by the terrible King James was a crusher.

When the old man got back to the ranch at sunset he found Sam Galloway
lying on his cot, propped against a roll of blankets and wool sacks,
fingering his guitar.

"Hello, Uncle Ben," the troubadour called, cheerfully. "You rolled in
early this evening. I been trying a new twist on the Spanish Fandango
to-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
the kitchen step and rubbing his white, Scotch-terrier whiskers. "I
reckon you've got all the musicians beat east and west, Sam, as far
as the roads are cut out."

"Oh, I don't know," said Sam, reflectively. "But I certainly do get
there on variations. I guess I can handle anything in five flats
about as well as any of 'em. But you look kind of fagged out, Uncle
Ben--ain't you feeling right well this evening?"

"Little tired; that's all, Sam. If you ain't played yourself out,
let's have that Mexican piece that starts off with: '_Huile, huile,
palomita_.' It seems that that song always kind of soothes and
comforts me after I've been riding far or anything bothers me."

"Why, _seguramente, señor_," said Sam. "I'll hit her up for you as
often as you like. And before I forget about it, Uncle Ben, you want
to jerk Bradshaw up about them last hams he sent us. They're just a
little bit strong."