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.
For several years the Nopalito had been making experiments with an English breed of cattle that looked down with aristocratic contempt upon the Texas long-horns.
The experiments were found satisfactory; and a pasture had been set aside for the blue-bloods.
The fame of them had gone forth into the chaparral and pear as far as men ride in saddles.
Other ranches woke up, rubbed their eyes, and looked with new dissatisfaction upon the long-horns.
As a consequence, one day a sunburned, capable, silk-kerchiefed nonchalant youth, garnished with revolvers, and attended by three Mexican vaqueros, alighted at the Nopalito ranch and presented the following business-like epistle to the queen thereof:
Mrs. Yeager—The Nopalito Ranch:
Dear Madam:
I am instructed by the owners of the Rancho Seco to purchase 100 head of two and three-year-old cows of the Sussex breed owned by you.
If you can fill the order please deliver the cattle to the bearer; and a check will be forwarded to you at once.
Respectfully, Webster Yeager, Manager the Rancho Seco.
Business is business, even—very scantily did it escape being written "especially"—in a kingdom.
That night the 100 head of cattle were driven up from the pasture and penned in a corral near the ranch-house for delivery in the morning.
When night closed down and the house was still, did Santa Yeager throw herself down, clasping that formal note to her bosom, weeping, and calling out a name that pride (either in one or the other) had kept from her lips many a day?
Or did she file the letter, in her business way, retaining her royal balance and strength?
Wonder, if you will; but royalty is sacred; and there is a veil.
But this much you shall learn:
At midnight Santa slipped softly out of the ranch-house, clothed in something dark and plain.
She paused for a moment under the live-oak trees.
The prairies were somewhat dim, and the moonlight was pale orange, diluted with particles of an impalpable, flying mist.
But the mock-bird whistled on every bough of vantage; leagues of flowers scented the air; and a kindergarten of little shadowy rabbits leaped and played in an open space near by.
Santa turned her face to the southeast and threw three kisses thitherward; for there was none to see.
Then she sped silently to the blacksmith-shop, fifty yards away; and what she did there can only be surmised.
But the forge glowed red; and there was a faint hammering such as Cupid might make when he sharpens his arrow-points.
Later she came forth with a queer-shaped, handled thing in one hand, and a portable furnace, such as are seen in branding-camps, in the other.
To the corral where the Sussex cattle were penned she sped with these things swiftly in the moonlight.
She opened the gate and slipped inside the corral.
The Sussex cattle were mostly a dark red.