The Last of the Troubadours
Inexorably Sam Galloway saddled his pony. He was going away from theRancho Altito at the end of a three-months' visit. It is not to beexpected that a guest should put up with wheat coffee and biscuitsyellow-streaked with saleratus for longer than that. Nick Napoleon, thebig Negro man cook, had never been able to make good biscuits: Oncebefore, when Nick was cooking at the Willow Ranch, Sam had been forced tofly from his _cuisine_, after only a six-weeks' sojourn.
On Sam's face was an expression of sorrow, deepened with regret andslightly tempered by the patient forgiveness of a connoisseur who cannotbe understood. But very firmly and inexorably he buckled hissaddle-cinches, looped his stake-rope and hung it to his saddle-horn, tiedhis slicker and coat on the cantle, and looped his quirt on his rightwrist. The Merrydews (householders of the Rancho Altito), men, women,children, and servants, vassals, visitors, employes, dogs, and casualcallers were grouped in the "gallery" of the ranch house, all with facesset to the tune of melancholy and grief. For, as the coming of SamGalloway to any ranch, camp, or cabin between the rivers Frio or Bravo delNorte aroused joy, so his departure caused mourning and distress.
And then, during absolute silence, except for the bumping of a hind elbowof a hound dog as he pursued a wicked flea, Sam tenderly and carefullytied his guitar across his saddle on top of his slicker and coat. Theguitar was in a green duck bag; and if you catch the significance of it,it explains Sam.
Sam Galloway was the Last of the Troubadours. Of course you know aboutthe troubadours. The encyclopaedia says they flourished between theeleventh and the thirteenth centuries. What they flourished doesn't seemclear - -- you may be pretty sure it wasn't a sword: maybe it was afiddlebow, or a forkful of spaghetti, or a lady's scarf. Anyhow, SamGalloway was one of 'em.
Sam put on a martyred expression as he mounted his pony. But theexpression on his face was hilarious compared with the one on his pony's.You see, a pony gets to know his rider mighty well, and it is not unlikelythat cow ponies in pastures and at hitching racks had often guyed Sam'spony for being ridden by a guitar player instead of by a rollicking,cussing, all-wool cowboy. No man is a hero to his saddle-horse. And evenan escalator in a department store might be excused for tripping up atroubadour.
Oh, I know I'm one; and so are you. You remember the stories you memorizeand the card tricks you study and that little piece on the piano -- howdoes it go? -- ti-tum-te-tum-ti-tum -- those little Arabian Ten MinuteEntertainments that you furnish when you go up to call on your rich AuntJane. You should know that _omnae personae in tres partes divisae sunt_.Namely: Brons, Troubadours, and Workers. Barons have no inclination toread such folderol as this; and Workers have no time: so I know you mustbe a Troubadour, and that you will understand Sam Galloway. Whether wesing, act, dance, write, lecture, or paint, we are only troubadours; solet us make the worst of it.
The pony with the Dante Alighieri face, guided by the pressure of Sam'sknees, bore that wandering minstrel sixteen miles southeastward. Naturewas in her most benignant mood. League after league of delicate, sweetflowerets made fragrant the 'gently undulating prairie. The east windtempered the spring warmth; wool-white clouds flying in from the MexicanGull hindered the direct rays of the April sun. Sam sang songs as herode. Under his pony's bridle he had tucked some sprigs of chaparral tokeep away the deer flies. Thus crowned, the long-faced quadruped lookedmore Dantesque than before, and, judging by his countenance, seemed tothink of Beatrice
Straight as topography permitted, Sam rode to, the sheep ranch of old manEllison. A visit to a sheep ranch seemed to him desirable just then.There had been too many people, too much noise, argument, competition,confusion, at Rancho Altito. He had never conferred upon old man Ellisonthe favour of sojourning at his ranch; but he knew he would be welcome.The troubadour is his own passport everywhere. The Workers in the castlelet down the drawbridge to him, and the Baron sets him at his left hand attable in the banquet hall. There ladies smile upon him and applaud hissongs and stories, while the Workers bring boars' heads and flagons. Ifthe Baron nods once or twice in his carved oaken chair, he does not do itmaliciously.
Old man Ellison welcomed the troubadour flatteringly. He had often heardpraises of Sam Galloway from other ranchmen who had been complimented byhis visits, but had never aspired to such an honour for his own humblebarony. I say barony because old man Ellison was the Last of the Barons.Of course, Mr. Bulwer-Lytton lived too early to know him, or he wouldn'thave conferred that sobriquet upon Warwick. In life it is the duty andthe function of the Baron to provide work for the Workers and lodging andshelter for the Troubadours.
Old man Ellison was a shrunken old man, with a short, yellow-white beardand a face lined and seamed by past-and-gone smiles. His ranch was alittle two-room box house in a grove of hackberry trees in the lonesomestpart of the sheep country. His household consisted of a Kiowa Indian mancook, four hounds, a pet sheep, and a half-tamed coyote chained to afence-post. He owned 3,000 sheep, which he ran on two sections of leasedland and many thousands of acres neither leased nor owned. Three or fourtimes a year some one who spoke his language would ride up to his gate andexchange a few bald ideas with him. Those were red-letter days to old manEllison. Then in what illuminated, embossed, and gorgeously decoratedcapitals must have been written the day on which a troubadour -- - atroubadour who, according to the encyclopaedia, should have flourishedbetween the eleventh and the thirteenth centuries - -- drew rein at thegates of his baronial castle!
Old man Ellison's smiles came back and filled his wrinkles when he sawSam. He hurried out of the house in his shuffling, limping way to greethim.
"Hello, Mr. Ellison," called Sam cheerfully. "Thought I'd drop over andsee you a while. Notice you've had fine rains on your range. They oughtto make good grazing for your spring lambs."
"Well, well, well," said old man Ellison. "I'm mighty glad to see you,Sam. I never thought you'd take the trouble to ride over to asout-of-the-way an old ranch as this. But you're mighty welcome. 'Light.I've got a sack of new oats in the kitchen -- - shall I bring out a feedfor your hoss?"
"Oats for him?" said Sam, derisively. "No, sir-ee. He's as fat as a pignow on grass. He don't get rode enough to keep him in condition. I'lljust turn him in the horse pasture with a drag rope on if you don't mind."
I am positive that never during the eleventh and thirteenth centuries didBaron, Troubadour, and Worker amalgamate as harmoniously as theirparallels did that evening at old man Ellison's sheep ranch. The Kiowa'sbiscuits were light and tasty and his coffee strong. Ineradicablehospitality and appreciation glowed on old man Ellison's weather-tannedface. As for the troubadour, he said to himself that he had stumbled uponpleasant places indeed. A well-cooked, abundant meal, a host whom hislightest attempt to entertain seemed to delight far beyond the merits ofthe exertion, and the reposeful atmosphere that his sensitive soul at thattime craved united to confer upon him a satisfaction and luxurious easethat he had seldom found on his tours of the ranches.
After the delectable supper, Sam untied the green duck bag and took outhis guitar. Not by way of payment, mind you -- neither Sam Galloway norany other of the true troubadours are lineal descendants of the late TommyTucker. You have read of Tommy Tucker in the works of the esteemed butoften obscure Mother Goose. Tommy Tucker sang for his supper. No truetroubadour would do that. He would have his supper, and then sing forArt's sake.
Sam Galloway's repertoire comprised about fifty funny stories and betweenthirty and forty songs. He by no means stopped there. He could talkthrough twenty cigarettes on any topic that you brought up. And he neversat up when he could lie down; and never stood when he could sit. I amstrongly disposed to linger with him, for I am drawing a portrait as wellas a blunt pencil and a tattered thesaurus will allow.
I wish you could have seen him: he was small and tough and inactive beyondthe power of imagination to conceive. He wore an ultramarine-blue woollenshirt laced down the front with a pearl-gray, exaggerated sort ofshoestring, indestructible brown duck clothes, inevitable high-heeledboots with Mexican spurs, and a Mexican straw sombrero.
That evening Sam and old man Ellison dragged their chairs out under thehackberry trees. They lighted cigarettes; and the troubadour gailytouched his guitar. Many of the songs he sang were the weird, melancholy,minor-keyed _canciones_ that he had learned from the Mexican sheep herdersand _vaqueros_. One, in particular, charmed and soothed the soul of thelonely baron. It was a favourite song of the sheep herders, beginning:"_Huile, huile, palomita_," which being translated means, "Fly, fly,little dove." Sam sang it for old man Ellison many times that evening.
The troubadour stayed on at the old man's ranch. There was peace andquiet and appreciation there, such as he had not found in the noisy campsof the cattle kings. No audience in the world could have crowned the workof poet, musician, or artist with more worshipful and unflagging approvalthan that bestowed upon his efforts by old man Ellison. No visit by aroyal personage to a humble woodchopper or peasant could have beenreceived with more flattering thankfulness and joy.
On a cool, canvas-covered cot in the shade of the hackberry trees SamGalloway passed the greater part of his time. There he rolled his brownpaper cigarettes, read such tedious literature as the ranch afforded, andadded to his repertoire of improvisations that he played so expertly onhis guitar. To him, as a slave ministering to a great lord, the Kiowabrought cool water from the red jar hanging under the brush shelter, andfood when he called for it. The prairie zephyrs fanned him mildly;mocking-birds at morn and eve competed with but scarce equalled the sweetmelodies of his lyre; a perfumed stillness seemed to fill all his world.While old man Ellison was pottering among his flocks of sheep on hismile-an-hour pony, and while the Kiowa took his siesta in the burningsunshine at the end of the kitchen, Sam would lie on his cot thinking whata happy world he lived in, and how kind it is to the ones whose mission inlife it is to give entertainment and pleasure. Here he had food andlodging as good as he had ever longed for; absolute immunity from care orexertion or strife; an endless welcome, and a host whose delight at thesixteenth repetition of a song or a story was as keen as at its initialgiving. Was there ever a troubadour of old who struck upon as royal acastle in his wanderings? While he lay thus, meditating upon hisblessings, little brown cottontails would shyly 'frolic through the yard;a covey of white-topknotted blue quail would run past, in single file,twenty yards away; a _paisano_ bird, out hunting for tarantulas, would hopupon the fence and salute him with sweeping flourishes of its' long tail.In the eighty-acre horse pasture the pony with the Dantesque face grew fatand almost smiling. The troubadour was at the end of his wanderings.
Old man Ellison was his own _vaciero_. That means that he supplied hissheep camps with wood, water, and rations by his own labours instead ofhiring a _vaciero_. On small ranches it is often done.
One morning he started for the camp of Incarnacion Felipe de la Cruz yMonte Piedras (one of his sheep herders) with the week's usual rations ofbrown beans, coffee, meal, and sugar. Two miles away on the trail fromold Fort Ewing he met, face to face, a terrible being called King James,mounted on a fiery, prancing, Kentucky-bred horse.
King James's real name was James King; but people reversed it because itseemed to fit him better, and also because it seemed to please hismajesty. King James was the biggest cattleman between the Alamo plaza inSan Antone and Bill Hopper's saloon in Brownsville. Also he was theloudest and most offensive bully and braggart and bad man in southwestTexas. And he always made good whenever he bragged; and the more noise hemade the more dangerous he was. In the story papers it is always thequiet, mild-mannered man with light blue eyes and a low voice who turnsout to be really dangerous; but in real life and in this story such is notthe case. Give me my choice between assaulting a large, loudmouthedrough-houser and an inoffensive stranger with blue eyes sitting quietly ina 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-poundsunburned, blond man, as pink as an October strawberry, and with twohorizontal slits under shaggy red eyebrows for eyes. On that day he worea flannel shirt that was tan-coloured, with the exception of certain largeareas which were darkened by transudations due to the summer sun. Thereseemed to be other clothing and garnishings about him, such as brown ducktrousers stuffed into immense boots, and red handkerchiefs and revolvers;and a shotgun laid across his saddle and a leather belt with millions ofcartridges shining in it -- but your mind skidded off such accessories;what held your gaze was just the two little horizontal slits that he usedfor eyes.
This was the man that old man Ellison met on the trail; and when you countup in the baron's favour that he was sixty-five and weighed ninety-eightpounds and had heard of King James's record and that he (the baron) had ahankering for the _vita simplex_ and had no gun with him and wouldn'thave' used it if he had, you can't censure him if I tell you that thesmiles with which the troubadour had filled his wrinkles went out of themand left them plain wrinkles again. But he was not the kind of baron thatflies from danger. He reined in the mile-an-hour pony (no difficultfeat), and saluted the formidable monarch.
King James expressed himself with royal directness. "You're that oldsnoozer that's running sheep on this range, ain't you?" said he. "Whatright 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 expiredyesterday; and I had a man at the land office on the minute to take itup. You don't control a foot of grass in Texas. You sheep men have gotto git. Your time's up. It's a cattle country, and there ain't any roomin it for snoozers. This range you've got your sheep on is mine. I'mputting up a wire fence, forty by sixty miles; and if there's a sheepinside of it when it's done it'll be a dead one. I'll give you a week tomove yours away. If they ain't gone by then, I'll send six men over herewith Winchesters to make mutton out of the whole lot. And if I find youhere at the same time this is what you'll get."
King James patted the breech of his shot-gun warningly.
Old man Ellison rode on to the camp of Incarnacion. He sighed many times,and the wrinkles in his face grew deeper. Rumours that the old order wasabout to change had reached him before. The end of Free Grass was insight. Other troubles, too, had been accumulating upon his shoulders.His flocks were decreasing instead of growing; the price of wool wasdeclining at every clip; even Bradshaw, the storekeeper at Frio City, atwhose store he bought his ranch supplies, was dunning him for his last sixmonths' bill and threatening to cut him off. And so this last greatestcalamity suddenly dealt out to him by the terrible King James was acrusher.
When the old man got back to the ranch at sunset he found Sam Gallowaylying on his cot, propped against a roll of blankets and wool sacks,fingering his guitar.
"Hello, Uncle Ben," the troubadour called, cheerfully. "You rolled inearly this evening. I been trying a new twist on the Spanish Fandangoto-day. I just about got it. Here's how she goes -- listen."
"That's fine, that's mighty fine," said old man Ellison, sitting on thekitchen step and rubbing his white, Scotch-terrier whiskers. "I reckonyou've got all the musicians beat east and west, Sam, as far as the roadsare cut out."
"Oh, I don't know," said Sam, reflectively. "But I certainly do get thereon variations. I guess I can handle anything in five flats about as wellas any of 'em. But you look kind of fagged out, Uncle Ben -- ain't youfeeling right well this evening?"
"Little tired; that's all, Sam. If you ain't played yourself out, let'shave that Mexican piece that starts off with: '_Huile, huile, palomita_.'It seems that that song always kind of soothes and comforts me after I'vebeen riding far or anything bothers me."
"Why, _seguramente_, _senor_," said Sam. "I'll hit her up for you asoften as you like. And before I forget about it, Uncle Ben, you want tojerk Bradshaw up about them last hams he sent us. They're just a littlebit strong."
A man sixty-five years old, living on a sheep ranch and beset by acomplication of disasters, cannot successfully and continuouslydissemble. Moreover, a troubadour has eyes quick to see unhappiness inothers around him -- because it disturbs his own ease. So, on the nextday, Sam again questioned the old man about his air of sadness andabstraction. Then old man Ellison told him the story of King James'sthreats and orders and that pale melancholy and red ruin appeared to havemarked him for their own. The troubadour took the news thoughtfully. Hehad heard much about King James.
On the third day of the seven days of grace allowed him by the autocrat ofthe range, old man Ellison drove his buckboard to Frio City to fetch somenecessary supplies for the ranch. Bradshaw was hard but not implacable.He divided the old man's order by two, and let him have a little moretime. One article secured was a new, fine ham for the pleasure of thetroubadour.
Five miles out of Frio City on his way home the old man met King Jamesriding into town. His majesty could never look anything but fierce andmenacing, but to-day his slits of eyes appeared to be a little wider thanthey usually were.
"Good day," said the king, gruffly. "I've been wanting to see you. Ihear it said by a cowman from Sandy yesterday that you was from JacksonCounty, Mississippi, originally. I want to know if that's a fact."
"Born there," said old man Ellison, "and raised there till I wastwenty-one."
"This man says," went on King James, "that he thinks you was related tothe 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 wassixteen. Now, let's re-talk over some things that we discussed a few daysago. They call me a bad man; and they're only half right. There's plentyof room in my pasture for your bunch of sheep and their increase for along time to come. Aunt Caroline used to cut out sheep in cake dough andbake 'em for me. You keep your sheep where they are, and use all therange you want. How's your finances?"
The old man related his woes in detail, dignifiedly, with restraint andcandour.
"She used to smuggle extra grub into my school basket -- I'm speaking ofAunt Caroline," said King James. "I'm going over to Frio City to-day, andI'll ride back by your ranch to-morrow. I'll draw $2,000 out of the bankthere and bring it over to you; and I'll tell Bradshaw to let you haveeverything you want on credit. You are bound to have heard the old sayingat home, that the Jackson County Reeveses and Kings would stick closer byeach 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, anddon't worry about nothing. Shouldn't wonder if the dry spell don't killout the young grass."
Old man Ellison drove happily ranchward. Once more the smiles filled outhis wrinkles. Very suddenly, by the magic of kinship and the good thatlies somewhere in all hearts, his troubles had been removed.
On reaching the ranch he found that Sam Galloway was not there. Hisguitar hung by its buckskin string to a hackberry limb, moaning as thegulf 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 nocan 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. Hepastured his pony and went into the house, his spurs jingling martially.
Old man Ellison sat at the kitchen table, having a tin cup ofbefore-supper coffee. He looked contented and pleased.
"Hello, Sam," said he. "I'm darned glad to see ye back. I don't know howI managed to get along on this ranch, anyhow, before ye dropped in tocheer things up. I'll bet ye've been skylarking around with some of themFrio City gals, now, that's kept ye so late."
And then old man Ellison took another look at Sam's face and saw that theminstrel had changed the man of action.
And while Sam is unbuckling from his waist old man Ellison's six-shooter,that the latter had left behind when he drove to town, we may well pauseto remark that anywhere and whenever a troubadour lays down the guitar andtakes up the sword trouble is sure to follow. It is not the expert thrustof Athos nor the cold skill of Aramis nor the iron wrist of Porthos thatwe have to fear -- it is the Gascon's fury -- the wild and unacademicattack of the troubadour -- the sword of D'Artagnan.
"I done it," said Sam. "I went over to Frio City to do it. I couldn'tlet him put the skibunk on you, Uncle Ben. I met him in Summers'ssaloon. I knowed what to do. I said a few things to him that nobody elseheard. He reached for his gun first -- half a dozen fellows saw him do it-- but I got mine unlimbered first. Three doses I gave him -- rightaround the lungs, and a saucer could have covered up all of 'em. He won'tbother you no more."
"This -- is -- King -- James -- you speak -- of?" asked old man Ellison,while he sipped his coffee.
"You bet it was. And they took me before the county judge; and thewitnesses what saw him draw his gun first was all there. Well, of course,they put me under $300 bond to appear before the court, but there was fouror five boys on the spot ready to sign the bail. He won't bother you nomore, Uncle Ben. You ought to have seen how close them bullet holes wastogether. I reckon playing a guitar as much as I do must kind of limber afellow's trigger finger up a little, don't you think, Uncle Ben?"
Then there was a little silence in the castle except for the splutteringof a venison steak that the Kiowa was cooking.
"Sam," said old man Ellison, stroking his white whiskers with a tremuloushand, "would you mind getting the guitar and playing that '_Huile, huile,palomita_' piece once or twice? It always seems to be kind of soothingand comforting when a man's tired and fagged out."
There is no more to be said, except that the title of the story is wrong.It should have been called "The Last of the Barons." There never will bean end to the troubadours; and now and then it does seem that the jingleof their guitars will drown the sound of the muffled blows of the pickaxesand trip hammers of all the Workers in the world.
zpostcode
Recruit
weather
mreligion
Yellowpages
sport
constellation
shopping
name
game
directory
literature
Word
tour
furnish
Lottery
tftnews
lyrics
News
digital
car
dir
Edu
Finance
