' says I, 'that Judge Simmons might have used exemplary
clemency, or whatever is the legal term, in our case.'

"You see, I wasn't inveigled much into the desirableness of having
infants around a ranch, except the kind that feed themselves and sell
for so much on the hoof when they grow up. But Luke was struck with
that sort of parental foolishness that I never could understand. All
the way riding from the station back to the ranch, he kept pulling
that decree out of his pocket and laying his finger on the back of it
and reading off to me the sum and substance of it. 'Cus-to-dy of the
child, Bud,' says he. 'Don't forget it--cus-to-dy of the child.'

"But when we hits the ranch we finds our decree of court obviated,
_nolle prossed_, and remanded for trial. Mrs. Summers and the kid
was gone. They tell us that an hour after me and Luke had started for
San Antone she had a team hitched and lit out for the nearest station
with her trunks and the youngster.

"Luke takes out his decree once more and reads off its emoluments.

"'It ain't possible, Bud,' says he, 'for this to be. It's contrary
to law and order. It's wrote as plain as day here--"Cus-to-dy of the
child."'

"'There is what you might call a human leaning,' says I, 'toward
smashing 'em both--not to mention the child.'

"'Judge Simmons,' goes on Luke, 'is a incorporated officer of the law.
She can't take the boy away. He belongs to me by statutes passed and
approved by the state of Texas.'

"'And he's removed from the jurisdiction of mundane mandamuses,' says
I, 'by the unearthly statutes of female partiality. Let us praise the
Lord and be thankful for whatever small mercies--' I begins; but I see
Luke don't listen to me. Tired as he was, he calls for a fresh horse
and starts back again for the station.

"He come back two weeks afterward, not saying much.

"'We can't get the trail,' says he; 'but we've done all the
telegraphing that the wires'll stand, and we've got these city rangers
they call detectives on the lookout. In the meantime, Bud,' says he,
'we'll round up them cows on Brush Creek, and wait for the law to take
its course.'"

"And after that we never alluded to allusions, as you might say.

"Skipping over much what happened in the next twelve years, Luke was
made sheriff of Mojada County. He made me his office deputy. Now,
don't get in your mind no wrong apparitions of a office deputy doing
sums in a book or mashing letters in a cider press. In