If you are knowing in the chronicles of the ring you willrecall to mind an event in the early ’nineties when， for aminute and sundry odd seconds， a champion and a “wouldbe”
faced each other on the alien side of an internationalriver. So brief a conflict had rarely imposed upon the fairpromise of true sport. The reporters made what theycould of it， but， divested of padding， the action was sadlyfugacious. The champion merely smote his victim， turnedhis back upon him， remarking， “I know what I done to datstiff，” and extended an arm like a ship’s mast for his gloveto be removed.
Which accounts for a trainload of extremely disgustedgentlemen in an uproar of fancy vests and neck-wear beingspilled from their pullmans in San Antonio in the earlymorning following the fight. Which also partly accountsfor the unhappy predicament in which “Cricket” McGuirefound himself as he tumbled from his car and sat upon thedepot platform， torn by a spasm of that hollow， rackingcough so familiar to San Antonian ears. At that time，in the uncertain light of dawn， that way passed CurtisRaidler， the Nueces County cattleman—may his shadownever measure under six foot two.
The cattleman， out this early to catch the south-boundfor his ranch station， stopped at the side of the distressedpatron of sport， and spoke in the kindly drawl of his ilkand region， “Got it pretty bad， bud？”
“Cricket” McGuire， ex-feather-weight prizefighter，tout， jockey， follower of the “ponies，” all-round sport， andmanipulator of the gum balls and walnut shells， looked uppugnaciously at the imputation cast by “bud.”
“G’wan，” he rasped， “telegraph pole. I didn’t ring for yer.”
Another paroxysm wrung him， and he leaned limplyagainst a convenient baggage truck. Raidler waitedpatiently， glancing around at the white hats， shortovercoats， and big cigars thronging the platform. “You’refrom the No’th， ain’t you， bud？” he asked when the otherwas partially recovered. “Come down to see the fight？”
“Fight！” snapped McGuire. “Puss-in-the-corner！ ’Twas ahypodermic injection. Handed him just one like a squirtof dope， and he’s asleep， and no tanbark needed in front ofhis residence. Fight！” He rattled a bit， coughed， and wenton， hardly addressing the cattleman， but rather for therelief of voicing his troubles. “No more dead sure t’ings forme. But Rus Sage himself would have snatched at it. Fiveto one dat de boy from Cork wouldn’t stay t’ree rounds iswhat I invested in. Put my last cent on， and could alreadysmell the sawdust in dat all-night joint of Jimmy Delaney’son T’irty-seventh Street I was goin’ to buy. And den—say，telegraph pole， what a gazaboo a guy is to put his wholeroll on one turn of the gaboozlum！”
“You’re plenty right，” said the big cattleman； “more’specially when you lose. Son， you get up and light out fora hotel. You got a mighty bad cough. Had it long？”
“Lungs，” said McGuire comprehensively. “I got it. Thecroaker says I’ll come to time for six months longer—maybe a year if I hold my gait. I wanted to settle downand take care of myself. Dat’s why I speculated on dat fiveto one perhaps. I had a t’ousand iron dollars saved up. If Iwinned I was goin’ to buy Delaney’s cafe. Who’d a t’oughtdat stiff would take a nap in de foist round—say？”
“It’s a hard deal，” commented Raidler， looking down atthe diminutive form of McGuire crumpled against thetruck. “But you go to a hotel and rest. There’s the Mengerand the Maverick， and—”
“And the Fi’th Av’noo， and the Waldorf-Astoria，”
mimicked McGuire. “Told you I went broke. I’m on de bumproper. I’ve got one dime left. Maybe a trip to Europe or asail in me private yacht would fix me up—pa-per！”
He flung his dime at a newsboy， got his Express， proppedhis back against the truck， and was at once rapt in theaccount of his Waterloo， as expanded by the ingeniouspress.
Curtis Raidler interrogated an enormous gold watch，and laid his hand on McGuire’s shoulder.
“Come on， bud，” he said. “We got three minutes tocatch the train.”
Sarcasm seemed to be McGuire’s vein.
“You ain’t seen me cash in any chips or call a turn sinceI told you I was broke， a minute ago， have you？ Friend，chase yourself away.”
“You’re going down to my ranch，” said the cattleman，“and stay till you get well. Six months’ll fix you good asnew.” He lifted McGuire with one hand， and half-draggedhim in the direction of the train.
“What about the money？” said McGuire， strugglingweakly to escape.
“Money for what？” asked Raidler， puzzled. They eyedeach other， not understanding， for they touched only asat the gear of bevelled cog-wheels—at right angles， andmoving upon different axes.
Passengers on the south-bound saw them seatedtogether， and wondered at the conflux of two suchantipodes. McGuire was five feet one， with a countenancebelonging to either Yokohama or Dublin. Bright-beady ofeye， bony of cheek and jaw， scarred， toughened， brokenand reknit， indestructible， grisly， gladiatorial as a hornet，he was a type neither new nor unfamiliar. Raidler was theproduct of a different soil. Six feet two in height， milesbroad， and no deeper than a crystal brook， he representedthe union of the West and South. Few accurate pictures ofhis kind have been made， for art galleries are so small andthe mutoscope is as yet unknown in Texas. After all， theonly possible medium of portrayal of Raidler’s kind wouldbe the fresco—something high and simple and cool andunframed.
They were rolling southward on the International. Thetimber was huddling into little， dense green motts at raredistances before the inundation of the downright， vertprairies. This was the land of the ranches； the domain ofthe kings of the kine.
