m going to need you when that bill of mine comes up.  I reckon we’ll be able to pull along pretty well together this session and maybe others to come, eh, Senator?”

Thus did fortune elect to smile upon the Boy Artist of the San Saba.  Fate had already done her share when she arranged his atoms in the cosmogony of creation as the grandson of Lucien Briscoe.

The original Briscoe had been a pioneer both as to territorial occupation and in certain acts prompted by a great and simple heart.  He had been one of the first settlers and crusaders against the wild forces of nature, the savage and the shallow politician.  His name and memory were revered, equally with any upon the list comprising Houston, Boone, Crockett, Clark, and Green.  He had lived simply, independently, and unvexed by ambition.  Even a less shrewd man than Senator Kinney could have prophesied that his state would hasten to honour and reward his grandson, come out of the chaparral at even so late a day.