“Times have changed, Bud,” said I, oracularly.  “Law and order is the rule now in the South and the Southwest.”

I caught a cold gleam from Bud’s pale blue eyes.

“Not that I—­” I began, hastily.

“Of course you don’t,” said Bud warmly.  “You know better.  You’ve lived here before.  Law and order, you say?  Twenty years ago we had ’em here.  We only had two or three laws, such as against murder before witnesses, and being caught stealing horses, and voting the Republican ticket.  But how is it now?  All we get is orders; and the laws go out of the state.  Them legislators set up there at Austin and don’t do nothing but make laws against kerosene oil and schoolbooks being brought into the state.  I reckon they was afraid some man would go home some evening after work and light up and get an education and go to work and make laws to repeal aforesaid laws.  Me, I’m for the old days when law and order meant what they said.  A law was a law, and a order was a order.”

“But—­” I began.

“I was going on,” continued Bud, “while this coffee is boiling, to describe to you a case of genuine law and order that I knew of once in the times when cases was decided in the chambers of a six-shooter instead of a supreme court.

“You’ve heard of old Ben Kirkman, the cattle king?  His ranch run from the Nueces to the Rio Grande.  In them days, as you know, there was cattle barons and cattle kings.  The difference was this:  when a cattleman went to San Antone and bought beer for the newspaper reporters and only give them the number of cattle he actually owned, they wrote him up for a baron.  When he bought ’em champagne wine and added in the amount of cattle he had stole, they called him a king.

“Luke Summers was one of his range bosses.  And down to the king’s ranch comes one day a bunch of these Oriental people from New York or Kansas City or thereabouts.  Luke was detailed with a squad to ride about with ’em, and see that the rattlesnakes got fair warning when they was coming, and drive the deer out of their way.  Among the bunch was a black-eyed girl that wore a number two shoe.  That’s all I noticed about her.  But Luke must have seen more, for he married her one day before the caballard started back, and went over on Canada Verde and set up a ranch of his own.  I’m skipping over the sentimental stuff on purpose, because I never saw or wanted to see any of it.  And Luke takes me along with him because we was old friends and I handled cattle to suit him.

“I’m skipping over much what followed, because I never saw or wanted to see any of it—­but three years afterward there was a boy kid stumbling and blubbering around the galleries and floors of Luke’s ranch.  I never had no use for kids; but it seems they did.  And I’m skipping over much what followed until one day out to the ranch drives in hacks and buckboards a lot of Mrs. Summers’s friends from the East—­a sister or so and two or three men.  One looked like an uncle to somebody; and one looked like nothing; and the other one had on corkscrew pants and spoke in a tone of voice.  I never liked a man who spoke in a tone of voice.