There had to be a king and queen， of course. The kingwas a terrible old man who wore six-shooters and spurs，and shouted in such a tremendous voice that the rattlerson the prairie would run into their holes under the pricklypear. Before there was a royal family they called the man“Whispering Ben.” When he came to own 50，000 acres ofland and more cattle than he could count， they called himO’Donnell “the Cattle King.”
The queen had been a Mexican girl from Laredo.
She made a good， mild， Colorado-claro wife， and evensucceeded in teaching Ben to modify his voice sufficientlywhile in the house to keep the dishes from being broken.
When Ben got to be king she would sit on the galleryof Espinosa Ranch and weave rush mats. When wealthbecame so irresistible and oppressive that upholsteredchairs and a centre table were brought down from SanAntone in the wagons， she bowed her smooth， dark head，and shared the fate of the Danae.
To avoid lese-majeste you have been presented first tothe king and queen. They do not enter the story， whichmight be called “The Chronicle of the Princess， the HappyThought， and the Lion that Bungled his Job.”
Josefa O’Donnell was the surviving daughter， theprincess. From her mother she inherited warmth of natureand a dusky， semi-tropic beauty. From Ben O’Donnell theroyal she acquired a store of intrepidity， common sense，and the faculty of ruling. The combination was one worthgoing miles to see. Josefa while riding her pony at a gallopcould put five out of six bullets through a tomato-canswinging at the end of a string. She could play for hourswith a white kitten she owned， dressing it in all manner ofabsurd clothes. Scorning a pencil， she could tell you outof her head what 1545 two-year-olds would bring on thehoof， at 8.50 per head. Roughly speaking， the EspinosaRanch is forty miles long and thirty broad—but mostlyleased land. Josefa， on her pony， had prospected over everymile of it. Every cow-puncher on the range knew her bysight and was a loyal vassal. Ripley Givens， foreman of oneof the Espinosa outfits， saw her one day， and made up hismind to form a royal matrimonial alliance. Presumptuous？
No. In those days in the Nueces country a man was a man.
And， after all， the title of cattle king does not presupposeblood royalty. Often it only signifies that its owner wearsthe crown in token of his magnificent qualities in the artof cattle stealing.
One day Ripley Givens rode over to the Double ElmRanch to inquire about a bunch of strayed yearlings.
He was late in setting out on his return trip， and it wassundown when he struck the White Horse Crossing of theNueces. From there to his own camp it was sixteen miles.
To the Espinosa ranch it was twelve. Givens was tired. Hedecided to pass the night at the Crossing.
There was a fine water hole in the river-bed. The bankswere thickly covered with great trees， undergrown withbrush. Back from the water hole fifty yards was a stretchof curly mesquite grass—supper for his horse and bed forhimself. Givens staked his horse， and spread out his saddleblankets to dry. He sat down with his back against a treeand rolled a cigarette. From somewhere in the dense timberalong the river came a sudden， rageful， shivering wail. Thepony danced at the end of his rope and blew a whistlingsnort of comprehending fear. Givens puffed at his cigarette，but he reached leisurely for his pistol-belt， which lay on thegrass， and twirled the cylinder of his weapon tentatively. Agreat gar plunged with a loud splash into the water hole.
A little brown rabbit skipped around a bunch of catclawand sat twitching his whiskers and looking humorously atGivens. The pony went on eating grass.
It is well to be reasonably watchful when a Mexicanlion sings soprano along the arroyos at sundown. Theburden of his song may be that young calves and fat lambsare scarce， and that he has a carnivorous desire for youracquaintance.
In the grass lay an empty fruit can， cast there by someformer sojourner. Givens caught sight of it with a gruntof satisfaction. In his coat pocket tied behind his saddlewas a handful or two of ground coffee. Black coffee andcigarettes！ What ranchero could desire more？
In two minutes he had a little fire going clearly. Hestarted， with his can， for the water hole. When withinfifteen yards of its edge he saw， between the bushes， a sidesaddledpony with down-dropped reins cropping grass alittle distance to his left. Just rising from her hands andknees on the brink of the water hole was Josefa O’Donnell.
She had been drinking water， and she brushed the sandfrom the palms of her hands. Ten yards away， to her right，half concealed by a clump of sacuista， Givens saw thecrouching form of the Mexican lion. His amber eyeballsglared hungrily； six feet from them was the tip of thetail stretched straight， like a pointer’s. His hind-quartersrocked with the motion of the cat tribe preliminary toleaping.
Givens did what he could. His six-shooter was thirtyfiveyards away lying on the grass. He gave a loud yell， anddashed between the lion and the princess.
The “rucus，” as Givens called it afterward， was brief andsomewhat confused. When he arrived on the line of attackhe saw a dim streak in the air， and heard a couple of faintcracks. Then a hundred pounds of Mexican lion plumpeddown upon his head and flattened him， with a heavy jar， tothe ground. He remembered calling out： “Let up， now—nofair gouging！” and then he crawled from under the lion likea worm， with his mouth full of grass and dirt， and a biglump on the back of his head where it had struck the rootof a water-elm. The lion lay motionless. Givens， feelingaggrieved， and suspicious of fouls， shook his fist at thelion， and shouted： “I’ll rastle you again for twenty—” andthen he got back to himself.
Josefa was standing in her tracks， quietly reloadingher silver-mounted .38. It had not been a difficult shot.
