The Last of the Troubadours Page #4

"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

								

martially.

Old man Ellison sat at the kitchen table, having a tin cup of
before-supper coffee. He looked contented and pleased.

“Hello, Sam,” said he. “I’m darned glad to see ye back. I don’t know
how I managed to get along on this ranch, anyhow, before ye dropped in
to cheer things up. I’ll bet ye’ve been skylarking around with some of
them Frio City gals, now, that’s kept ye so late.”

And then old man Ellison took another look at Sam’s face and saw that
the minstrel had changed to the man of action.

And while Sam is unbuckling from his waist old man Ellison’s
six-shooter, that the latter had left behind when he drove to town, we
may well pause to remark that anywhere and whenever a troubadour lays
down the guitar and takes up the sword trouble is sure to follow. It is
not the expert thrust of Athos nor the cold skill of Aramis nor the
iron wrist of Porthos that we have to fear—it is the Gascon’s fury—the
wild and unacademic attack of the troubadour—the sword of D’Artagnan.

“I done it,” said Sam. “I went over to Frio City to do it. I couldn’t
let him put the skibunk on you, Uncle Ben. I met him in Summers’s
saloon. I knowed what to do. I said a few things to him that nobody
else heard. He reached for his gun first—half a dozen fellows saw him
do it—but I got mine unlimbered first. Three doses I gave him—right
around the lungs, and a saucer could have covered up all of ’em. He
won’t bother you no more.”

“This—is—King—James—you speak—of?” asked old man Ellison, while he
sipped his coffee.

“You bet it was. And they took me before the county judge; and the
witnesses what saw him draw his gun first was all there. Well, of
course, they put me under $300 bond to appear before the court, but
there was four or five boys on the spot ready to sign the bail. He
won’t bother you no more, Uncle Ben. You ought to have seen how close
them bullet holes was together. I reckon playing a guitar as much as I
do must kind of limber a fellow’s trigger finger up a little, don’t you
think, Uncle Ben?”

Then there was a little silence in the castle except for the
spluttering of a venison steak that the Kiowa was cooking.

“Sam,” said old man Ellison, stroking his white whiskers with a
tremulous hand, “would you mind getting the guitar and playing that
‘Huile, huile, palomita’ piece once or twice? It always seems to be
kind of soothing and comforting when a man’s tired and fagged out.”

There is no more to be said, except that the title of the story is
wrong. It should have been called “The Last of the Barons.” There never
will be an end to the troubadours; and now and then it does seem that
the jingle of their guitars will drown the sound of the muffled blows
of the pickaxes and trip hammers of all the Workers in the world.
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