[87030] in Discussion of MIT-community interests
Search Alcohol Rehab Options
daemon@ATHENA.MIT.EDU (Alcohol Rehab)
Thu Aug 18 20:46:21 2016
Date: Thu, 18 Aug 2016 20:34:08 -0400
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<p>Search Alcohol Rehab Options<br /> Inexorably Sam Galloway saddled hi=
s pony. He was going away from the Rancho Altito at the end of a three-mont=
hs' visit. It is not to be expected that a guest should put up with wheat c=
offee and biscuits yellow-streaked with saleratus for longer than that. Nic=
k Napoleon, the big Negro man cook, had never been able to make good biscui=
ts: Once before, when Nick was cooking at the Willow Ranch, Sam had been fo=
rced to fly from his _cuisine_, after only a six-weeks' sojourn. On Sam's f=
ace was an expression of sorrow, deepened with regret and slightly tempered=
by the patient forgiveness of a connoisseur who cannot be understood. But =
very firmly and inexorably he buckled his saddle-cinches, looped his stake-=
rope and hung it to his saddle-horn, tied his slicker and coat on the cantl=
e, and looped his quirt on his right wrist. The Merrydews (householders of =
the Rancho Altito), men, women, children, and servants, vassals, visitors, =
employes, dogs, and casual callers were grouped in the "gallery" =
of the ranch house, all with faces set to the tune of melancholy and grief.=
For, as the coming of Sam Galloway to any ranch, camp, or cabin between th=
e rivers Frio or Bravo del Norte aroused joy, so his departure caused mourn=
ing and distress. And then, during absolute silence, except for the bumping=
of a hind elbow of a hound dog as he pursued a wicked flea, Sam tenderly a=
nd carefully tied his guitar across his saddle on top of his slicker and co=
at. The guitar was in a green duck bag; and if you catch the significance o=
f it, it explains Sam. Sam Galloway was the Last of the Troubadours. Of cou=
rse you know about the troubadours. The encyclopaedia says they flourished =
between the eleventh and the thirteenth centuries. What they flourished doe=
sn't seem clear - -- you may be pretty sure it wasn't a sword: maybe it was=
a fiddlebow, or a forkful of spaghetti, or a lady's scarf. Anyhow, Sam Gal=
loway was one of 'em. Sam put on a martyred expression as he mounted his po=
ny. But the expression on his face was hilarious compared with the one on h=
is pony's. You see, a pony gets to know his rider mighty well, and it is no=
t unlikely that cow ponies in pastures and at hitching racks had often guye=
d Sam's pony for being ridden by a guitar player instead of by a rollicking=
, cussing, all-wool cowboy. No man is a hero to his saddle-horse. And even =
an escalator in a department store might be excused for tripping up a troub=
adour. Oh, I know I'm one; and so are you. You remember the stories you mem=
orize and the card tricks you study and that little piece on the piano -- h=
ow does it go? -- ti-tum-te-tum-ti-tum -- those little Arabian Ten Minute E=
ntertainments that you furnish when you go up to call on your rich Aunt Jan=
e. You should know that _omnae personae in tres partes divisae sunt_. Namel=
y: Brons, Troubadours, and Workers. Barons have no inclination to read such=
folderol as this; and Workers have no time: so I know you must be a Trouba=
dour, and that you will understand Sam Galloway. Whether we sing, act, danc=
e, write, lecture, or paint, we are only troubadours; so let us make the wo=
rst of it. The pony with the Dante Alighieri face, guided by the pressure o=
f Sam's knees, bore that wandering minstrel sixteen miles southeastward. Na=
ture was in her most benignant mood. League after league of delicate, sweet=
flowerets made fragrant the 'gently undulating prairie. The east wind temp=
ered the spring warmth; wool-white clouds flying in from the Mexican Gull h=
indered the direct rays of the April sun. Sam sang songs as he rode. Under =
his pony's bridle he had tucked some sprigs of chaparral to keep away the d=
eer flies. Thus crowned, the long-faced quadruped looked more Dantesque tha=
n before, and, judging by his countenance, seemed to think of Beatrice Stra=
ight as topography permitted, Sam rode to, the sheep ranch of old man Ellis=
on. A visit to a sheep ranch seemed to him desirable just then. There had b=
een too many people, too much noise, argument, competition, confusion, at R=
ancho Altito. He had never conferred upon old man Ellison the favour of soj=
ourning at his ranch; but he knew he would be welcome. The troubadour is hi=
s own passport everywhere. The Workers in the castle let down the drawbridg=
e to him, and the Baron sets him at his left hand at table in the banquet h=
all. There ladies smile upon him and applaud his songs and stories, while t=
he Workers bring boars' heads and flagons. If the Baron nods once or twice =
in his carved oaken chair, he does not do it maliciously. Old man Ellison w=
elcomed the troubadour flatteringly. He had often heard praises of Sam Gall=
oway from other ranchmen who had been complimented by his visits, but had n=
ever aspired to such an honour for his own humble barony. I say barony beca=
use old man Ellison was the Last of the Barons. Of course, Mr. Bulwer-Lytto=
n lived too early to know him, or he wouldn't have conferred that sobriquet=
upon Warwick. In life it is the duty and the function of the Baron to prov=
ide work for the Workers and lodging and shelter for the Troubadours. Old m=
an Ellison was a shrunken old man, with a short, yellow-white beard and a f=
ace lined and seamed by past-and-gone smiles. His ranch was a little two-ro=
om box house in a grove of hackberry trees in the lonesomest part of the sh=
eep country. His household consisted of a Kiowa Indian man cook, four hound=
s, a pet sheep, and a half-tamed coyote chained to a fence-post. He owned 3=
,000 sheep, which he ran on two sections of leased land and many thousands =
of acres neither leased nor owned. Three or four times a year some one who =
spoke his language would ride up to his gate and exchange a few bald ideas =
with him. Those were red-letter days to old man Ellison. Then in what illum=
inated, embossed, and gorgeously decorated capitals must have been written =
the day on which a troubadour -- - a troubadour who, according to the encyc=
lopaedia, should have flourished between the eleventh and the thirteenth ce=
nturies - -- drew rein at the gates of his baronial castle! Old man Ellison=
's smiles came back and filled his wrinkles when he saw Sam. He hurried out=
of the house in his shuffling, limping way to greet him. "Hello, Mr. =
Ellison," called Sam cheerfully. "Thought I'd drop over and see y=
ou a while. Notice you've had fine rains on your range. They ought to make =
good grazing for your spring lambs." "Well, well, well," sai=
d old man Ellison. "I'm mighty glad to see you, Sam. I never thought y=
ou'd take the trouble to ride over to as out-of-the-way an old ranch as thi=
s. But you're mighty welcome. 'Light. I've got a sack of new oats in the ki=
tchen -- - shall I bring out a feed for your hoss?" "Oats for him=
?" said Sam, derisively. "No, sir-ee. He's as fat as a pig now on=
grass. He don't get rode enough to keep him in condition. I'll just turn h=
im in the horse pasture with a drag rope on if you don't mind." I am p=
ositive that never during the eleventh and thirteenth centuries did Baron, =
Troubadour, and Worker amalgamate as harmoniously as their parallels did th=
at evening at old man Ellison's sheep ranch. The Kiowa's biscuits were ligh=
t and tasty and his coffee strong. Ineradicable hospitality and appreciatio=
n glowed on old man Ellison's weather-tanned face. As for the troubadour, h=
e said to himself that he had stumbled upon pleasant places indeed. A well-=
cooked, abundant meal, a host whom his lightest attempt to entertain seemed=
to delight far beyond the merits of the exertion, and the reposeful atmosp=
here that his sensitive soul at that time craved united to confer upon him =
a satisfaction and luxurious ease that he had seldom found on his tours of =
the ranches. After the delectable supper, Sam untied the green duck bag and=
took out his guitar. Not by way of payment, mind you -- neither Sam Gallow=
ay nor any other of the true troubadours are lineal descendants of the late=
Tommy Tucker. You have read of Tommy Tucker in the works of the esteemed b=
ut often obscure Mother Goose. Tommy Tucker sang for his supper. No true tr=
oubadour would do that. He would have his supper, and then sing for Art's s=
ake. Sam Galloway's repertoire comprised about fifty funny stories and betw=
een thirty and forty songs. He by no means stopped there. He could talk thr=
ough twenty cigarettes on any topic that you brought up. And he never sat u=
p when he could lie down; and never stood when he could sit. I am strongly =
disposed to linger with him, for I am drawing a portrait as well as a blunt=
pencil and a tattered thesaurus will allow. I wish you could have seen him=
: he was small and tough and inactive beyond the power of imagination to co=
nceive. He wore an ultramarine-blue woollen shirt laced down the front with=
a pearl-gray, exaggerated sort of shoestring, indestructible brown duck cl=
othes, inevitable high-heeled boots with Mexican spurs, and a Mexican straw=
sombrero. That evening Sam and old man Ellison dragged their chairs out un=
der the hackberry trees. They lighted cigarettes; and the troubadour gaily =
touched his guitar. Many of the songs he sang were the weird, melancholy, m=
inor-keyed _canciones_ that he had learned from the Mexican sheep herders a=
nd _vaqueros_. One, in particular, charmed and soothed the soul of the lone=
ly baron. It was a favourite song of the sheep herders, beginning: "_H=
uile, 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 quie=
t and appreciation there, such as he had not found in the noisy camps of th=
e cattle kings. No audience in the world could have crowned the work of poe=
t, musician, or artist with more worshipful and unflagging approval than th=
at bestowed upon his efforts by old man Ellison. No visit by a royal person=
age to a humble woodchopper or peasant could have been received with more f=
lattering 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. Th=
ere he rolled his brown paper cigarettes, read such tedious literature as t=
he ranch afforded, and added to his repertoire of improvisations that he pl=
ayed so expertly on his guitar. To him, as a slave ministering to a great l=
ord, 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 mil=
dly; mocking-birds at morn and eve competed with but scarce equalled the sw=
eet 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 w=
orld he lived in, and how kind it is to the ones whose mission in life it i=
s to give entertainment and pleasure. Here he had food and lodging as good =
as he had ever longed for; absolute immunity from care or exertion or strif=
e; an endless welcome, and a host whose delight at the sixteenth repetition=
of a song or a story was as keen as at its initial giving. Was there ever =
a troubadour of old who struck upon as royal a castle in his wanderings? Wh=
ile he lay thus, meditating upon his blessings, little brown cottontails wo=
uld shyly 'frolic through the yard; a covey of white-topknotted blue quail =
would run past, in single file, twenty yards away; a _paisano_ bird, out hu=
nting for tarantulas, would hop upon the fence and salute him with sweeping=
flourishes of its' long tail. In the eighty-acre horse pasture the pony wi=
th the Dantesque face grew fat and almost smiling. The troubadour was at th=
e end of his wanderings. Old man Ellison was his own _vaciero_. That means =
that he supplied his sheep camps with wood, water, and rations by his own l=
abours instead of hiring a _vaciero_. On small ranches it is often done. On=
e morning he started for the camp of Incarnacion Felipe de la Cruz y Monte =
Piedras (one of his sheep herders) with the week's usual rations of brown b=
eans, coffee, meal, and sugar. Two miles away on the trail from old Fort Ew=
ing he met, face to face, a terrible being called King James, mounted on a =
fiery, prancing, Kentucky-bred horse. King James's real name was James King=
; but people reversed it because it seemed to fit him better, and also beca=
use it seemed to please his majesty. King James was the biggest cattleman b=
etween the Alamo plaza in San Antone and Bill Hopper's saloon in Brownsvill=
e. Also he was the loudest and most offensive bully and braggart and bad ma=
n in southwest Texas. And he always made good whenever he bragged; and the =
more noise he made the more dangerous he was. In the story papers it is alw=
ays the quiet, mild-mannered man with light blue eyes and a low voice who t=
urns out to be really dangerous; but in real life and in this story such is=
not the case. Give me my choice between assaulting a large, loudmouthed ro=
ugh-houser and an inoffensive stranger with blue eyes sitting quietly in a =
corner, and you will see something doing in the corner every time. King Jam=
es, as I intended to say earlier, was a fierce, two-hundred-pound sunburned=
, blond man, as pink as an October strawberry, and with two horizontal slit=
s under shaggy red eyebrows for eyes. On that day he wore a flannel shirt t=
hat was tan-coloured, with the exception of certain large areas which were =
darkened by transudations due to the summer sun. There seemed to be other c=
lothing and garnishings about him, such as brown duck trousers stuffed into=
immense boots, and red handkerchiefs and revolvers; and a shotgun laid acr=
oss his saddle and a leather belt with millions of cartridges shining in it=
-- but your mind skidded off such accessories; what held your gaze was jus=
t the two little horizontal slits that he used for eyes. This was the man t=
hat old man Ellison met on the trail; and when you count up in the baron's =
favour that he was sixty-five and weighed ninety-eight pounds and had heard=
of King James's record and that he (the baron) had a hankering for the _vi=
ta simplex_ and had no gun with him and wouldn't have' used it if he had, y=
ou can't censure him if I tell you that the smiles with which the troubadou=
r had filled his wrinkles went out of them and left them plain wrinkles aga=
in. But he was not the kind of baron that flies from danger. He reined in t=
he mile-an-hour pony (no difficult feat), and saluted the formidable monarc=
h. King James expressed himself with royal directness. "You're that ol=
d snoozer that's running sheep on this range, ain't you?" said he. &qu=
ot;What right have you got to do it? Do you own any land, or lease any?&quo=
t; "I have two sections leased from the state," said old man Elli=
son, mildly. "Not by no means you haven't," said King James. &quo=
t;Your lease expired yesterday; and I had a man at the land office on the m=
inute 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 i=
nside of it when it's done it'll be a dead one. I'll give you a week to mov=
e 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 o=
f his shot-gun warningly. Old man Ellison rode on to the camp of Incarnacio=
n. 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 F=
ree Grass was in sight. Other troubles, too, had been accumulating upon his=
shoulders. His flocks were decreasing instead of growing; the price of woo=
l 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 ly=
ing on his cot, propped against a roll of blankets and wool sacks, fingerin=
g his guitar. "Hello, Uncle Ben," the troubadour called, cheerful=
ly. "You rolled in early this evening. I been trying a new twist on th=
e Spanish Fandango to-day. I just about got it. Here's how she goes -- list=
en." "That's fine, that's mighty fine," said old man Ellison=
, sitting on the kitchen step and rubbing his white, Scotch-terrier whisker=
s. "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 o=
ut, let's have that Mexican piece that starts off with: '_Huile, huile, pal=
omita_.' It seems that that song always kind of soothes and comforts me aft=
er I've been riding far or anything bothers me." "Why, _seguramen=
te_, _senor_," 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 u=
p 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 complica=
tion of disasters, cannot successfully and continuously dissemble. Moreover=
, a troubadour has eyes quick to see unhappiness in others around him -- be=
cause it disturbs his own ease. So, on the next day, Sam again questioned t=
he old man about his air of sadness and abstraction. Then old man Ellison t=
old him the story of King James's threats and orders and that pale melancho=
ly and red ruin appeared to have marked him for their own. The troubadour t=
ook 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, o=
ld man Ellison drove his buckboard to Frio City to fetch some necessary sup=
plies for the ranch. Bradshaw was hard but not implacable. He divided the o=
ld man's order by two, and let him have a little more time. One article sec=
ured 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 h=
is slits of eyes appeared to be a little wider than they usually were. &quo=
t;Good day," said the king, gruffly. "I've been wanting to see yo=
u. I hear it said by a cowman from Sandy yesterday that you was from Jackso=
n County, Mississippi, originally. I want to know if that's a fact." &=
quot;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 ha=
lf-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 th=
eir increase for a long time to come. Aunt Caroline used to cut out sheep i=
n cake dough and bake 'em for me. You keep your sheep where they are, and u=
se all the range you want. How's your finances?" The old man related h=
is woes in detail, dignifiedly, with restraint and candour. "She used =
to smuggle extra grub into my school basket -- I'm speaking of Aunt Carolin=
e," said King James. "I'm going over to Frio City to-day, and I'l=
l 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 everythin=
g you want on credit. You are bound to have heard the old saying at home, t=
hat the Jackson County Reeveses and Kings would stick closer by each other =
than chestnut burrs. Well, I'm a King yet whenever I run a cross 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 t=
he ranch he found that Sam Galloway was not there. His guitar hung by its b=
uckskin string to a hackberry limb, moaning as the gulf breeze blew across =
its masterless strings. The Kiowa endeavoured to explain. "Sam, he cat=
ch 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 fir=
st stars came out the troubadour rode back to his haven. He pastured his po=
ny and went into the house, his spurs jingling martially. Old man Ellison s=
at at the kitchen table, having a tin cup of before-supper coffee. He looke=
d 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 skyla=
rking 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 tha=
t the minstrel had changed the man of action. And while Sam is unbuckling f=
rom his waist old man Ellison's six-shooter, that the latter had left behin=
d when he drove to town, we may well pause to remark that anywhere and when=
ever a troubadour lays down the guitar and takes up the sword trouble is su=
re to follow. It is not the expert thrust of Athos nor the cold skill of Ar=
amis 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 Cit=
y 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 -- ri=
ght around the lungs, and a saucer could have covered up all of 'em. He won=
't bother you no more."</p>=20
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