Mexican sheep herders and _vaqueros_. One, in particular, charmed and
soothed the soul of the lonely baron. It was a favourite song of the
sheep herders, beginning: "_Huile, huile, palomita_," which being
translated means, "Fly, fly, little dove." Sam sang it for old man
Ellison many times that evening.

The troubadour stayed on at the old man's ranch. There was peace and
quiet and appreciation there, such as he had not found in the noisy
camps of the cattle kings. No audience in the world could have crowned
the work of poet, musician, or artist with more worshipful and
unflagging approval than that bestowed upon his efforts by old man
Ellison. No visit by a royal personage to a humble woodchopper or
peasant could have been received with more flattering thankfulness and
joy.

On a cool, canvas-covered cot in the shade of the hackberry trees Sam
Galloway passed the greater part of his time. There he rolled his
brown paper cigarettes, read such tedious literature as the ranch
afforded, and added to his repertoire of improvisations that he played
so expertly on his guitar. To him, as a slave ministering to a great
lord, the Kiowa brought cool water from the red jar hanging under the
brush shelter, and food when he called for it. The prairie zephyrs
fanned him mildly; mocking-birds at morn and eve competed with but
scarce equalled the sweet melodies of his lyre; a perfumed stillness
seemed to fill all his world. While old man Ellison was pottering
among his flocks of sheep on his mile-an-hour pony, and while the
Kiowa took his siesta in the burning sunshine at the end of the
kitchen, Sam would lie on his cot thinking what a happy world he lived
in, and how kind it is to the ones whose mission in life it is to give
entertainment and pleasure. Here he had food and lodging as good as