rap to him. It ain't _Arthur_ that goes on
no war-path."

"Yes, he did," insisted Willie. "Lancelot gets herded out. He gets
shot up some at the tournyment, so he leaves the beautiful queen, and
he rides off for the range all alone by himself. He's like a
sheepherder."

"Come on with the paper, Curly," called Tom Osby. "This feller's
thinker is workin' fine. Go on, Willie."

"Now, Lancelot, he's layin' at the point of death, and he's thinkin'
all the time of Guinevere. I reckon he writes her a letter, and he
says, says he, 'Dear Lady, I send thee my undyin' love,' says he. 'I
kiss the picture which is a-layin' on my breast,' says he; 'and with my
last breath,' says he, 'I shorely yearn for thee!'"

"Meanin' Guinevere?"

"Shore! Says Lancelot, 'Fair queen, thou didst me a injury onct; but
couldst thou but come and stand at my bedside, I hadst new zeal in
life,' says he."

"Meanin' he'd get well?" asked Curly. "That's the same as Dan
Anderson! _This_ feller's a peach!"

"Shut up!" admonished Tom Osby. "Go on, Willie."

"It's always that-a-way," said Willie. Tears stood in his eyes. He
looked vaguely out over the blue hills which hedged in the enchanted
valley of Heart's Desire. "It's always that-a-way," he repeated.
"Somehow, somewhere, there's always a beautiful queen, for every
fellow, just over the mountains. It's always that-a-way."

Tom Osby reached out a hand and gently shook him.

"Set up, Willie," said he. "Come down now, till we get this business
fixed. Now, what happens after that?"

Willie winked his eyes and smiled amiably. "The sick knight, he writes
a missive to the beautiful queen," he went on. "He sets his signet
ring on to the missive, and he hands it to his trusted henchman, and
his trusted henchman flies to do his bidding."

"That's you, Curly," nodded Tom Osby. "You're the trusted henchman."

"I'm damned if I am!" replied Curly. "I'm nothin' but a plain cow hand
from the Brazos; but I don't take 'henchman' from nobody!"

"Hush!" said his friend. "This feller's a genius. If he don't get
side-tracked on Dead Shot Dick, or something of that kind, this letter
is just as good as wrote, right now."

"The good knight presses his signet ring on to the missive," resumed
Willie, "and his trusted cow hand wraps the missive in the folds of his
cloak, and climbs on to his trusted steed, and flies far, far away, to
the side of the beautiful queen."

"That's good!"

"And