r some more smokin' to San
Antone with him Tuesday. Pancho rode Ranse's hoss back yesterday; and
Ranse is goin' to drive the wagon back himself. There wa'n't much of
a load--just some woolsacks and blankets and nails and canned peaches
and a few things we was out of. I look for Ranse to roll in to-day
sure. He's an early starter and a hell-to-split driver, and he ought
to be here not far from sundown."

"What plugs is he drivin'?" asked Mustang Taylor, with a smack of hope
in his tones.

"The buckboard greys," said Sam.

"I'll wait a spell, then," said the wrangler. "Them plugs eat up a
trail like a road-runner swallowin' a whip snake. And you may bust me
open a can of greengage plums, Sam, while I'm waitin' for somethin'
better."

"Open me some yellow clings," ordered Poky Rodgers. "I'll wait, too."

The tobaccoless punchers arranged themselves comfortably on the steps
of the store. Inside Sam chopped open with a hatchet the tops of the
cans of fruit.

The store, a big, white wooden building like a barn, stood fifty yards
from the ranch-house. Beyond it were the horse corrals; and still
farther the wool sheds and the brush-topped shearing pens--for the
Rancho Cibolo raised both cattle and sheep. Behind the store, at a
little distance, were the grass-thatched _jacals_ of the Mexicans who
bestowed their allegiance upon the Cibolo.

The ranch-house was composed of four large rooms, with plastered
adobe walls, and a two-room wooden ell. A twenty-feet-wide "gallery"
circumvented the structure. It was set in a grove of immense live-oaks
and water-elms near a lake--a long, not very wide, and tremendously
deep lake in which at nightfall, great gars leaped to the surface and
plunged with the noise of hippopotamuses frolicking at their bath.
From the trees hung garlands and massive pendants of the melancholy
grey moss of the South. Indeed, the Cibolo ranch-house seemed more
of the South than of the West. It looked as if old "Kiowa" Truesdell
might have brought it with him from the lowlands of Mississippi when
he came to Texas with his rifle in the hollow of his arm in '55.

But, though he did not bring the family mansion, Truesdell did bring
something in the way of a family inheritance that was more lasting
than brick or stone. He brought one end of the Truesdell-Curtis family
feud. And when a Curtis bought the Rancho de los Olmos, sixteen miles
from the Cibolo, there were lively times on the pear flats and in the
cha