the iron wrist of Porthos that we have to fear--it is the Gascon's
fury--the wild and unacademic attack of the troubadour--the sword of
D'Artagnan.

"I done it," said Sam. "I went over to Frio City to do it. I couldn't
let him put the skibunk on you, Uncle Ben. I met him in Summers's
saloon. I knowed what to do. I said a few things to him that nobody
else heard. 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--right
around the lungs, and a saucer could have covered up all of 'em. He
won't bother 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 the
witnesses 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 four or five boys on the spot ready to sign the bail. He
won't bother you no more, Uncle Ben. You ought to have seen how close
them bullet holes was together. I reckon playing a guitar as much as
I do must kind of limber a fellow's trigger finger up a little, don't
you think, Uncle Ben?"

Then there was a little silence in the castle except for the
spluttering of a venison steak that the Kiowa was cooking.

"Sam," said old man Ellison, stroking his white whiskers with a
tremulous hand, "would you mind getting the guitar and playing that
'_Huile, huile, palomita_' piece once or twice? It always seems to be