"No," said Lonny, "but it seems I had a grandfather. He's
considerable mixed up in the colour scheme. It took me a year
to paint that picture. Is she entirely awful or not? Some says,
now, that the steer's tail ain't badly drawed. They think it's
proportioned nice. Tell me."

The artist glanced at Lonny's wiry figure and nut-brown skin.
Something stirred him to a passing irritation.

"For Art's sake, son," he said, fractiously, "don't spend any more
money for paint. It isn't a picture at all. It's a gun. You hold up
the state with it, if you like, and get your two thousand, but don't
get in front of any more canvas. Live under it. Buy a couple of
hundred ponies with the money--I'm told they're that cheap--and
ride, ride, ride. Fill your lungs and eat and sleep and be happy. No
more pictures. You look healthy. That's genius. Cultivate it." He
looked at his watch. "Twenty minutes to three. Four capsules and one
tablet at three. That's all you wanted to know, isn't it?"

At three o'clock the cowpunchers rode up for Lonny, bringing Hot
Tamales, saddled. Traditions must be observed. To celebrate the
passage of the bill by the Senate the gang must ride wildly through
the town, creating uproar and excitement. Liquor must be partaken
of, the suburbs shot up, and the glory of the San Saba country
vociferously proclaimed. A part of the programme had been carried
out in the saloons on the way up.

Lonny mounted Hot Tamales, the accomplished little beast prancing
with fire and intelligence. He was glad to feel Lonny's bowlegged
grip against his ribs again. Lonny was his friend, and he was