The Last of the Troubadours Page #3

"The Last of the Troubadours" is a short story by O. Henry that beautifully weaves themes of romance, nostalgia, and the fleeting nature of time. Set in a vibrant urban landscape, the narrative follows a down-and-out musician who wanders the streets, reflecting on love and lost dreams while capturing moments of genuine human connection. O. Henry's signature wit and poignant storytelling shine through as he explores the resilience of the human spirit, the power of art, and the enduring quest for beauty amid life's hardships. The story serves as a tribute to the troubadours of the past, celebrating the timeless nature of music and love.

• Short story

								

him and wouldn’t have used it if he had, you can’t censure him if I
tell you that the smiles with which the troubadour had filled his
wrinkles went out of them and left them plain wrinkles again. But he
was not the kind of baron that flies from danger. He reined in the
mile-an-hour pony (no difficult feat), and saluted the formidable
monarch.

King James expressed himself with royal directness. “You’re that old
snoozer that’s running sheep on this range, ain’t you?” said he. “What
right have you got to do it? Do you own any land, or lease any?”

“I have two sections leased from the state,” said old man Ellison,
mildly.

“Not by no means you haven’t,” said King James. “Your lease expired
yesterday; and I had a man at the land office on the minute to take it
up. You don’t control a foot of grass in Texas. You sheep men have got
to git. Your time’s up. It’s a cattle country, and there ain’t any room
in it for snoozers. This range you’ve got your sheep on is mine. I’m
putting up a wire fence, forty by sixty miles; and if there’s a sheep
inside of it when it’s done it’ll be a dead one. I’ll give you a week
to move yours away. If they ain’t gone by then, I’ll send six men over
here with Winchesters to make mutton out of the whole lot. And if I
find you here at the same time this is what you’ll get.”

King James patted the breech of his shot-gun warningly.

Old man Ellison rode on to the camp of Incarnación. He sighed many
times, and the wrinkles in his face grew deeper. Rumours that the old
order was about to change had reached him before. The end of Free Grass
was in sight. Other troubles, too, had been accumulating upon his
shoulders. His flocks were decreasing instead of growing; the price of
wool was declining at every clip; even Bradshaw, the storekeeper at
Frio City, at whose store he bought his ranch supplies, was dunning him
for his last six months’ bill and threatening to cut him off. And so
this last greatest calamity suddenly dealt out to him by the terrible
King James was a crusher.

When the old man got back to the ranch at sunset he found Sam Galloway
lying on his cot, propped against a roll of blankets and wool sacks,
fingering his guitar.

“Hello, Uncle Ben,” the troubadour called, cheerfully. “You rolled in
early this evening. I been trying a new twist on the Spanish Fandango
to-day. I just about got it. Here’s how she goes—listen.”

“That’s fine, that’s mighty fine,” said old man Ellison, sitting on the
kitchen step and rubbing his white, Scotch-terrier whiskers. “I reckon
you’ve got all the musicians beat east and west, Sam, as far as the
roads are cut out.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Sam, reflectively. “But I certainly do get
there on variations. I guess I can handle anything in five flats about
as well as any of ’em. But you look kind of fagged out, Uncle Ben—ain’t
you feeling right well this evening?”

“Little tired; that’s all, Sam. If you ain’t played yourself out, let’s
have that Mexican piece that starts off with: ‘Huile, huile,
palomita.’ It seems that that song always kind of soothes and comforts
me after I’ve been riding far or anything bothers me.”

“Why, seguramente, señor,” said Sam. “I’ll hit her up for you as
often as you like. And before I forget about it, Uncle Ben, you want to
jerk Bradshaw up about them last hams he sent us. They’re just a little
bit strong.”

A man sixty-five years old, living on a sheep ranch and beset by a
complication of disasters, cannot successfully and continuously
dissemble. Moreover, a troubadour has eyes quick to see unhappiness in
others around him—because it disturbs his own ease. So, on the next
day, Sam again questioned the old man about his air of sadness and
abstraction. Then old man Ellison told him the story of King James’s
threats and orders and that pale melancholy and red ruin appeared to
have marked him for their own. The troubadour took the news
thoughtfully. He had heard much about King James.

On the third day of the seven days of grace allowed him by the autocrat
of the range, old man Ellison drove his buckboard to Frio City to fetch
some necessary supplies for the ranch. Bradshaw was hard but not
implacable. He divided the old man’s order by two, and let him have a
little more time. One article secured was a new, fine ham for the
pleasure of the troubadour.

Five miles out of Frio City on his way home the old man met King James
riding into town. His majesty could never look anything but fierce and
menacing, but to-day his slits of eyes appeared to be a little wider
than they usually were.

“Good day,” said the king, gruffly. “I’ve been wanting to see you. I
hear it said by a cowman from Sandy yesterday that you was from Jackson
County, Mississippi, originally. I want to know if that’s a fact.”

“Born there,” said old man Ellison, “and raised there till I was
twenty-one.”

“This man says,” went on King James, “that he thinks you was related to
the Jackson County Reeveses. Was he right?”

“Aunt Caroline Reeves,” said the old man, “was my half-sister.”

“She was my aunt,” said King James. “I run away from home when I was
sixteen. Now, let’s re-talk over some things that we discussed a few
days ago. They call me a bad man; and they’re only half right. There’s
plenty of room in my pasture for your bunch of sheep and their increase
for a long time to come. Aunt Caroline used to cut out sheep in cake
dough and bake ’em for me. You keep your sheep where they are, and use
all the range you want. How’s your finances?”

The old man related his woes in detail, dignifiedly, with restraint and
candour.

“She used to smuggle extra grub into my school basket—I’m speaking of
Aunt Caroline,” said King James. “I’m going over to Frio City to-day,
and I’ll ride back by your ranch to-morrow. I’ll draw $2,000 out of the
bank there and bring it over to you; and I’ll tell Bradshaw to let you
have everything you want on credit. You are bound to have heard the old
saying at home, that the Jackson County Reeveses and Kings would stick
closer by each other than chestnut burrs. Well, I’m a King yet whenever
I run across a Reeves. So you look out for me along about sundown
to-morrow, and don’t worry about nothing. Shouldn’t wonder if the dry
spell don’t kill out the young grass.”

Old man Ellison drove happily ranchward. Once more the smiles filled
out his wrinkles. Very suddenly, by the magic of kinship and the good
that lies somewhere in all hearts, his troubles had been removed.

On reaching the ranch he found that Sam Galloway was not there. His
guitar hung by its buckskin string to a hackberry limb, moaning as the
gulf breeze blew across its masterless strings.

The Kiowa endeavoured to explain.

“Sam, he catch pony,” said he, “and say he ride to Frio City. What for
no can damn sabe. Say he come back to-night. Maybe so. That all.”

As the first stars came out the troubadour rode back to his haven. He
pastured his pony and went into the house, his spurs jingling
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