Five miles out of Frio City on his way home the old man met King James riding into town.  His majesty could never look anything but fierce and menacing, but to-day his slits of eyes appeared to be a little wider than they usually were.

“Good day,” said the king, gruffly.  “I’ve been wanting to see you.  I hear it said by a cowman from Sandy yesterday that you was from Jackson County, Mississippi, originally.  I want to know if that’s a fact.”

“Born there,” said old man Ellison, “and raised there till I was twenty-one.”

“This man says,” went on King James, “that he thinks you was related to the Jackson County Reeveses.  Was he right?”

“Aunt Caroline Reeves,” said the old man, “was my half-sister.”

“She was my aunt,” said King James.  “I run away from home when I was sixteen.  Now, let’s re-talk over some things that we discussed a few days ago.  They call me a bad man; and they’re only half right.  There’s plenty of room in my pasture for your bunch of sheep and their increase for a long time to come.  Aunt Caroline used to cut out sheep in cake dough and bake ’em for me.  You keep your sheep where they are, and use all the range you want.  How’s your finances?”

The old man related his woes in detail, dignifiedly, with restraint and candour.

“She used to smuggle extra grub into my school basket—­I’m speaking of Aunt Caroline,” said King James.  “I’m going over to Frio City to-day, and I’ll ride back by your ranch to-morrow.  I’ll draw $2,000 out of the bank there and bring it over to you; and I’ll tell Bradshaw to let you have everything you want on credit.  You are bound to have heard the old saying at home, that the Jackson County Reeveses and Kings would stick closer by each other than chestnut burrs.  Well, I’m a King yet whenever I run across a Reeves.  So you look out for me along about sundown to-morrow, and don’t worry about nothing.  Shouldn’t wonder if the dry spell don’t kill out the young grass.”

Old man Ellison drove happily ranchward.  Once more the smiles filled out his wrinkles.  Very suddenly, by the magic of kinship and the good that lies somewhere in all hearts, his troubles had been removed.

On reaching the ranch he found that Sam Galloway was not there.  His guitar hung by its buckskin string to a hackberry limb, moaning as the gulf breeze blew across its masterless strings.

The Kiowa endeavoured to explain.

“Sam, he catch pony,” said he, “and say he ride to Frio City.  What for no can damn sabe.  Say he come back to-night.  Maybe so.  That all.”

As the first stars came out the troubadour rode back to his haven.  He pastured his pony and went into the house, his spurs jingling martially.

Old man Ellison sat at the kitchen table, having a tin cup of before-supper coffee.  He looked contented and pleased.

“Hello, Sam,” said he.  “I’m darned glad to see ye back.  I don’t know how I managed to get along on this ranch, anyhow, before ye dropped in to cheer things up.  I’ll bet ye’ve been skylarking around with some of them Frio City gals, now, that’s kept ye so late.”