The Texican. Coolidge Dane

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      A pause followed his last words and the singer limped in behind the counter. "Well, that's all, now," he said, waving her away, "go on home, child—can't you see it makes me feel powerful bad?"

      The girl smiled with the sweet melancholy of her race. "I like to feel bad," she said. "Sing about the wind."

      Angevine Thorne looked down upon her and shook his head sadly. "Ah, Marcelina," he said, "you are growing up to be a woman." Then he sighed and began again:—

      "That very same night this poor cowboy went out to stand his guard.

      The wind was blowing fiercely and the rain was falling hard.

      The cattle they got frightened and ran in a mad stampede.

      Poor boy, he tried to head them while riding at full speed.

      Riding in the darkness so loudly he did shout,

      A-trying to head the cattle, a-trying to turn them about,

      When his saddled night-horse stumbled and upon him did fall.

      Now the poor boy will not see his mother when work is done this Fall."

      "And now the rest—how he died," breathed Marcelina, and once more the troubadour smiled.

      "We picked him up so gently and laid him on his bed,

      A-standing all around the poor cowboy, a-thinking he was dead,

      When he opened wide his blue eyes, looked around and said:

      'Boys, I think those are the last steers I shall ever head.

      So Bill, you take my saddle, and Charley, you take my bed,

      And George, you take my six-shooter and be sure that I am dead.

      I am going to a new range, for I hear my Master's call,

      And will not see my aged mother when work is done this Fall.

      "'After the round-ups were over, after the shipping was all done,

      I was going to see my mother before my money was all gone.

      My mother's heart is breaking, breaking for me and that's all,

      And if God had spared my absence I would have seen her

      When work was done this Fall.'"

      A rapt silence, such as artists love, followed the last wailing cadence of the song; the stillness of the desert crept in upon them, broken only by the murmur of the river and an almost subterranean thud of hoofs; then with a jingle of spurs and the creaking of wet leather a horseman rode up and halted before the door. The water sloshed in his boots as he dismounted but he swung into the store with the grace of a cavalier—a young man, almost a boy, yet broad-shouldered and muscular, with features moulded to an expression of singular resolution and courage. A heavy pair of apron chaps—sure sign of Texas—cumbered his limbs and the wooden handle of a Colts forty-five showed above its holster in the right leg; for the rest, he wore a new jumper over his blue shirt, and a broad, high-crowned hat, without frills. As the stranger headed for the bar with business-like directness Angevine Thorne felt a sudden sense of awe, almost of fear, and he wondered for the instant if it was a hold-up; but the Texan simply dropped a quarter on the counter and motioned to a bottle.

      "Two," he corrected, as Babe filled a single glass; and, shoving the second one towards his host, who eyed it with studied unconcern, the cowboy tossed off his own and looked around.

      "What's the matter?" he inquired, as Babe moved thoughtfully away; "swore off? All right, you drink the chaser, then," and leaving the superfluous glass of water on the bar he drank the whiskey himself.

      "Ughr! That's the real old tarantula-juice," he observed, as the fiery liquor made him shudder. "Since when did you swear off?"

      "Six weeks," responded Babe, shortly. "How's Texas?"

      "All right," replied the cowboy. "Did it git away with you?"

      "Yep," returned the bar-keeper. "Don't like to talk about it—say, is they anybody left in Texas?"

      The stranger gazed at him shrewdly for a moment, and a grim light came into his eye.

      "Don't like to talk about it," he said, "but now you speak of it I know of one feller, for sure—and dam' badly left, too. May be around on crutches by now." He glanced out at his horse, which had just shaken itself under the saddle, and let his gaze wander to Marcelina.

      "Pretty girls you have in this country," he remarked, turning a little sidewise to Babe, but watching her from beneath his hat. "Don't speak any English, I suppose?"

      "Nope," replied Babe, sullenly, "her mother don't like cowboys. Oyez, Marcelina, vaya se a su madre, chiquita!" But though her mother was calling, the wilful Marcelina did not move. Like an Aztec princess she stood silent and impassive, gazing out from beneath her dark lashes and waiting to catch some further word of praise from this dashing stranger. Undoubtedly, Marcelina was growing to be a woman.

      "Name's Marcelina, eh?" soliloquized the cowboy, innocently. "Pity she can't savvy English—she's right pretty, for a Mex."

      At that last unconscious word of derogation the regal beauty of Marcelina changed to a regal scorn and flashing her black eyes she strode towards the door like a tragic queen.

      "Gr-ringo!" she hissed, turning upon him in the doorway, and seizing upon her pail of lard she scampered up the trail.

      "Hell's fire!" exclaimed the Tehanno. "Did she understand what I said?"

      "That's what," replied Babe, ungraciously, "you done queered yourself with her for life. She won't stand for nothin' aginst her people."

      "Huh!" grumbled the newcomer, "that's what comes from drinkin' yore pisen whiskey. I begin to savvy now, Pardner, why you passed up that sheep-herder dope and took water."

      He grinned sardonically, making a motion as of a pin-wheel twirling in his head, but the bar-keeper did not fall in with his jest. "Nothin' of the kind," he retorted. "W'y, boy, I could drink that whole bottle and walk a tight rope. I guess you don't know me—I'm Angevine Thorne, sometimes known as 'Babe'!" He threw out his chest, but the cowboy still looked puzzled.

      "Did you come through Geronimo," inquired Babe, returning to the attack, "and never heard of me? Well then, Pardner, I'll have to put you wise—I'm Angevine Thorne, the Champion Booze-fighter of Arizona!" He dropped back to his pose and the cowboy contemplated him with grave curiosity.

      "Mr. Thorne," he said, holding out his hand, "my name is Dalhart—Pecos Dalhart, from Texas—and I'm proud to make your acquaintance. Won't you have a drink on the strength of it?"

      "Thank you just as much," replied Mr. Thorne, affably, "but I've sworn off. I've been the greatest booze-fighter of Arizona for twenty years, but I've sworn off. Never, never, will I let another drop of liquor pass my lips! I have been sentenced to the Geronimo jail for life for conspicuous drunkenness; I have passed my days in riotous living and my nights in the county jail, but the love of a good mother has followed me through it all and now I am going to quit! I'm saving up money to go home."

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