he gallery giving orders to two or three
sub-bosses of various camps and outfits who had ridden in for
instructions.

"Morning," said Bud briefly. "Where do you want them beeves to go in
town--to Barber's, as usual?"

Now, to answer that had been the prerogative of the queen. All the
reins of business--buying, selling, and banking--had been held by her
capable fingers. The handling of cattle had been entrusted fully to
her husband. In the days of "King" McAllister, Santa had been his
secretary and helper; and she had continued her work with wisdom and
profit. But before she could reply, the prince-consort spake up with
calm decision:

"You drive that bunch to Zimmerman and Nesbit's pens. I spoke to
Zimmerman about it some time ago."

Bud turned on his high boot-heels.

"Wait!" called Santa quickly. She looked at her husband with surprise
in her steady gray eyes.

"Why, what do you mean, Webb?" she asked, with a small wrinkle
gathering between her brows. "I never deal with Zimmerman and Nesbit.
Barber has handled every head of stock from this ranch in that market
for five years. I'm not going to take the business out of his hands."
She faced Bud Turner. "Deliver those cattle to Barber," she concluded
positively.

Bud gazed impartially at the water-jar hanging on the gallery, stood
on his other leg, and chewed a mesquite-leaf.

"I want this bunch of beeves to go to Zimmerman and Nesbit," said
Webb, with a frosty light in his blue eyes.

"Nonsense," said Santa impatiently. "You'd better start on, Bud, so as
to noon at the Little Elm water-hole. Tell Barber we'll have another
lot of culls ready in about a month."

Bud allowed a hesitating eye to steal upward and meet Webb's. Webb saw
apology in his look, and fancied he saw commiseration.

"You deliver them cattle," he said grimly, "to--"

"Barber," finished Santa sharply. "Let that settle it. Is there
anything else you are waiting for, Bud?"

"No, m'm," said Bud. But before going he lingered while a cow's tail
could have switched thrice; for man is man's ally; and even the
Philistines must have blushed when they took Samson in the way they
did.

"You hear your boss!" cried Webb sardonically. He took off his hat,
and bowed until it touched the floor before his wife.

"Webb," said Santa rebukingly, "you're acting mighty foolish to-day."

"Court fool, your Majesty," said Webb, in his slow tones, which had
changed their quality. "What else can you expect?