“Kingdoms and queendoms,” said Webb, “don’t suit me unless I am in the pictures, too. I punch the cattle and you wear the crown. All right. I’d rather be High Lord Chancellor of a cow-camp than the eight-spot in a queen-high flush. It’s your ranch; and Barber gets the beeves.” Webb’s horse was tied to the rack. He walked into the house and brought out his roll of blankets that he never took with him except on long rides, and his “slicker,” and his longest stake-rope of plaited raw-hide. These he began to tie deliberately upon his saddle. Santa, a little pale, followed him. Webb swung up into the saddle. His serious, smooth face was without expression except for a stubborn light that smouldered in his eyes. “There’s a herd of cows and calves,” said he, “near the Hondo water-hole on the Frio that ought to be moved away from timber. Lobos have killed three of the calves. I forgot to leave orders. You’d better tell Simms to attend to it.” Santa laid a hand on the horse’s bridle, and looked her husband in the eye. “Are you going to leave me, Webb?” she asked quietly. “I am going to be a man again,” he answered. “I wish you success in a praiseworthy attempt,” she said, with a sudden coldness. She turned and walked directly into the house. Webb Yeager rode to the southeast as straight as the topography of West Texas permitted. And when he reached the horizon he might have ridden on into blue space as far as knowledge of him on the Nopalito went. And the days, with Sundays at their head, formed into hebdomadal squads; and the weeks, captained by the full moon, closed ranks into menstrual companies crying “Tempus fugit” on their banners; and the months marched on toward the vast camp-ground of the years; but Webb Yeager came no more to the dominions of his queen. One day a being named Bartholomew, a sheep-man—and therefore of little account—from the lower Rio Grande country, rode in sight of the Nopalito ranch-house, and felt hunger assail him. _Ex consuetudine_ he was soon seated at the mid-day dining table of that hospitable kingdom. Talk like water gushed from him: he might have been smitten with Aaron’s rod—that is your gentle shepherd when an audience is vouchsafed him whose ears are not overgrown with wool. “Missis Yeager,” he babbled, “I see a man the other day on the Rancho Seco down in Hidalgo County by your name—Webb Yeager was his. He’d just been engaged as manager. He was a tall, light-haired man, not saying much. Perhaps he was some kin of yours, do you think?” “A husband,” said Santa cordially. “The Seco has done well. Mr. Yeager is one of the best stockmen in the West.” The dropping out of a prince-consort rarely disorganises a monarchy. Queen Santa had appointed as _mayordomo_ of the ranch a trusty subject, named Ramsay, who had been one of her father’s faithful vassals. And there was scarcely a ripple on the Nopalito ranch save when the gulf-breeze created undulations in the grass of its wide acres.