THE MISSING CHORDI stopped overnight at the sheep-ranch of Rush Kinney, on the
Sandy Fork of the Nueces. Mr. Kinney and I had been strangers up to
the time when I called "Hallo!" at his hitching-rack; but from that
moment until my departure on the next morning we were, according to
the Texas code, undeniable friends.
After supper the ranchman and I lugged our chairs outside the
two-room house, to its floorless gallery roofed with chaparral and
sacuista grass. With the rear legs of our chairs sinking deep into
the hardpacked loam, each of us reposed against an elm pillar of
the structure and smoked El Toro tobacco, while we wrangled
amicably concerning the affairs of the rest of the world.
As for conveying adequate conception of the engaging charm of
that prairie evening, despai
