Lonny sought this man out after dinner and told his story.  The artist was an unhealthy man, kept alive by genius and indifference to life.  He went with Lonny to the Capitol and stood there before the picture.  The artist pulled his beard and looked unhappy.

“Should like to have your sentiments,” said Lonny, “just as they run out of the pen.”

“It’s the way they’ll come,” said the painter man.  “I took three different kinds of medicine before dinner—­by the tablespoonful.  The taste still lingers.  I am primed for telling the truth.  You want to know if the picture is, or if it isn’t?”

“Right,” said Lonny.  “Is it wool or cotton?  Should I paint some more or cut it out and ride herd a-plenty?”

“I heard a rumour during pie,” said the artist, “that the state is about to pay you two thousand dollars for this picture.”

“It’s passed the Senate,” said Lonny, “and the House rounds it up to-morrow.”

“That’s lucky,” said the pale man.  “Do you carry a rabbit’s foot?”

“No,” said Lonny, “but it seems I had a grandfather.  He’s considerable mixed up in the colour scheme.  It took me a year to paint that picture.  Is she entirely awful or not?  Some says, now, that the steer’s tail ain’t badly drawed.  They think it’s proportioned nice.  Tell me.”

The artist glanced at Lonny’s wiry figure and nut-brown skin.  Something stirred him to a passing irritation.

“For Art’s sake, son,” he said, fractiously, “don’t spend any more money for paint.  It isn’t a picture at all.  It’s a gun.  You hold up the state with it, if you like, and get your two thousand, but don’t get in front of any more canvas.  Live under it.  Buy a couple of hundred ponies with the money—­I’m told they’re that cheap—­and ride, ride, ride.  Fill your lungs and eat and sleep and be happy.  No more pictures.  You look healthy.  That’s genius.  Cultivate it.”  He looked at his watch.  “Twenty minutes to three.  Four capsules and one tablet at three.  That’s all you wanted to know, isn’t it?”

At three o’clock the cowpunchers rode up for Lonny, bringing Hot Tamales, saddled.  Traditions must be observed.  To celebrate the passage of the bill by the Senate the gang must ride wildly through the town, creating uproar and excitement.  Liquor must be partaken of, the suburbs shot up, and the glory of the San Saba country vociferously proclaimed.  A part of the programme had been carried out in the saloons on the way up.

Lonny mounted Hot Tamales, the accomplished little beast prancing with fire and intelligence.  He was glad to feel Lonny’s bowlegged grip against his ribs again.  Lonny was his friend, and he was willing to do things for him.

“Come on, boys,” said Lonny, urging Hot Tomales into a gallop with his knees.  With a whoop, the inspired lobby tore after him through the dust.  Lonny led his cohorts straight for the Capitol.  With a wild yell, the gang endorsed his now evident intention of riding into it.  Hooray for San Saba!