with some of them Frio City gals, now, that’s kept ye so late.”
And then old man Ellison took another look at Sam’s face and saw that the minstrel had changed to the man of action.
And while Sam is unbuckling from his waist old man Ellison’s six-shooter, that the latter had left behind when he drove to town, we may well pause to remark that anywhere and whenever a troubadour lays down the guitar and takes up the sword trouble is sure to follow. It is not the expert thrust of Athos nor the cold skill of Aramis nor 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
