I stopped overnight at the sheep-ranch of Rush Kinney，on the Sandy Fork of the Nueces. Mr. Kinney and I hadbeen strangers up to the time when I called “Hallo！” at hishitching-rack； but from that moment until my departureon the next morning we were， according to the Texascode， undeniable friends.
After supper the ranchman and I lugged our chairsoutside the two-room house， to its floorless gallery roofedwith chaparral and sacuista grass. With the rear legs of ourchairs sinking deep into the hardpacked loam， each of usreposed against an elm pillar of the structure and smokedEl Toro tobacco， while we wrangled amicably concerningthe affairs of the rest of the world.
As for conveying adequate conception of the engagingcharm of that prairie evening， despair waits upon it. It isa bold chronicler who will undertake the description of aTexas night in the early spring. An inventory must suffice.
The ranch rested upon the summit of a lenient slope.
The ambient prairie， diversified by arroyos and murkypatches of brush and pear， lay around us like a darkenedbowl at the bottom of which we reposed as dregs. Like aturquoise cover the sky pinned us there. The miraculousair， heady with ozone and made memorably sweet byleagues of wild flowerets， gave tang and savour to thebreath. In the sky was a great， round， mellow searchlightwhich we knew to be no moon， but the dark lanternof summer， who came to hunt northward the coweringspring. In the nearest corral a flock of sheep lay silent untila groundless panic would send a squad of them huddlingtogether with a drumming rush. For other sounds ashrill family of coyotes yapped beyond the shearing-pen，and whippoorwills twittered in the long grass. But eventhese dissonances hardly rippled the clear torrent of themocking-birds’ notes that fell from a dozen neighbouringshrubs and trees. It would not have been preposterous forone to tiptoe and essay to touch the stars， they hung sobright and imminent.
Mr. Kinney’s wife， a young and capable woman， we hadleft in the house. She remained to busy herself with thedomestic round of duties， in which I had observed thatshe seemed to take a buoyant and contented pride. Inone room we had supped. Presently， from the other， asKinney and I sat without， there burst a volume of suddenand brilliant music. If I could justly estimate the art ofpiano-playing， the construer of that rollicking fantasiahad creditably mastered the secrets of the keyboard. Apiano， and one so well played， seemed to me to be anunusual thing to find in that small and unpromising ranchhouse.
I must have looked my surprise at Rush Kinney， forhe laughed in his soft， Southern way， and nodded at methrough the moonlit haze of our cigarettes.
“You don’t often hear as agreeable a noise as that on asheep-ranch，” he remarked； “but I never see any reasonfor not playing up to the arts and graces just because wehappen to live out in the brush. It’s a lonesome life for awoman； and if a little music can make it any better， whynot have it？ That’s the way I look at it.”
“A wise and generous theory，” I assented. “And Mrs.
Kinney plays well. I am not learned in the science of music，but I should call her an uncommonly good performer. Shehas technic and more than ordinary power.”
The moon was very bright， you will understand， and Isaw upon Kinney’s face a sort of amused and pregnantexpression， as though there were things behind it thatmight be expounded.
“You came up the trail from the Double-Elm Fork，” hesaid promisingly. “As you crossed it you must have seen anold deserted jacal to your left under a comma mott.”
“I did，” said I. “There was a drove of javalis rootingaround it. I could see by the broken corrals that no onelived there.”
“That’s where this music proposition started，” saidKinney. “I don’t mind telling you about it while we smoke.
That’s where old Cal Adams lived. He had about eighthundred graded merinos and a daughter that was solid silkand as handsome as a new stake-rope on a thirty-dollarpony. And I don’t mind telling you that I was guilty in thesecond degree of hanging around old Cal’s ranch all thetime I could spare away from lambing and shearing. MissMarilla was her name； and I had figured it out by the ruleof two that she was destined to become the chatelaine andlady superior of Rancho Lomito， belonging to R. Kinney，Esq.， where you are now a welcome and honoured guest.
“I will say that old Cal wasn’t distinguished as asheepman. He was a little， old stoop-shouldered hombreabout as big as a gun scabbard， with scraggy whitewhiskers， and condemned to the continuous use oflanguage. Old Cal was so obscure in his chosen professionthat he wasn’t even hated by the cowmen. And whena sheepman don’t get eminent enough to acquire thehostility of the cattlemen， he is mighty apt to die unweptand considerably unsung.
“But that Marilla girl was a benefit to the eye. And shewas the most elegant kind of a housekeeper. I was thenearest neighbour， and I used to ride over to the Double-Elm anywhere from nine to sixteen times a week withfresh butter or a quarter of venison or a sample of newsheep-dip just as a frivolous excuse to see Marilla. Marillaand me got to be extensively inveigled with each other，and I was pretty sure I was going to get my rope aroundher neck and lead her over to the Lomito. Only she was soeverlastingly permeated with filial sentiments toward oldCal that I never could get her to talk about serious matters.
