b. "I never blackguarded you none."

"It's a title," explained Baldy, "up among the picture-cards; but it
don't take no tricks. I'll tell you, Webb. It's a brand they're got
for certain animals in Europe. Say that you or me or one of them Dutch
dukes marries in a royal family. Well, by and by our wife gets to be
queen. Are we king? Not in a million years. At the coronation
ceremonies we march between little casino and the Ninth Grand
Custodian of the Royal Hall Bedchamber. The only use we are is to
appear in photographs, and accept the responsibility for the heir-
apparent. That ain't any square deal. Yes, sir, Webb, you're a prince-
consort; and if I was you, I'd start a interregnum or a habeus corpus
or somethin'; and I'd be king if I had to turn from the bottom of the
deck."

Baldy emptied his glass to the ratification of his Warwick pose.

"Baldy," said Webb, solemnly, "me and you punched cows in the same
outfit for years. We been runnin' on the same range, and ridin' the
same trails since we was boys. I wouldn't talk about my family affairs
to nobody but you. You was line-rider on the Nopalito Ranch when I
married Santa McAllister. I was foreman then; but what am I now? I
don't amount to a knot in a stake rope."

"When old McAllister was the cattle king of West Texas," continued
Baldy with Satanic sweetness, "you was some tallow. You had as much to
say on the ranch as he did."

"I did," admitted Webb, "up to the time he found out I was tryin' to
get my rope over Santa's head. Then he kept me out on the range as far
from the ranch-house as he could. When the old man died they commenced
to call Santa the 'cattle queen.' I'm boss of the cattle--that's all.
She 'tends to all the business; she handles all the money; I can't
sell even a beef-steer to a party of campers, myself. Santa's the
'queen'; and I'm Mr. Nobody."

"I'd be king if I was you," repeated Baldy Woods, the royalist. "When
a man marries a queen he ought to grade up with her--on the hoof--
dressed--dried--corned--any old way from the chaparral to the packing-
house. Lots of folks thinks it's funny, Webb, that you don't have the
say-so on the Nopalito. I ain't reflectin' none on Miz Yeager--she's
the finest little lady between the Rio Grande and next Christmas--but
a man ought to be boss of his own camp."

The smooth, brown face of Yeager lengthened to a mask of wounded
melancholy. With that expression, and his rumpled yellow hair and
guileless blu