King James’s real name was James King; but people reversed it because it seemed to fit him better, and also because it seemed to please his majesty.  King James was the biggest cattleman between the Alamo plaza in San Antone and Bill Hopper’s saloon in Brownsville.  Also he was the loudest and most offensive bully and braggart and bad man in southwest Texas.  And he always made good whenever he bragged; and the more noise he made the more dangerous he was.  In the story papers it is always the quiet, mild-mannered man with light blue eyes and a low voice who turns out to be really dangerous; but in real life and in this story such is not the case.  Give me my choice between assaulting a large, loudmouthed rough-houser and an inoffensive stranger with blue eyes sitting quietly in a corner, and you will see something doing in the corner every time.

King James, as I intended to say earlier, was a fierce, two-hundred-pound, sunburned, blond man, as pink as an October strawberry, and with two horizontal slits under shaggy red eyebrows for eyes.  On that day he wore a flannel shirt that was tan-coloured, with the exception of certain large areas which were darkened by transudations due to the summer sun.  There seemed to be other clothing and garnishings about him, such as brown duck trousers stuffed into immense boots, and red handkerchiefs and revolvers; and a shotgun laid across his saddle and a leather belt with millions of cartridges shining in it—­but your mind skidded off such accessories; what held your gaze was just the two little horizontal slits that he used for eyes.

This was the man that old man Ellison met on the trail; and when you count up in the baron’s favour that he was sixty-five and weighed ninety-eight pounds and had heard of King James’s record and that he (the baron) had a hankering for the vita simplex and had no gun with him and wouldn’t have used it if he had, you can’t censure him if I tell you that the smiles with which the troubadour had filled his wrinkles went out of them and left them plain wrinkles again.  But he was not the kind of baron that flies from danger.  He reined in the mile-an-hour pony (no difficult feat), and saluted the formidable monarch.

King James expressed himself with royal directness.  “You’re that old snoozer that’s running sheep on this range, ain’t you?” said he.  “What right have you got to do it?  Do you own any land, or lease any?”

“I have two sections leased from the state,” said old man Ellison, mildly.

“Not by no means you haven’t,” said King James.  “Your lease expired yesterday; and I had a man at the land office on the minute to take it up.  You don’t control a foot of grass in Texas.  You sheep men have got to git.  Your time’s up.  It’s a cattle country, and there ain’t any room in it for snoozers.  This range you’ve got your sheep on is mine.  I’m putting up a wire fence, forty by sixty miles; and if there’s a sheep inside of it when it’s done it’ll be a dead one.  I’ll give you a week to move yours away.  If they ain’t gone by then, I’ll send six men over here with Winchesters to make mutton out of the whole lot.  And if I find you here at the same time this is what you’ll get.”