[Illustration]




A TEXAS MATCHMAKER

by ANDY ADAMS


Author of ‘The Log of a Cowboy’

ILLUSTRATED BY E. BOYD SMITH


1904


[Illustration: ROLLING THE BULL OVER LIKE A HOOP]

TO
FRANK H. EARNEST
MOUNTED INSPECTOR U.S. CUSTOMS SERVICE
LAREDO, TEXAS




Contents

 CHAPTER I. LANCE LOVELACE
 CHAPTER II. SHEPHERD’S FERRY
 CHAPTER III. LAS PALOMAS
 CHAPTER IV. CHRISTMAS
 CHAPTER V. A PIGEON HUNT
 CHAPTER VI. SPRING OF ’76
 CHAPTER VII. SAN JACINTO DAY
 CHAPTER VIII. A CAT HUNT ON THE FRIO
 CHAPTER IX. THE ROSE AND ITS THORN
 CHAPTER X. AFTERMATH
 CHAPTER XI. A TURKEY BAKE
 CHAPTER XII. SUMMER OF ’77
 CHAPTER XIII. HIDE HUNTING
 CHAPTER XIV. A TWO YEARS’ DROUTH
 CHAPTER XV. IN COMMEMORATION
 CHAPTER XVI. MATCHMAKING
 CHAPTER XVII. WINTER AT LAS PALOMAS
 CHAPTER XVIII. AN INDIAN SCARE
 CHAPTER XIX. HORSE BRANDS
 CHAPTER XX. SHADOWS
 CHAPTER XXI. INTERLOCUTORY PROCEEDINGS
 CHAPTER XXII. SUNSET




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

 ROLLING THE BULL OVER LIKE A HOOP
 WE GOT THE AMBULANCE OFF BEFORE SUNRISE
 FLASHED A MESSAGE BACK
 GAVE THE WILDEST HORSES THEIR HEADS
 HE SPED DOWN THE COURSE
 UTTERING A SINGLE PIERCING SNORT




CHAPTER I
LANCE LOVELACE


When I first found employment with Lance Lovelace, a Texas cowman, I
had not yet attained my majority, while he was over sixty. Though not a
native of Texas, “Uncle Lance” was entitled to be classed among its
pioneers, his parents having emigrated from Tennessee along with a
party of Stephen F. Austin’s colonists in 1821. The colony with which
his people reached the state landed at Quintana, at the mouth of the
Brazos River, and shared the various hardships that befell all the
early Texan settlers, moving inland later to a more healthy locality.
Thus the education of young Lovelace was one of privation. Like other
boys in pioneer families, he became in turn a hewer of wood or drawer
of water, as the necessities of the household required, in reclaiming
the wilderness. When Austin hoisted the new-born Lone Star flag, and
called upon the sturdy pioneers to defend it, the adventurous settlers
came from every quarter of the territory, and among the first who
responded to the call to arms was young Lance Lovelace. After San
Jacinto, when the fighting was over and the victory won, he laid down
his arms, and returned to ranching with the same zeal and energy. The
first legislature assembled voted to those who had borne arms in behalf
of the new republic, lands in payment for their services. With this
land scrip for his pay, young Lovelace, in company with others, set out
for the territory lying south of the Nueces. They were a band of daring
spirits. The country was primitive and fascinated them, and they
remained. Some settled on the Frio River, though the majority crossed
the Nueces, many going as far south as the Rio Grande. The country was
as large as the men were daring, and there was elbow room for all and
to spare. Lance Lovelace located a ranch a few miles south of the
Nueces River, and, from the cooing of the doves in the encinal, named
it Las Palomas.

“When I first settled here in 1838,” said Uncle Lance to me one
morning, as we rode out across the range, “my nearest neighbor lived
forty miles up the river at Fort Ewell. Of course there were some
Mexican families nearer, north on the Frio, but they don’t count. Say,
Tom, but she was a purty country then! Why, from those hills yonder,
any morning you could see a thousand antelope in a band going into the
river to drink. And wild turkeys? Well, the first few years we lived
here, whole flocks roosted every night in that farther point of the
encinal. And in the winter these prairies were just flooded with geese
and brant. If you wanted venison, all you had to do was to ride through
those mesquite thickets north of the river to jump a hundred deer in a
morning’s ride. Oh, I tell you she was a land of plenty.”

The pioneers of Texas belong to a day and generation which has almost
gone. If strong arms and daring spirits were required to conquer the
wilderness, Nature seemed generous in the supply; for nearly all were
stalwart types of the inland viking. Lance Lovelace, when I first met
him, would have passed for a man in middle life. Over six feet in
height, with a rugged constitution, he little felt his threescore
years, having spent his entire lifetime in the outdoor occupation of a
ranchman. Living on the wild game of the country, sleeping on the
ground by a camp-fire when his work required it, as much at home in the
saddle as by his ranch fireside, he was a romantic type of the
strenuous pioneer.

He was a man of simple tastes, true as tested steel in his friendships,
with a simple honest mind which followed truth and right as unerringly
as gravitation. In his domestic affairs, however, he was unfortunate.
The year after locating at Las Palomas, he had returned to his former
home on the Colorado River, where he had married Mary Bryan, also of
the family of Austin’s colonists. Hopeful and happy they returned to
their new home on the Nueces, but before the first anniversary of their
wedding day arrived, she, with her first born, were laid in the same
grave. But grief does not kill, and the young husband bore his loss as
brave men do in living out their allotted day. But to the hour of his
death the memory of Mary Bryan mellowed him into a child, and, when
unoccupied, with every recurring thought of her or the mere mention of
her name, he would fall into deep reverie, lasting sometimes for hours.
And although he contracted two marriages afterward, they were simply
marriages of convenience, to which, after their termination, he
frequently referred flippantly, sometimes with irreverence, for they
were unhappy alliances.

On my arrival at Las Palomas, the only white woman on the ranch was
“Miss Jean,” a spinster sister of its owner, and twenty years his
junior. After his third bitter experience in the lottery of matrimony,
evidently he gave up hope, and induced his sister to come out and
preside as the mistress of Las Palomas. She was not tall like her
brother, but rather plump for her forty years. She had large gray eyes,
with long black eyelashes, and she had a trick of looking out from
under them which was both provoking and disconcerting, and no doubt
many an admirer had been deceived by those same roguish, laughing eyes.
Every man, Mexican and child on the ranch was the devoted courtier of
Miss Jean, for she was a lovable woman; and in spite of her isolated
life and the constant plaguings of her brother on being a spinster, she
fitted neatly into our pastoral life. It was these teasings of her
brother that gave me my first inkling that the old ranchero was a wily
matchmaker, though he religiously denied every such accusation. With a
remarkable complacency, Jean Lovelace met and parried her tormentor,
but her brother never tired of his hobby while there was a third person
to listen.

Though an unlettered man, Lance Lovelace had been a close observer of
humanity. The big book of Life had been open always before him, and he
had profited from its pages. With my advent at Las Palomas, there were
less than half a dozen books on the ranch, among them a copy of Bret
Harte’s poems and a large Bible.

“That book alone,” said he to several of us one chilly evening, as we
sat around the open fireplace, “is the greatest treatise on humanity
ever written. Go with me to-day to any city in any country in
Christendom, and I’ll show you a man walk up the steps of his church on
Sunday who thanks God that he’s better than his neighbor. But you
needn’t go so far if you don’t want to. I reckon if I could see myself,
I might show symptoms of it occasionally. Sis here thanks God daily
that she is better than that Barnes girl who cut her out of Amos
Alexander. Now, don’t you deny it, for you know it’s gospel truth! And
that book is reliable on lots of other things. Take marriage, for
instance. It is just as natural for men and women to mate at the proper
time, as it is for steers to shed in the spring. But there’s no
necessity of making all this fuss about it. The Bible way discounts all
these modern methods. ‘He took unto himself a wife’ is the way it
describes such events. But now such an occurrence has to be announced,
months in advance. And after the wedding is over, in less than a year
sometimes, they are glad to sneak off and get the bond dissolved in
some divorce court, like I did with my second wife.”

All of us about the ranch, including Miss Jean, knew that the old
ranchero’s views on matrimony could be obtained by leading up to the
question, or differing, as occasion required. So, just to hear him talk
on his favorite theme, I said: “Uncle Lance, you must recollect this is
a different generation. Now, I’ve read books”—

“So have I. But it’s different in real life. Now, in those novels you
have read, the poor devil is nearly worried to death for fear he’ll not
get her. There’s a hundred things happens; he’s thrown off the scent
one day and cuts it again the next, and one evening he’s in a heaven of
bliss and before the dance ends a rival looms up and there’s hell to
pay,—excuse me, Sis,—but he gets her in the end. And that’s the way it
goes in the books. But getting down to actual cases—when the money’s on
the table and the game’s rolling—it’s as simple as picking a sire and a
dam to raise a race horse. When they’re both willing, it don’t require
any expert to see it—a one-eyed or a blind man can tell the symptoms.
Now, when any of you boys get into that fix, get it over with as soon
as possible.”

“From the drift of your remarks,” said June Deweese very innocently,
“why wouldn’t it be a good idea to go back to the old method of letting
the parents make the matches?”

“Yes; it would be a good idea. How in the name of common sense could
you expect young sap-heads like you boys to understand anything about a
woman? I know what I’m talking about. A single woman never shows her
true colors, but conceals her imperfections. The average man is not to
be blamed if he fails to see through her smiles and Sunday humor. Now,
I was forty when I married the second time, and forty-five the last
whirl. Looks like I’d a-had some little sense, now, don’t it? But I
didn’t. No, I didn’t have any more show than a snowball in—Sis, hadn’t
you better retire. You’re not interested in my talk to these
boys.—Well, if ever any of you want to get married you have my consent.
But you’d better get my opinion on her dimples when you do. Now, with
my sixty odd years, I’m worth listening to. I can take a cool,
dispassionate view of a woman now, and pick every good point about her,
just as if she was a cow horse that I was buying for my own saddle.”

Miss Jean, who had a ready tongue for repartee, took advantage of the
first opportunity to remark: “Do you know, brother, matrimony is a
subject that I always enjoy hearing discussed by such an oracle as
yourself. But did it never occur to you what an unjust thing it was of
Providence to reveal so much to your wisdom and conceal the same from
us babes?”

It took some little time for the gentle reproof to take effect, but
Uncle Lance had an easy faculty of evading a question when it was
contrary to his own views. “Speaking of the wisdom of babes,” said he,
“reminds me of what Felix York, an old ’36 comrade of mine, once said.
He had caught the gold fever in ’49, and nothing would do but he and
some others must go to California. The party went up to Independence,
Missouri, where they got into an overland emigrant train, bound for the
land of gold. But it seems before starting, Senator Benton had made a
speech in that town, in which he made the prophecy that one day there
would be a railroad connecting the Missouri River with the Pacific
Ocean. Felix told me this only a few years ago. But he said that all
the teamsters made the prediction a byword. When, crossing some of the
mountain ranges, the train halted to let the oxen blow, one
bull-whacker would say to another: ‘Well, I’d like to see old Tom
Benton get his railroad over _this_ mountain.’ When Felix told me this
he said—‘There’s a railroad to-day crosses those same mountain passes
over which we forty-niners whacked our bulls. And to think I was a
grown man and had no more sense or foresight than a little baby
blinkin’ its eyes in the sun.’”

With years at Las Palomas, I learned to like the old ranchero. There
was something of the strong, primitive man about him which compelled a
youth of my years to listen to his counsel. His confidence in me was a
compliment which I appreciate to this day. When I had been in his
employ hardly two years, an incident occurred which, though only one of
many similar acts cementing our long friendship, tested his trust.

One morning just as he was on the point of starting on horseback to the
county seat to pay his taxes, a Mexican arrived at the ranch and
announced that he had seen a large band of _javalina_ on the border of
the chaparral up the river. Uncle Lance had promised his taxes by a
certain date, but he was a true sportsman and owned a fine pack of
hounds; moreover, the peccary is a migratory animal and does not wait
upon the pleasure of the hunter. As I rode out from the corrals to
learn what had brought the vaquero with such haste, the old ranchero
cried, “Here, Tom, you’ll have to go to the county seat. Buckle this
money belt under your shirt, and if you lack enough gold to cover the
taxes, you’ll find silver here in my saddle-bags. Blow the horn, boys,
and get the guns. Lead the way, Pancho. And say, Tom, better leave the
road after crossing the Sordo, and strike through that mesquite
country,” he called back as he swung into the saddle and started,
leaving me a sixty-mile ride in his stead. His warning to leave the
road after crossing the creek was timely, for a ranchman had been
robbed by bandits on that road the month before. But I made the ride in
safety before sunset, paying the taxes, amounting to over a thousand
dollars.

During all our acquaintance, extending over a period of twenty years,
Lance Lovelace was a constant revelation to me, for he was original in
all things. Knowing no precedent, he recognized none which had not the
approval of his own conscience. Where others were content to follow, he
blazed his own pathways—immaterial to him whether they were followed by
others or even noticed. In his business relations and in his own way,
he was exact himself and likewise exacting of others. Some there are
who might criticise him for an episode which occurred about four years
after my advent at Las Palomas.

Mr. Whitley Booth, a younger man and a brother-in-law of the old
ranchero by his first wife, rode into the ranch one evening, evidently
on important business. He was not a frequent caller, for he was also a
ranchman, living about forty miles north and west on the Frio River,
but was in the habit of bringing his family down to the Nueces about
twice a year for a visit of from ten days to two weeks’ duration. But
this time, though we had been expecting the family for some little
time, he came alone, remained over night, and at breakfast ordered his
horse, as if expecting to return at once. The two ranchmen were holding
a conference in the sitting-room when a Mexican boy came to me at the
corrals and said I was wanted in the house. On my presenting myself, my
employer said: “Tom, I want you as a witness to a business transaction.
I’m lending Whit, here, a thousand dollars, and as we have never taken
any notes between us, I merely want you as a witness. Go into my room,
please, and bring out, from under my bed, one of those largest bags of
silver.”

The door was unlocked, and there, under the ranchero’s bed,
dust-covered, were possibly a dozen sacks of silver. Finding one tagged
with the required amount, I brought it out and laid it on the table
between the two men. But on my return I noticed Uncle Lance had turned
his chair from the table and was gazing out of the window, apparently
absorbed in thought. I saw at a glance that he was gazing into the
past, for I had become used to these reveries on his part. I had not
been excused, and an embarrassing silence ensued, which was only broken
as he looked over his shoulder and said: “There it is, Whit; count it
if you want to.”

But Mr. Booth, knowing the oddities of Uncle Lance, hesitated.
“Well—why—Look here, Lance. If you have any reason for not wanting to
loan me this amount, why, say so.”

“There’s the money, Whit; take it if you want to. It’ll pay for the
hundred cows you are figuring on buying. But I was just thinking: can
two men at our time of life, who have always been friends, afford to
take the risk of letting a business transaction like this possibly make
us enemies? You know I started poor here, and what I have made and
saved is the work of my lifetime. You are welcome to the money, but if
anything should happen that you didn’t repay me, you know I wouldn’t
feel right towards you. It’s probably my years that does it, but—now, I
always look forward to the visits of your family, and Jean and I always
enjoy our visits at your ranch. I think we’d be two old fools to allow
anything to break up those pleasant relations.” Uncle Lance turned in
his chair, and, looking into the downcast countenance of Mr. Booth,
continued: “Do you know, Whit, that youngest girl of yours reminds me
of her aunt, my own Mary, in a hundred ways. I just love to have your
girls tear around this old ranch—they seem to give me back certain
glimpses of my youth that are priceless to an old man.”

“That’ll do, Lance,” said Mr. Booth, rising and extending his hand. “I
don’t want the money now. Your view of the matter is right, and our
friendship is worth more than a thousand cattle to me. Lizzie and the
girls were anxious to come with me, and I’ll go right back and send
them down.”




CHAPTER II
SHEPHERD’S FERRY


Within a few months after my arrival at Las Palomas, there was a dance
at Shepherd’s Ferry. There was no necessity for an invitation to such
local meets; old and young alike were expected and welcome, and a dance
naturally drained the sparsely settled community of its inhabitants
from forty to fifty miles in every direction. On the Nueces in 1875,
the amusements of the countryside were extremely limited; barbecues,
tournaments, and dancing covered the social side of ranch life, and
whether given up or down our home river, or north on the Frio, so they
were within a day’s ride, the white element of Las Palomas could always
be depended on to be present, Uncle Lance in the lead.

Shepherd’s Ferry is somewhat of a misnomer, for the water in the river
was never over knee-deep to a horse, except during freshets. There may
have been a ferry there once; but from my advent on the river there was
nothing but a store, the keeper of which also conducted a road-house
for the accommodation of travelers. There was a fine grove for picnic
purposes within easy reach, which was also frequently used for
camp-meeting purposes. Gnarly old live-oaks spread their branches like
a canopy over everything, while the sea-green moss hung from every limb
and twig, excluding the light and lazily waving with every vagrant
breeze. The fact that these grounds were also used for camp-meetings
only proved the broad toleration of the people. On this occasion I
distinctly remember that Miss Jean introduced a lady to me, who was the
wife of an Episcopal minister, then visiting on a ranch near Oakville,
and I danced several times with her and found her very amiable.

On receipt of the news of the approaching dance at the ferry, we set
the ranch in order. Fortunately, under seasonable conditions work on a
cattle range is never pressing. A programme of work outlined for a
certain week could easily be postponed a week or a fortnight for that
matter; for this was the land of “la mañana,” and the white element on
Las Palomas easily adopted the easy-going methods of their Mexican
neighbors. So on the day everything was in readiness. The ranch was a
trifle over thirty miles from Shepherd’s, which was a fair half day’s
ride, but as Miss Jean always traveled by ambulance, it was necessary
to give her an early start. Las Palomas raised fine horses and mules,
and the ambulance team for the ranch consisted of four mealy-muzzled
brown mules, which, being range bred, made up in activity what they
lacked in size.

Tiburcio, a trusty Mexican, for years in the employ of Uncle Lance, was
the driver of the ambulance, and at an early morning hour he and his
mules were on their mettle and impatient to start. But Miss Jean had a
hundred petty things to look after. The lunch—enough for a round-up—was
prepared, and was safely stored under the driver’s seat. Then there
were her own personal effects and the necessary dressing and tidying,
with Uncle Lance dogging her at every turn.

“Now, Sis,” said he, “I want you to rig yourself out in something
sumptuous, because I expect to make a killing with you at this dance.
I’m almost sure that that Louisiana mule-drover will be there. You know
you made quite an impression on him when he was through here two years
ago. Well, I’ll take a hand in the game this time, and if there’s any
marry in him, he’ll have to lead trumps. I’m getting tired of having my
dear sister trifled with by every passing drover. Yes, I am! The next
one that hangs around Las Palomas, basking in your smiles, has got to
declare his intentions whether he buys mules or not. Oh, you’ve got a
brother, Sis, that’ll look out for you. But you must play your part.
Now, if that mule-buyer’s there, shall I”—

“Why, certainly, brother, invite him to the ranch,” replied Miss Jean,
as she busied herself with the preparations. “It’s so kind of you to
look after me. I was listening to every word you said, and I’ve got my
best bib and tucker in that hand box. And just you watch me dazzle that
Mr. Mule-buyer. Strange you didn’t tell me sooner about his being in
the country. Here, take these boxes out to the ambulance. And, say, I
put in the middle-sized coffee pot, and do you think two packages of
ground coffee will be enough? All right, then. Now, where’s my gloves?”

We were all dancing attendance in getting the ambulance off, but Uncle
Lance never relaxed his tormenting, “Come, now, hurry up,” said he, as
Jean and himself led the way to the gate where the conveyance stood
waiting; “for I want you to look your best this evening, and you’ll be
all tired out if you don’t get a good rest before the dance begins.
Now, in case the mule-buyer don’t show up, how about Sim Oliver? You
see, I can put in a good word there just as easily as not. Of course,
he’s a widower like myself, but you’re no spring pullet—you wouldn’t
class among the buds—besides Sim branded eleven hundred calves last
year. And the very last time I was talking to him, he allowed he’d
crowd thirteen hundred close this year—big calf crop, you see. Now,
just why he should go to the trouble to tell me all this, unless he had
his eye on you, is one too many for me. But if you want me to cut him
out of your string of eligibles, say the word, and I’ll chouse him out.
You just bet, little girl, whoever wins you has got to score right.
Great Scott! but you have good taste in selecting perfumery. Um-ee! it
makes me half drunk to walk alongside of you. Be sure and put some of
that ointment on your kerchief when you get there.”

“Really,” said Miss Jean, as they reached the ambulance, “I wish you
had made a little memorandum of what I’m expected to do—I’m all in a
flutter this morning. You see, without your help my case is hopeless.
But I think I’ll try for the mule-buyer. I’m getting tired looking at
these slab-sided cowmen. Now, just look at those mules—haven’t had a
harness on in a month. And Tiburcio can’t hold four of them, nohow.
Lance, it looks like you’d send one of the boys to drive me down to the
ferry.”

“Why, Lord love you, girl, those mules are as gentle as kittens; and
you don’t suppose I’m going to put some gringo over a veteran like
Tiburcio. Why, that old boy used to drive for Santa Anna during the
invasion in ’36. Besides, I’m sending Theodore and Glenn on horseback
as a bodyguard. Las Palomas is putting her best foot forward this
morning in giving you a stylish turnout, with outriders in their Sunday
livery. And those two boys are the best ropers on the ranch, so if the
mules run off just give one of your long, keen screams, and the boys
will rope and hog-tie every mule in the team. Get in now and don’t make
any faces about it.”

It was pettishness and not timidity that ailed Jean Lovelace, for a
pioneer woman like herself had of course no fear of horse-flesh. But
the team was acting in a manner to unnerve an ordinary woman. With me
clinging to the bits of the leaders, and a man each holding the
wheelers, as they pawed the ground and surged about in their creaking
harness, they were anything but gentle; but Miss Jean proudly took her
seat; Tiburcio fingered the reins in placid contentment; there was a
parting volley of admonitions from brother and sister—the latter was
telling us where we would find our white shirts—when Uncle Lance
signaled to us; and we sprang away from the team. The ambulance gave a
lurch, forward, as the mules started on a run, but Tiburcio dexterously
threw them on to a heavy bed of sand, poured the whip into them as they
labored through it; they crossed the sand bed, Glenn Gallup and
Theodore Quayle, riding, at their heads, pointed the team into the
road, and they were off.

The rest of us busied ourselves getting up saddle horses and dressing
for the occasion. In the latter we had no little trouble, for dress
occasions like this were rare with us. Miss Jean had been thoughtful
enough to lay our clothes out, but there was a busy borrowing of
collars and collar buttons, and a blacking of boots which made the
sweat stand out on our foreheads in beads. After we were dressed and
ready to start, Uncle Lance could not be induced to depart from his
usual custom, and wear his trousers outside his boots. Then we had to
pull the boots off and polish them clear up to the ears in order to
make him presentable. But we were in no particular hurry about
starting, as we expected to out across the country and would overtake
the ambulance at the mouth of the Arroyo Seco in time for the noonday
lunch. There were six in our party, consisting of Dan Happersett, Aaron
Scales, John Cotton, June Deweese, Uncle Lance, and myself. With the
exception of Deweese, who was nearly twenty-five years old, the
remainder of the boys on the ranch were young fellows, several of whom
besides myself had not yet attained their majority. On ranch work, in
the absence of our employer, June was recognized as the _segundo_ of
Los Palomas, owing to his age and his long employment on the ranch. He
was a trustworthy man, and we younger lads entertained no envy towards
him.

It was about nine o’clock when we mounted our horses and started. We
jollied along in a party, or separated into pairs in cross-country
riding, covering about seven miles an hour. “I remember,” said Uncle
Lance, as we were riding in a group, “the first time I was ever at
Shepherd’s Ferry. We had been down the river on a cow hunt for about
three weeks and had run out of bacon. We had been eating beef, and
venison, and antelope for a week until it didn’t taste right any
longer, so I sent the outfit on ahead and rode down to the store in the
hope of getting a piece of bacon. Shepherd had just established the
place at the time, and when I asked him if he had any bacon, he said he
had, ‘But is it good?’ I inquired, and before he could reply an
eight-year-old boy of his stepped between us, and throwing back his tow
head, looked up into my face and said: ‘Mister, it’s a little the best
I ever tasted.’”

“Now, June,” said Uncle Lance, as we rode along, “I want you to let
Henry Annear’s wife strictly alone to-night. You know what a stink it
raised all along the river, just because you danced with her once, last
San Jacinto day. Of course, Henry made a fool of himself by trying to
borrow a six-shooter and otherwise getting on the prod. And I’ll admit
that it don’t take the best of eyesight to see that his wife to-day
thinks more of your old boot than she does of Annear’s wedding suit,
yet her husband will be the last man to know it. No man can figure to a
certainty on a woman. Three guesses is not enough, for she will and she
won’t, and she’ll straddle the question or take the fence, and when you
put a copper on her to win, she loses. God made them just that way, and
I don’t want to criticise His handiwork. But if my name is Lance
Lovelace, and I’m sixty-odd years old, and this a chestnut horse that
I’m riding, then Henry Annear’s wife is an unhappy woman. But that
fact, son, don’t give you any license to stir up trouble between man
and wife. Now, remember, I’ve warned you not to dance, speak to, or
even notice her on this occasion. The chances are that that locoed fool
will come heeled this time, and if you give him any excuse, he may burn
a little powder.”

June promised to keep on his good behavior, saying: “That’s just what
I’ve made up my mind to do. But look’ee here: Suppose he goes on the
war path, you can’t expect me to show the white feather, nor let him
run any sandys over me. I loved his wife once and am not ashamed of it,
and he knows it. And much as I want to obey you, Uncle Lance, if he
attempts to stand up a bluff on me, just as sure as hell’s hot there’ll
be a strange face or two in heaven.”

I was a new man on the ranch and unacquainted with the facts, so
shortly afterwards I managed to drop to the rear with Dan Happersett,
and got the particulars. It seems that June and Mrs. Annear had not
only been sweethearts, but that they had been engaged, and that the
engagement had been broken within a month of the day set for their
wedding, and that she had married Annear on a three weeks’
acquaintance. Little wonder Uncle Lance took occasion to read the riot
act to his _segundo_ in the interests of peace. This was all news to
me, but secretly I wished June courage and a good aim if it ever came
to a show-down between them.

We reached the Arroyo Seco by high noon, and found the ambulance in
camp and the coffee pot boiling. Under the direction of Miss Jean,
Tiburcio had removed the seats from the conveyance, so as to afford
seating capacity for over half our number. The lunch was spread under
an old live-oak on the bank of the Nueces, making a cosy camp. Miss
Jean had the happy knack of a good hostess, our twenty-mile ride had
whetted our appetites, and we did ample justice to her tempting spread.
After luncheon was over and while the team was being harnessed in, I
noticed Miss Jean enticing Deweese off on one side, where the two held
a whispered conversation, seated on an old fallen tree. As they
returned, June was promising something which she had asked of him. And
if there was ever a woman lived who could exact a promise that would be
respected, Jean Lovelace was that woman; for she was like an elder
sister to us all.

In starting, the ambulance took the lead as before, and near the middle
of the afternoon we reached the ferry. The merry-makers were assembling
from every quarter, and on our arrival possibly a hundred had come,
which number was doubled by the time the festivities began. We turned
our saddle and work stock into a small pasture, and gave ourselves over
to the fast-gathering crowd. I was delighted to see that Miss Jean and
Uncle Lance were accorded a warm welcome by every one, for I was
somewhat of a stray on this new range. But when it became known that I
was a recent addition to Las Palomas, the welcome was extended to me,
which I duly appreciated.

The store and hostelry did a rushing business during the evening hours,
for the dance did not begin until seven. A Mexican orchestra,
consisting of a violin, an Italian harp, and two guitars, had come up
from Oakville to furnish the music for the occasion. Just before the
dance commenced, I noticed Uncle Lance greet a late arrival, and on my
inquiring of June who he might be, I learned that the man was Captain
Frank Byler from Lagarto, the drover Uncle Lance had been teasing Miss
Jean about in the morning, and a man, as I learned later, who drove
herds of horses north on the trail during the summer and during the
winter drove mules and horses to Louisiana, for sale among the
planters. Captain Byler was a good-looking, middle-aged fellow, and I
made up my mind at once that he was due to rank as the lion of the
evening among the ladies.

It is useless to describe this night of innocent revelry. It was a
rustic community, and the people assembled were, with few exceptions,
purely pastoral. There may have been earnest vows spoken under those
spreading oaks—who knows? But if there were, the retentive ear which
listened, and the cautious tongue which spake the vows, had no
intention of having their confidences profaned on this page. Yet it was
a night long to be remembered. Timid lovers sat apart, oblivious to the
gaze of the merry revelers. Matrons and maidens vied with each other in
affability to the sterner sex. I had a most enjoyable time.

I spoke Spanish well, and made it a point to cultivate the acquaintance
of the leader of the orchestra. On his learning that I also played the
violin, he promptly invited me to play a certain new waltz which he was
desirous of learning. But I had no sooner taken the violin in my hand
than the lazy rascal lighted a cigarette and strolled away, absenting
himself for nearly an hour. But I was familiar with the simple dance
music of the country, and played everything that was called for. My
talent was quite a revelation to the boys of our ranch, and especially
to the owner and mistress of Las Palomas. The latter had me play
several old Colorado River favorites of hers, and I noticed that when
she had the dashing Captain Byler for her partner, my waltzes seemed
never long enough to suit her.

After I had been relieved, Miss Jean introduced me to a number of nice
girls, and for the remainder of the evening I had no lack of partners.
But there was one girl there whom I had not been introduced to, who
always avoided my glance when I looked at her, but who, when we were in
the same set and I squeezed her hand, had blushed just too lovely. When
that dance was over, I went to Miss Jean for an introduction, but she
did not know her, so I appealed to Uncle Lance, for I knew he could
give the birth date of every girl present. We took a stroll through the
crowd, and when I described her by her big eyes, he said in a voice so
loud that I felt sure she must hear: “Why, certainly, I know her.
That’s Esther McLeod. I’ve trotted her on my knee a hundred times.
She’s the youngest girl of old man Donald McLeod who used to ranch over
on the mouth of the San Miguel, north on the Frio. Yes, I’ll give you
an interslaption.” Then in a subdued tone: “And if you can drop your
rope on her, son, tie her good and fast, for she’s good stock.”

I was made acquainted as his latest adopted son, and inferred the old
ranchero’s approbation by many a poke in the ribs from him in the
intervals between dances; for Esther and I danced every dance together
until dawn. No one could charge me with neglect or inattention, for I
close-herded her like a hired hand. She mellowed nicely towards me
after the ice was broken, and with the limited time at my disposal, I
made hay. When the dance broke up with the first signs of day, I
saddled her horse and assisted her to mount, when I received the cutest
little invitation, ‘if ever I happened over on the San Miguel, to try
and call.’ Instead of beating about the bush, I assured her bluntly
that if she ever saw me on Miguel Creek, it would be intentional; for I
should have made the ride purely to see her. She blushed again in a way
which sent a thrill through me. But on the Nueces in ’75, if a fellow
took a fancy to a girl there was no harm in showing it or telling her
so.

I had been so absorbed during the latter part of the night that I had
paid little attention to the rest of the Las Palomas outfit, though I
occasionally caught sight of Miss Jean and the drover, generally
dancing, sometimes promenading, and once had a glimpse of them
tête-à-tête on a rustic settee in a secluded corner. Our employer
seldom danced, but kept his eye on June Deweese in the interests of
peace, for Annear and his wife were both present. Once while Esther and
I were missing a dance over some light refreshment, I had occasion to
watch June as he and Annear danced in the same set. I thought the
latter acted rather surly, though Deweese was the acme of geniality,
and was apparently having the time of his life as he tripped through
the mazes of the dance. Had I not known of the deadly enmity existing
between them, I could never have suspected anything but friendship, he
was acting the part so perfectly. But then I knew he had given his
plighted word to the master and mistress, and nothing but an insult or
indignity could tempt him to break it.

On the return trip, we got the ambulance off before sunrise, expecting
to halt and breakfast again at the Arroyo Seco. Aaron Scales and Dan
Happersett acted as couriers to Miss Jean’s conveyance, while the rest
dallied behind, for there was quite a cavalcade of young folks going a
distance our way. This gave Uncle Lance a splendid chance to quiz the
girls in the party. I was riding with a Miss Wilson from Ramirena, who
had come up to make a visit at a near-by ranch and incidentally attend
the dance at Shepherd’s. I admit that I was a little too much absorbed
over another girl to be very entertaining, but Uncle Lance helped out
by joining us. “Nice morning overhead, Miss Wilson,” said he, on riding
up. “Say, I’ve waited just as long as I’m going to for that invitation
to your wedding which you promised me last summer. Now, I don’t know so
much about the young men down about Ramirena, but when I was a
youngster back on the Colorado, when a boy loved a girl he married her,
whether it was Friday or Monday, rain or shine. I’m getting tired of
being put off with promises. Why, actually, I haven’t been to a wedding
in three years. What are we coming to?”


[Illustration: WE GOT THE AMBULANCE OFF BEFORE SUNRISE]


On reaching the road where Miss Wilson and her party separated from us,
Uncle Lance returned to the charge: “Now, no matter how busy I am when
I get your invitation, I don’t care if the irons are in the fire and
the cattle in the corral, I’ll drown the fire and turn the cows out.
And if Las Palomas has a horse that’ll carry me, I’ll merely touch the
high places in coming. And when I get there I’m willing to do
anything,—give the bride away, say grace, or carve the turkey. And
what’s more, I never kissed a bride in my life that didn’t have good
luck. Tell your pa you saw me. Good-by, dear.”

On overtaking the ambulance in camp, our party included about twenty,
several of whom were young ladies; but Miss Jean insisted that every
one remain for breakfast, assuring them that she had abundance for all.
After the impromptu meal was disposed of, we bade our adieus and
separated to the four quarters. Before we had gone far, Uncle Lance
rode alongside of me and said: “Tom, why didn’t you tell me you was a
fiddler? God knows you’re lazy enough to be a good one, and you ought
to be good on a bee course. But what made me warm to you last night was
the way you built to Esther McLeod. Son, you set her cush about right.
If you can hold sight on a herd of beeves on a bad night like you did
her, you’ll be a foreman some day. And she’s not only good blood
herself, but she’s got cattle and land. Old man Donald, her father, was
killed in the Confederate army. He was an honest Scotchman who kept
Sunday and everything else he could lay his hands on. In all my travels
I never met a man who could offer a longer prayer or take a bigger
drink of whiskey. I remember the first time I ever saw him. He was
serving on the grand jury, and I was a witness in a cattle-stealing
case. He was a stranger to me, and we had just sat down at the same
table at a hotel for dinner. We were on the point of helping ourselves,
when the old Scot arose and struck the table a blow that made the
dishes rattle. ‘You heathens,’ said he, ‘will you partake of the bounty
of your Heavenly Father without returning thanks?’ We laid down our
knives and forks like boys caught in a watermelon patch, and the old
man asked a blessing. I’ve been at his house often. He was a good man,
but Secession caught him and he never came back. So, Quirk, you see, a
son-in-law will be a handy man in the family, and with the start you
made last night I hope for good results.” The other boys seemed to
enjoy my embarrassment, but I said nothing in reply, being a new man
with the outfit. We reached the ranch an hour before noon, two hours in
advance of the ambulance; and the sleeping we did until sunrise the
next morning required no lullaby.




CHAPTER III
LAS PALOMAS


There is something about those large ranches of southern Texas that
reminds one of the old feudal system. The pathetic attachment to the
soil of those born to certain Spanish land grants can only be compared
to the European immigrant when for the last time he looks on the land
of his birth before sailing. Of all this Las Palomas was typical. In
the course of time several such grants had been absorbed into its
baronial acres. But it had always been the policy of Uncle Lance never
to disturb the Mexican population; rather he encouraged them to remain
in his service. Thus had sprung up around Las Palomas ranch a little
Mexican community numbering about a dozen families, who lived in
_jacals_ close to the main ranch buildings. They were simple people,
and rendered their new master a feudal loyalty. There were also several
small _ranchites_ located on the land, where, under the Mexican régime,
there had been pretentious adobe buildings. A number of families still
resided at these deserted ranches, content in cultivating small fields
or looking after flocks of goats and a few head of cattle, paying no
rental save a service tenure to the new owner.

The customs of these Mexican people were simple and primitive. They
blindly accepted the religious teachings imposed with fire and sword by
the Spanish conquerors upon their ancestors. A padre visited them
yearly, christening the babes, marrying the youth, shriving the
penitent, and saying masses for the repose of the souls of the
departed. Their social customs were in many respects unique. For
instance, in courtship a young man was never allowed in the presence of
his inamorata, unless in company of others, or under the eye of a
chaperon. Proposals, even among the nearest of neighbors or most
intimate of friends, were always made in writing, usually by the father
of the young man to the parents of the girl, but in the absence of
such, by a godfather or _padrino_. Fifteen days was the term allowed
for a reply, and no matter how desirable the match might be, it was not
accounted good taste to answer before the last day. The owner of Las
Palomas was frequently called upon to act as _padrino_ for his people,
and so successful had he always been that the vaqueros on his ranch
preferred his services to those of their own fathers. There was
scarcely a vaquero at the home ranch but, in time past, had invoked his
good offices in this matter, and he had come to be looked on as their
patron saint.

The month of September was usually the beginning of the branding season
at Las Palomas. In conducting this work, Uncle Lance was the leader,
and with the white element already enumerated, there were twelve to
fifteen vaqueros included in the branding outfit. The dance at
Shepherd’s had delayed the beginning of active operations, and a large
calf crop, to say nothing of horse and mule colts, now demanded our
attention and promised several months’ work. The year before, Las
Palomas had branded over four thousand calves, and the range was now
dotted with the crop, awaiting the iron stamp of ownership.

The range was an open one at the time, compelling us to work far beyond
the limits of our employer’s land. Fortified with our own commissary,
and with six to eight horses apiece in our mount, we scoured the
country for a radius of fifty miles. When approaching another range, it
was our custom to send a courier in advance to inquire of the ranchero
when it would be convenient for him to give us a rodeo. A day would be
set, when our outfit and the vaqueros of that range rounded up all the
cattle watering at given points. Then we cut out the Las Palomas brand,
and held them under herd or started them for the home ranch, where the
calves were to be branded. In this manner we visited all the adjoining
ranches, taking over a month to make the circuit of the ranges.

In making the tour, the first range we worked was that of rancho Santa
Maria, south of our range and on the head of Tarancalous Creek. On
approaching the ranch, as was customary, we prepared to encamp and ask
for a rodeo. But in the choice of a vaquero to be dispatched on this
mission, a spirited rivalry sprang up. When Uncle Lance learned that
the rivalry amongst the vaqueros was meant to embarrass Enrique Lopez,
who was _oso_ to Anita, the pretty daughter of the corporal of Santa
Maria, his matchmaking instincts came to the fore. Calling Enrique to
one side, he made the vaquero confess that he had been playing for the
favor of the señorita at Santa Maria. Then he dispatched Enrique on the
mission, bidding him carry the choicest compliments of Las Palomas to
every Don and Doña of Santa Maria. And Enrique was quite capable of
adding a few embellishments to the old matchmaker’s extravagant
flatteries.

Enrique was in camp next morning, but at what hour of the night he had
returned is unknown. The rodeo had been granted for the following day;
there was a pressing invitation to Don Lance—unless he was willing to
offend—to spend the idle day as the guest of Don Mateo. Enrique
elaborated the invitation with a thousand adornments. But the owner of
Las Palomas had lived nearly forty years among the Spanish-American
people on the Nueces, and knew how to make allowances for the
exuberance of the Latin tongue. There was no telling to what extent
Enrique could have kept on delivering messages, but to his employer he
was avoiding the issue.

“But did you get to see Anita?” interrupted Uncle Lance. Yes, he had
seen her, but that was about all. Did not Don Lance know the customs
among the Castilians? There was her mother ever present, or if she must
absent herself, there was a bevy of _tias comadres_ surrounding her,
until the Doña Anita dare not even raise her eyes to meet his. “To
perdition with such customs, no?” The freedom of a cow camp is a
splendid opportunity to relieve one’s mind upon prevailing injustices.

“Don’t fret your cattle so early in the morning, son,” admonished the
wary matchmaker. “I’ve handled worse cases than this before. You
Mexicans are sticklers on customs, and we must deal with our neighbors
carefully. Before I show my hand in this, there’s just one thing I want
to know—is the girl willing? Whenever you can satisfy me on that point,
Enrique, just call on the old man. But before that I won’t stir a step.
You remember what a time I had over Tiburcio’s Juan—that’s so, you were
too young then. Well, June here remembers it. Why, the girl just cut up
shamefully. Called Juan an Indian peon, and bragged about her Castilian
family until you’d have supposed she was a princess of the blood royal.
Why, it took her parents and myself a whole day to bring the girl
around to take a sensible view of matters. On my soul, except that I
didn’t want to acknowledge defeat, I felt a dozen times like telling
her to go straight up. And when she did marry you, she was as happy as
a lark—wasn’t she, Juan? But I like to have the thing over with
in—well, say half an hour’s time. Then we can have refreshments, and
smoke, and discuss the prospects of the young couple.”

Uncle Lance’s question was hard to answer. Enrique had known the girl
for several years, had danced with her on many a feast day, and never
lost an opportunity to whisper the old, old story in her willing ear.
Others had done the like, but the dark-eyed señorita is an adept in the
art of coquetry, and there you are. But Enrique swore a great oath he
would know. Yes, he would. He would lay siege to her as he had never
done before. He would become _un oso grande_. Just wait until the
branding was over and the fiestas of the Christmas season were on, and
watch him dog her every step until he received her signal of surrender.
Witness, all the saints, this row of Enrique Lopez, that the Doña Anita
should have no peace of mind, no, not for one little minute, until she
had made a complete capitulation. Then Don Lauce, the _padrino_ of Las
Palomas, would at once write the letter which would command the hand of
the corporal’s daughter. Who could refuse such a request, and what was
a daughter of Santa Maria compared to a son of Las Palomas?

Tarancalous Creek ran almost due east, and rancho Santa Maria was
located near its source, depending more on its wells for water supply
than on the stream which only flowed for a few months during the year.
Where the watering facilities were so limited the rodeo was an easy
matter. A number of small round-ups at each established watering point,
a swift cutting out of everything bearing the Las Palomas brand, and we
moved on to the next rodeo, for we had an abundance of help at Santa
Maria. The work was finished by the middle of the afternoon. After
sending, under five or six men, our cut of several hundred cattle
westward on our course, our outfit rode into rancho Santa Maria proper
to pay our respects. Our wagon had provided an abundant dinner for our
assistants and ourselves; but it would have been, in Mexican etiquette,
extremely rude on our part not to visit the rancho and partake of a cup
of coffee and a cigarette, thanking the ranchero on parting for his
kindness in granting us the rodeo.

So when the last round-up was reached, Don Mateo and Uncle Lance turned
the work over to their corporals, and in advance rode up to Santa
Maria. The vaqueros of our ranch were anxious to visit the rancho, so
it devolved on the white element to take charge of the cut. Being a
stranger to Santa Maria, I was allowed to accompany our _segundo_, June
Deweese, on an introductory visit. On arriving at the rancho, the
vaqueros scattered among the _jacals_ of their _amigos_, while June and
myself were welcomed at the _casa primero_. There we found Uncle Lance
partaking of refreshment, and smoking a cigarette as though he had been
born a Señor Don of some ruling hacienda. June and I were seated at
another table, where we were served with coffee, wafers, and home-made
cigarettes. This was perfectly in order, but I could hardly control
myself over the extravagant Spanish our employer was using in
expressing the amity existing between Santa Maria and Las Palomas. In
ordinary conversation, such as cattle and ranch affairs, Uncle Lance
had a good command of Spanish; but on social and delicate topics some
of his efforts were ridiculous in the extreme. He was well aware of his
shortcomings, and frequently appealed to me to assist him. As a boy my
playmates had been Mexican children, so that I not only spoke Spanish
fluently but could also readily read and write it. So it was no
surprise to me that, before taking our departure, my employer should
command my services as an interpreter in driving an entering wedge. He
was particular to have me assure our host and hostess of his high
regard for them, and his hope that in the future even more friendly
relations might exist between the two ranches. Had Santa Maria no young
cavalier for the hand of some daughter of Las Palomas? Ah! there was
the true bond for future friendships. Well, well, if the soil of this
rancho was so impoverished, then the sons of Las Palomas must take the
bit in their teeth and come courting to Santa Maria. And let Doña
Gregoria look well to her daughters, for the young men of Las Palomas,
true to their race, were not only handsome fellows but ardent lovers,
and would be hard to refuse.

After taking our leave and catching up with the cattle, we pushed
westward for the Ganso, our next stream of water. This creek was a
tributary to the Nueces, and we worked down it several days, or until
we had nearly a thousand cattle and were within thirty miles of home.
Turning this cut over to June Deweese and a few vaqueros to take in to
the ranch and brand, the rest of us turned westward and struck the
Nueces at least fifty miles above Las Palomas. For the next few days
our dragnet took in both sides of the Nueces, and when, on reaching the
mouth of the Ganso, we were met by Deweese and the vaqueros we had
another bunch of nearly a thousand ready. Dan Happersett was dispatched
with the second bunch for branding, when we swung north to Mr. Booth’s
ranch on the Frio, where we rested a day. But there is little
recreation on a cow hunt, and we were soon under full headway again. By
the time we had worked down the Frio, opposite headquarters, we had too
large a herd to carry conveniently, and I was sent in home with them,
never rejoining the outfit until they reached Shepherd’s Ferry. This
was a disappointment to me, for I had hopes that when the outfit worked
the range around the mouth of San Miguel, I might find some excuse to
visit the McLeod ranch and see Esther. But after turning back up the
home river to within twenty miles of the ranch, we again turned
southward, covering the intervening ranches rapidly until we struck the
Tarancalous about twenty-five miles east of Santa Maria.

We had spent over thirty days in making this circle, gathering over
five thousand cattle, about one third of which were cows with calves by
their sides. On the remaining gap in the circle we lost two days in
waiting for rodeos, or gathering independently along the Tarancalous,
and, on nearing the Santa Maria range, we had nearly fifteen hundred
cattle. Our herd passed within plain view of the rancho, but we did not
turn aside, preferring to make a dry camp for the night, some five or
six miles further on our homeward course. But since we had used the
majority of our _remuda_ very hard that day, Uncle Lance dispatched
Enrique and myself, with our wagon and saddle horses, by way of Santa
Maria, to water our saddle stock and refill our kegs for camping
purposes. Of course, the compliments of our employer to the ranchero of
Santa Maria went with the _remuda_ and wagon.

I delivered the compliments and regrets to Don Mateo, and asked the
permission to water our saddle stock, which was readily granted. This
required some time, for we had about a hundred and twenty-five loose
horses with us, and the water had to be raised by rope and pulley from
the pommel of a saddle horse. After watering the team we refilled our
kegs, and the cook pulled out to overtake the herd, Enrique and I
staying to water the _remuda_. Enrique, who was riding the saddle
horse, while I emptied the buckets as they were hoisted to the surface,
was evidently killing time. By his dilatory tactics, I knew the young
rascal was delaying in the hope of getting a word with the Doña Anita.
But it was getting late, and at the rate we were hoisting darkness
would overtake us before we could reach the herd. So I ordered Enrique
to the bucket, while I took my own horse and furnished the hoisting
power. We were making some headway with the work, when a party of
women, among them the Doña Anita, came down to the well to fill vessels
for house use.

This may have been all chance—and then again it may not. But the
gallant Enrique now outdid himself, filling jar after jar and lifting
them to the shoulder of the bearer with the utmost zeal and amid a
profusion of compliments. I was annoyed at the interruption in our
work, but I could see that Enrique was now in the highest heaven of
delight. The Doña Anita’s mother was present, and made it her duty to
notice that only commonplace formalities passed between her daughter
and the ardent vaquero. After the jars were all filled, the bevy of
women started on their return; but Doña Anita managed to drop a few
feet to the rear of the procession, and, looking back, quietly took up
one corner of her mantilla, and with a little movement, apparently all
innocence, flashed a message back to the entranced Enrique. I was aware
of the flirtation, but before I had made more of it Enrique sprang down
from the abutment of the well, dragged me from my horse, and in an
ecstasy of joy, crouching behind the abutments, cried: Had I seen the
sign? Had I not noticed her token? Was my brain then so befuddled? Did
I not understand the ways of the señoritas among his people?—that they
always answered by a wave of the handkerchief, or the mantilla? Ave
Maria, Tomas! Such stupidity! Why, to be sure, they could talk all day
with their eyes.


[Illustration: FLASHED A MESSAGE BACK]


A setting sun finally ended his confidences, and the watering was soon
finished, for Enrique lowered the bucket in a gallop. On our reaching
the herd and while we were catching our night horses, Uncle Lance
strode out to the rope corral, with the inquiry, what had delayed us.
“Nothing particular,” I replied, and looked at Enrique, who shrugged
his shoulders and repeated my answer. “Now, look here, you young
liars,” said the old ranchero; “the wagon has been in camp over an
hour, and, admitting it did start before you, you had plenty of time to
water the saddle stock and overtake it before it could possibly reach
the herd. I can tell a lie myself, but a good one always has some
plausibility. You rascals were up to some mischief, I’ll warrant.”

I had caught out my night horse, and as I led him away to saddle up,
Uncle Lance, not content with my evasive answer, followed me. “Go to
Enrique,” I whispered; “he’ll just bubble over at a good chance to tell
you. Yes; it was the Doña Anita who caused the delay.” A smothered
chuckling shook the old man’s frame, as he sauntered over to where
Enrique was saddling. As the two led off the horse to picket in the
gathering dusk, the ranchero had his arm around the vaquero’s neck, and
I felt that the old matchmaker would soon be in possession of the
facts. A hilarious guffaw that reached me as I was picketing my horse
announced that the story was out, and as the two returned to the fire
Uncle Lance was slapping Enrique on the back at every step and calling
him a lucky dog. The news spread through the camp like wild-fire, even
to the vaqueros on night herd, who instantly began chanting an old love
song. While Enrique and I were eating our supper, our employer paced
backward and forward in meditation like a sentinel on picket, and when
we had finished our meal, he joined us around the fire, inquiring of
Enrique how soon the demand should be made for the corporal’s daughter,
and was assured that it could not be done too soon. “The padre only
came once a year,” he concluded, “and they must be ready.”

“Well, now, this is a pretty pickle,” said the old matchmaker, as he
pulled his gray mustaches; “there isn’t pen or paper in the outfit. And
then we’ll be busy branding on the home range for a month, and I can’t
spare a vaquero a day to carry a letter to Santa Maria. And besides, I
might not be at home when the reply came. I think I’ll just take the
bull by the horns; ride back in the morning and set these old
precedents at defiance, by arranging the match verbally. I can make the
talk that this country is Texas now, and that under the new regime
American customs are in order. That’s what I’ll do—and I’ll take Tom
Quirk with me for fear I bog down in my Spanish.”

But several vaqueros, who understood some English, advised Enrique of
what the old matchmaker proposed to do, when the vaquero threw his
hands in the air and began sputtering Spanish in terrified disapproval.
Did not Don Lance know that the marriage usages among his people were
their most cherished customs? “Oh, yes, son,” languidly replied Uncle
Lance. “I’m some strong on the cherish myself, but not when it
interferes with my plans. It strikes me that less than a month ago I
heard you condemning to perdition certain customs of your people. Now,
don’t get on too high a horse—just leave it to Tom and me. We may stay
a week, but when we come back we’ll bring your betrothal with us in our
vest pockets. There was never a Mexican born who can outhold me on
palaver; and we’ll eat every chicken on Santa Maria unless they
surrender.”

As soon as the herd had started for home the next morning, Uncle Lance
and I returned to Santa Maria. We were extended a cordial reception by
Don Mateo, and after the chronicle of happenings since the two
rancheros last met had been reviewed, the motive of our sudden return
was mentioned. By combining the vocabularies of my employer and myself,
we mentioned our errand as delicately as possible, pleading guilty and
craving every one’s pardon for our rudeness in verbally conducting the
negotiations. To our surprise,—for to Mexicans customs are as rooted as
Faith,—Don Mateo took no offense and summoned Doña Gregoria. I was
playing a close second to the diplomat of our side of the house, and
when his Spanish failed him and he had recourse to English, it is
needless to say I handled matters to the best of my ability. The
Spanish is a musical, passionate language and well suited to love
making, and though this was my first use of it for that purpose, within
half an hour we had won the ranchero and his wife to our side of the
question.

Then, at Don Mateo’s orders, the parents of the girl were summoned.
This involved some little delay, which permitted coffee being served,
and discussion, over the cigarettes, of the commonplace matters of the
country. There was beginning to be a slight demand for cattle to drive
to the far north on the trails, some thought it was the sign of a big
development, but neither of the rancheros put much confidence in the
movement, etc., etc. The corporal and his wife suddenly made their
appearance, dressed in their best, which accounted for the delay, and
all cattle conversation instantly ceased. Uncle Lance arose and greeted
the husky corporal and his timid wife with warm cordiality. I extended
my greetings to the Mexican foreman, whom I had met at the rodeo about
a month before. We then resumed our seats, but the corporal and his
wife remained standing, and with an elegant command of his native
tongue Don Mateo informed the couple of our mission. They looked at
each other in bewilderment. Tears came into the wife’s eyes. For a
moment I pitied her. Indeed, the pathetic was not lacking. But the
hearty corporal reminded his better half that her parents, in his
interests, had once been asked for her hand under similar
circumstances, and the tears disappeared. Tears are womanly; and I have
since seen them shed, under less provocation, by fairer-skinned women
than this simple, swarthy daughter of Mexico.

It was but natural that the parents of the girl should feign surprise
and reluctance if they did not feel it. The Doña Anita’s mother offered
several trivial objections. Her daughter had never taken her into her
confidence over any suitor. And did Anita really love Enrique Lopez of
Las Palomas? Even if she did, could he support her, being but a
vaquero? This brought Uncle Lance to the front. He had known Enrique
since the day of his birth. As a five-year-old, and naked as the day he
was born, had he not ridden a colt at branding time, twice around the
big corral without being thrown? At ten, had he not thrown himself
across a gateway and allowed a _caballada_ of over two hundred wild
range horses to jump over his prostrate body as they passed in a
headlong rush through the gate? Only the year before at branding, when
an infuriated bull had driven every vaquero out of the corrals, did not
Enrique mount his horse, and, after baiting the bull out into the open,
play with him like a kitten with a mouse? And when the bull, tiring,
attempted to make his escape, who but Enrique had lassoed the animal by
the fore feet, breaking his neck in the throw? The diplomat of Las
Palomas dejectedly admitted that the bull was a prize animal, but could
not deny that he himself had joined in the plaudits to the daring
vaquero. But if there were a possible doubt that the Doña Anita did not
love this son of Las Palomas, then Lance Lovelace himself would oppose
the union. This was an important matter. Would Don Mateo be so kind as
to summon the señorita?

The señorita came in response to the summons. She was a girl of
possibly seventeen summers, several inches taller than her mother,
possessing a beautiful complexion with large lustrous eyes. There was
something fawnlike in her timidity as she gazed at those about the
table. Doña Gregoria broke the news, informing her that the ranchero of
Las Palomas had asked her hand in marriage for Enrique, one of his
vaqueros. Did she love the man and was she willing to marry him? For
reply the girl hid her face in the mantilla of her mother. With
commendable tact Doña Gregoria led the mother and daughter into another
room, from which the two elder women soon returned with a favorable
reply. Uncle Lance arose and assured the corporal and his wife that
their daughter would receive his special care and protection; that as
long as water ran and grass grew, Las Palomas would care for her own
children.

We accepted an invitation to remain for dinner, as several hours had
elapsed since our arrival. In company with the corporal, I attended to
our horses, leaving the two rancheros absorbed in a discussion of Texas
fever, rumors of which were then attracting widespread attention in the
north along the cattle trails. After dinner we took our leave of host
and hostess, promising to send Enrique to Santa Maria at the earliest
opportunity.

It was a long ride across country to Las Palomas, but striking a free
gait, unencumbered as we were, we covered the country rapidly. I had
somewhat doubted the old matchmaker’s sincerity in making this match,
but as we rode along he told me of his own marriage to Mary Bryan, and
the one happy year of life which it brought him, mellowing into a mood
of seriousness which dispelled all doubts. It was almost sunset when we
sighted in the distance the ranch buildings at Las Palomas, and half an
hour later as we galloped up to assist the herd which was nearing the
corrals, the old man stood in his stirrups and, waving his hat, shouted
to his outfit: “Hurrah for Enrique and the Doña Anita!” And as the last
of the cattle entered the corral, a rain of lassos settled over the
smiling rascal and his horse, and we led him in triumph to the house
for Miss Jean’s blessing.




CHAPTER IV
CHRISTMAS


The branding on the home range was an easy matter. The cattle were
compelled to water from the Nueces, so that their range was never over
five or six miles from the river. There was no occasion even to take
out the wagon, though we made a one-night camp at the mouth of the
Ganso, and another about midway between the home ranch and Shepherd’s
Ferry, pack mules serving instead of the wagon. On the home range, in
gathering to brand, we never disturbed the mixed cattle, cutting out
only the cows and calves. On the round-up below the Ganso, we had over
three thousand cattle in one rodeo, finding less than five hundred
calves belonging to Las Palomas, the bulk on this particular occasion
being steer cattle. There had been little demand for steers for several
seasons and they had accumulated until many of them were fine beeves,
five and six years old.

When the branding proper was concluded, our tally showed nearly
fifty-one hundred calves branded that season, indicating about twenty
thousand cattle in the Las Palomas brand. After a week’s rest, with
fresh horses, we re-rode the home range in squads of two, and branded
any calves we found with a running iron. This added nearly a hundred
more to our original number. On an open range like ours, it was not
expected that everything would be branded; but on quitting, it is safe
to say we had missed less than one per cent of our calf crop.

The cattle finished, we turned our attention to the branding of the
horse stock. The Christmas season was approaching, and we wanted to get
the work well in hand for the usual holiday festivities. There were
some fifty _manadas_ of mares belonging to Las Palomas, about one
fourth of which were used for the rearing of mules, the others growing
our saddle horses for ranch use. These bands numbered twenty to
twenty-five brood mares each, and ranged mostly within twenty miles of
the home ranch. They were never disturbed except to brand the colts,
market surplus stock, or cut out the mature geldings to be broken for
saddle use. Each _manada_ had its own range, never trespassing on
others, but when they were brought together in the corral there was
many a battle royal among the stallions.

I was anxious to get the work over in good season, for I intended to
ask for a two weeks’ leave of absence. My parents lived near Cibollo
Ford on the San Antonio River, and I made it a rule to spend Christmas
with my own people. This year, in particular, I had a double motive in
going home; for the mouth of San Miguel and the McLeod ranch lay
directly on my route. I had figured matters down to a fraction; I would
have a good excuse for staying one night going and another returning.
And it would be my fault if I did not reach the ranch at an hour when
an invitation to remain over night would be simply imperative under the
canons of Texas hospitality. I had done enough hard work since the
dance at Shepherd’s to drive every thought of Esther McLeod out of my
mind if that were possible, but as the time drew nearer her invitation
to call was ever uppermost in my thoughts.

So when the last of the horse stock was branded and the work was
drawing to a close, as we sat around the fireplace one night and the
question came up where each of us expected to spend Christmas, I
broached my plan. The master and mistress were expected at the Booth
ranch on the Frio. Nearly all the boys, who had homes within two or
three days’ ride, hoped to improve the chance to make a short visit to
their people. When, among the others, I also made my application for
leave of absence, Uncle Lance turned in his chair with apparent
surprise. “What’s that? You want to go home? Well, now, that’s a new
one on me. Why, Tom, I never knew you had any folks; I got the idea,
somehow, that you was won on a horse race. Here I had everything
figured out to send you down to Santa Maria with Enrique. But I reckon
with the ice broken, he’ll have to swim out or drown. Where do your
folks live?” I explained that they lived on the San Antonio River,
northeast about one hundred and fifty miles. At this I saw my
employer’s face brighten. “Yes, yes, I see,” said he musingly; “that
will carry you past the widow McLeod’s. You can go, son, and good luck
to you.”

I timed my departure from Las Palomas, allowing three days for the
trip, so as to reach home on Christmas eve. By making a slight
deviation, there was a country store which I could pass on the last
day, where I expected to buy some presents for my mother and sisters.
But I was in a pickle as to what to give Esther, and on consulting Miss
Jean, I found that motherly elder sister had everything thought out in
advance. There was an old Mexican woman, a pure Aztec Indian, at a
ranchita belonging to Las Palomas, who was an expert in Mexican drawn
work. The mistress of the home ranch had been a good patron of this old
woman, and the next morning we drove over to the ranchita, where I
secured half a dozen ladies’ handkerchiefs, inexpensive but very rare.

I owned a private horse, which had run idle all summer, and naturally
expected to ride him on this trip. But Uncle Lance evidently wanted me
to make a good impression on the widow McLeod, and brushed my plans
aside, by asking me as a favor to ride a certain black horse belonging
to his private string. “Quirk,” said he, the evening before my
departure, “I wish you would ride Wolf, that black six-year-old in my
mount. When that rascal of an Enrique saddle-broke him for me, he
always mounted him with a free head and on the move, and now when I use
him he’s always on the fidget. So you just ride him over to the San
Antonio and back, and see if you can’t cure him of that restlessness.
It may be my years, but I just despise a horse that’s always dancing a
jig when I want to mount him.”

Glenn Gallup’s people lived in Victoria County, about as far from Las
Palomas as mine, and the next morning we set out down the river. Our
course together only led a short distance, but we jogged along until
noon, when we rested an hour and parted, Glenn going on down the river
for Oakville, while I turned almost due north across country for the
mouth of San Miguel. The black carried me that afternoon as though the
saddle was empty. I was constrained to hold him in, in view of the long
journey before us, so as not to reach the McLeod ranch too early.
Whenever we struck cattle on our course, I rode through them to pass
away the time, and just about sunset I cantered up to the McLeod ranch
with a dash. I did not know a soul on the place, but put on a bold
front and asked for Miss Esther. On catching sight of me, she gave a
little start, blushed modestly, and greeted me cordially.

Texas hospitality of an early day is too well known to need comment; I
was at once introduced to the McLeod household. It was rather a
pretentious ranch, somewhat dilapidated in appearance—appearances are
as deceitful on a cattle ranch as in the cut of a man’s coat. Tony
Hunter, a son-in-law of the widow, was foreman on the ranch, and during
the course of the evening in the discussion of cattle matters, I
innocently drew out the fact that their branded calf crop of that
season amounted to nearly three thousand calves. When a similar
question was asked me, I reluctantly admitted that the Las Palomas crop
was quite a disappointment this year, only branding sixty-five hundred
calves, but that our mule and horse colts ran nearly a thousand head
without equals in the Nueces valley.

I knew there was no one there who could dispute my figures, though Mrs.
McLeod expressed surprise at them. “Ye dinna say,” said my hostess,
looking directly at me over her spectacles, “that Las Palomas branded
that mony calves thi’ year? Why, durin’ ma gudeman’s life we alway
branded mair calves than did Mr. Lovelace. But then my husband would
join the army, and I had tae depend on greasers tae do ma work, and oor
kye grew up mavericks.” I said nothing in reply, knowing it to be quite
natural for a woman or inexperienced person to feel always the prey of
the fortunate and far-seeing.

The next morning before leaving, I managed to have a nice private talk
with Miss Esther, and thought I read my title clear, when she surprised
me with the information that her mother contemplated sending her off to
San Antonio to a private school for young ladies. Her two elder sisters
had married against her mother’s wishes, it seemed, and Mrs. McLeod was
determined to give her youngest daughter an education and fit her for
something better than being the wife of a common cow hand. This was the
inference from the conversation which passed between us at the gate.
But when Esther thanked me for the Christmas remembrance I had brought
her, I felt that I would take a chance on her, win or lose. Assuring
her that I would make it a point to call on my return, I gave the black
a free rein and galloped out of sight.

I reached home late on Christmas eve. My two elder brothers, who also
followed cattle work, had arrived the day before, and the Quirk family
were once more united, for the first time in two years. Within an hour
after my arrival, I learned from my brothers that there was to be a
dance that night at a settlement about fifteen miles up the river. They
were going, and it required no urging on their part to insure the
presence of Quirk’s three boys. Supper over, a fresh horse was
furnished me, and we set out for the dance, covering the distance in
less than two hours. I knew nearly every one in the settlement, and got
a cordial welcome. I played the fiddle, danced with my former
sweethearts, and, ere the sun rose in the morning, rode home in time
for breakfast. During that night’s revelry, I contrasted my former girl
friends on the San Antonio with another maiden, a slip of the old
Scotch stock, transplanted and nurtured in the sunshine and soil of the
San Miguel. The comparison stood all tests applied, and in my secret
heart I knew who held the whip hand over the passions within me.

As I expected to return to Las Palomas for the New Year, my time was
limited to a four days’ visit at home. But a great deal can be said in
four days; and at the end I was ready to saddle my black, bid my
adieus, and ride for the southwest. During my visit I was careful not
to betray that I had even a passing thought of a sweetheart, and what
parents would suspect that a rollicking, carefree young fellow of
twenty could have any serious intentions toward a girl? With brothers
too indifferent, and sisters too young, the secret was my own, though
Wolf, my mount, as he put mile after mile behind us, seemed conscious
that his mission to reach the San Miguel without loss of time was of
more than ordinary moment. And a better horse never carried knight in
the days of chivalry.

On reaching the McLeod ranch during the afternoon of the second day, I
found Esther expectant; but the welcome of her mother was of a frigid
order. Having a Scotch mother myself, I knew something of arbitrary
natures, and met Mrs. McLeod’s coolness with a fund of talk and
stories; yet I could see all too plainly that she was determinedly on
the defensive. I had my favorite fiddle with me which I was taking back
to Las Palomas, and during the evening I played all the old Scotch
ballads I knew and love songs of the highlands, hoping to soften her
from the decided stand she had taken against me and my intentions. But
her heritage of obstinacy was large, and her opposition strong, as
several well-directed thrusts which reached me in vulnerable places
made me aware, but I smiled as if they were flattering compliments.
Several times I mentally framed replies only to smother them, for I was
the stranger within her gates, and if she saw fit to offend a guest she
was still within her rights.

But the next morning as I tarried beyond the reasonable hour for my
departure, her wrath broke out in a torrent. “If ye dinna ken the way
hame, Mr. Quirk, I’ll show it ye,” she said as she joined Esther and me
at the hitch-rack, where we had been loitering for an hour. “And I
dinna care muckle whaur ye gang, so ye get oot o’ ma sight, and stay
oot o’ it. I thocht ye waur a ceevil stranger when ye bided wi’ us last
week, but noo I ken ye are something mair, ridin’ your fine horses an’
makin’ presents tae ma lassie. That’s a’ the guid that comes o’ lettin’
her rin tae every dance at Shepherd’s Ferry. Gang ben the house tae
your wark, ye jade, an’ let me attend tae this fine gentleman. Noo,
sir, gin ye ony business onywhaur else, ye ’d aye better be ridin’ tae
it, for ye are no wanted here, ye ken.”

“Why, Mrs. McLeod,” I broke in politely. “You hardly know anything
about me.”

“No, an’ I dinna wish it. You are frae Las Palomas, an’ that’s aye
enough for me. I ken auld Lance Lovelace, an’ those that bide wi’ him.
Sma’ wonder he brands sae mony calves and sells mair kye than a’ the
ither ranchmen in the country. Ay, man, I ken him well.”

I saw that I had a tartar to deal with, but if I could switch her
invective on some one absent, it would assist me in controlling myself.
So I said to the old lady: “Why, I’ve known Mr. Lovelace now almost a
year, and over on the Nueces he is well liked, and considered a cowman
whose word is as good as gold. What have you got against him?”

“Ower much, ma young freend. I kent him afore ye were born. I’m sorry
tae say that while ma gudeman was alive, he was a frequent visitor at
oor place. But we dinna see him ony mair. He aye keeps awa’ frae here,
and camps wi’ his wagons when he’s ower on the San Miguel to gather
cattle. He was no content merely wi’ what kye drifted doon on the
Nueces, but warked a big outfit the year around, e’en comin’ ower on
the Frio an’ San Miguel maverick huntin’. That’s why he brands twice
the calves that onybody else does, and owns a forty-mile front o’ land
on both sides o’ the river. Ye see, I ken him weel.”

“Well, isn’t that the way most cowmen got their start?” I innocently
inquired, well knowing it was. “And do you blame him for running his
brand on the unowned cattle that roamed the range? I expect if Mr.
Lovelace was my father instead of my employer, you wouldn’t be talking
in the same key,” and with that I led my horse out to mount.

“Ye think a great deal o’ yersel’, because ye’re frae Las Palomas.
Aweel, no vaquero of auld Lance Lovelace can come sparkin’ wi’ ma lass.
I’ve heard o’ auld Lovelace’s matchmaking. I’m told he mak’s matches
and then laughs at the silly gowks. I’ve twa worthless sons-in-law the
noo, are here an’ anither a stage-driver. Aye, they’re capital husbands
for Donald McLeod’s lassies, are they no? Afore I let Esther marry the
first scamp that comes simperin’ aroond here, I’ll put her in a
convent, an’ mak’ a nun o’ the bairn. I gave the ither lassies their
way, an’ look at the reward. I tell ye I’m goin’ to bar the door on the
last one, an’ the man that marries her will be worthy o’ her. He winna
be a vaquero frae Las Palomas either!”

I had mounted my horse to start, well knowing it was useless to argue
with an angry woman. Esther had obediently retreated to the safety of
the house, aware that her mother had a tongue and evidently willing to
be spared its invective in my presence. My horse was fidgeting about,
impatient to be off, but I gave him the rowel and rode up to the gate,
determined, if possible, to pour oil on the troubled waters. “Mrs.
McLeod,” said I, in humble tones, “possibly you take the correct view
of this matter. Miss Esther and I have only been acquainted a few
months, and will soon forget each other. Please take me in the house
and let me tell her good-by.”

“No, sir. Dinna set foot inside o’ this gate. I hope ye know ye’re no
wanted here. There’s your road, the one leadin’ south, an’ ye’d better
be goin’, I’m thinkin’.”

I held in the black and rode off in a walk. This was the first clean
knock-out I had ever met. Heretofore I had been egotistical enough to
hold my head rather high, but this morning it drooped. Wolf seemed to
notice it, and after the first mile dropped into an easy volunteer
walk. I never noticed the passing of time until we reached the river,
and the black stopped to drink. Here I unsaddled for several hours;
then went on again in no cheerful mood. Before I came within sight of
Las Palomas near evening, my horse turned his head and nickered, and in
a few minutes Uncle Lance and June Deweese galloped up and overtook me.
I had figured out several very plausible versions of my adventure, but
this sudden meeting threw me off my guard—and Lance Lovelace was a hard
man to tell an undetected, white-faced lie. I put on a bold front, but
his salutation penetrated it at a glance.

“What’s the matter, Tom; any of your folks dead?”

“No.”

“Sick?”

“No.”

“Girl gone back on you?”

“I don’t think.”

“It’s the old woman, then?”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know that old dame. I used to go over there occasionally
when old man Donald was living, but the old lady—excuse me! I ought to
have posted you, Tom, but I don’t suppose it would have done any good.
Brought your fiddle with you, I see. That’s good. I expect the old lady
read my title clear to you.”

My brain must have been under a haze, for I repeated every charge she
had made against him, not even sparing the accusation that he had
remained out of the army and added to his brand by mavericking cattle.

“Did she say that?” inquired Uncle Lance, laughing. “Why, the old
hellion! She must have been feeling in fine fettle!”




CHAPTER V
A PIGEON HUNT


The new year dawned on Las Palomas rich in promise of future content.
Uncle Lance and I had had a long talk the evening before, and under the
reasoning of the old optimist the gloom gradually lifted from my
spirits. I was glad I had been so brutally blunt that evening,
regarding what Mrs. McLeod had said about him; for it had a tendency to
increase the rancher’s aggressiveness in my behalf. “Hell, Tom,” said
the old man, as we walked from the corrals to the house, “don’t let a
little thing like this disturb you. Of course she’ll four-flush and
bluff you if she can, but you don’t want to pay any more attention to
the old lady than if she was some _pelado_. To be sure, it would be
better to have her consent, but then”—

Glenn Gallup also arrived at the ranch on New Year’s eve. He brought
the report that wild pigeons were again roosting at the big bend of the
river. It was a well-known pigeon roost, but the birds went to other
winter feeding grounds, except during years when there was a plentiful
sweet mast. This bend was about midway between the ranch and
Shepherd’s, contained about two thousand acres, and was heavily
timbered with ash, pecan, and hackberry. The feeding grounds lay
distant, extending from the encinal ridges on the Las Palomas lands to
live-oak groves a hundred miles to the southward. But however far the
pigeons might go for food, they always returned to the roosting place
at night.

“That means pigeon pie,” said Uncle Lance, on receiving Glenn’s report.
“Everybody and the cook can go. We only have a sweet mast about every
three or four years in the encinal, but it always brings the wild
pigeons. We’ll take a couple of pack mules and the little and the big
pot and the two biggest Dutch ovens on the ranch. Oh, you got to
parboil a pigeon if you want a tender pie. Next to a fish fry, a good
pigeon pie makes the finest eating going. I’ve made many a one, and I
give notice right now that the making of the pie falls to me or I won’t
play. And another thing, not a bird shall be killed more than we can
use. Of course we’ll bring home a mess, and a few apiece for the
Mexicans.”

We had got up our horses during the forenoon, and as soon as dinner was
over the white contingent saddled up and started for the roost.
Tiburcio and Enrique accompanied us, and, riding leisurely, we reached
the bend several hours before the return of the birds. The roost had
been in use but a short time, but as we scouted through the timber
there was abundant evidence of an immense flight of pigeons. The ground
was literally covered with feathers; broken limbs hung from nearly
every tree, while in one instance a forked hackberry had split from the
weight of the birds.

We made camp on the outskirts of the timber, and at early dusk great
flocks of pigeons began to arrive at their roosting place. We only had
four shotguns, and, dividing into pairs, we entered the roost shortly
after dark. Glenn Gallup fell to me as my pardner. I carried the gunny
sack for the birds, not caring for a gun in such unfair shooting. The
flights continued to arrive for fully an hour after we entered the
roost, and in half a dozen shots we bagged over fifty birds.
Remembering the admonition of Uncle Lance, Gallup refused to kill more,
and we sat down and listened to the rumbling noises of the grove. There
was a constant chattering of the pigeons, and as they settled in great
flights in the trees overhead, whipping the branches with their wings
in search of footing, they frequently fell to the ground at our feet.

Gallup and I returned to camp early. Before we had skinned our kill the
others had all come in, disgusted with the ease with which they had
filled their bags. We soon had two pots filled and on the fire
parboiling, while Tiburcio lined two ovens with pastry, all ready for
the baking. In a short time two horsemen, attracted by our fire,
crossed the river below our camp and rode up.

“Hello, Uncle Lance,” lustily shouted one of them, as he dismounted.
“It’s you, is it, that’s shooting my pigeons? All right, sir, I’ll stay
all night and help you eat them. I had figured on riding back to the
Frio to-night, but I’ve changed my mind. Got any horse hobbles here?”
The two men, George Nathan and Hugh Trotter, were accommodated with
hobbles, and after an exchange of commonplace news of the country, we
settled down to story-telling. Trotter was a convivial acquaintance of
Aaron Scales, quite a vagabond and consequently a story-teller. After
Trotter had narrated a late dream, Scales unlimbered and told one of
his own.

“I remember a dream I had several years ago, and the only way I can
account for it was, I had been drinking more or less during the day. I
dreamt I was making a long ride across a dreary desert, and towards
night it threatened a bad storm. I began to look around for some
shelter. I could just see the tops of a clump of trees beyond a hill,
and rode hard to get to them, thinking that there might be a house
amongst them. How I did ride! But I certainly must have had a poor
horse, for I never seemed to get any nearer that timber. I rode and
rode, but all this time, hours and hours it seemed, and the storm
gathering and scattering raindrops falling, the timber seemed scarcely
any nearer.

“At last I managed to reach the crest of the hill. Well, sir, there
wasn’t a tree in sight, only, under the brow of the hill, a deserted
adobe _jacal_, and I rode for that, picketed my horse and went in. The
_jacal_ had a thatched roof with several large holes in it, and in the
fireplace burned a roaring fire. That was some strange, but I didn’t
mind it and I was warming my hands before the fire and congratulating
myself on my good luck, when a large black cat sprang from the outside
into an open window, and said: ‘Pardner, it looks like a bad night
outside.’

“I eyed him a little suspiciously; but, for all that, if he hadn’t
spoken, I wouldn’t have thought anything about it, for I like cats. He
walked backward and forward on the window sill, his spine and tail
nicely arched, and rubbed himself on either window jamb. I watched him
some little time, and finally concluded to make friends with him. Going
over to the window, I put out my hand to stroke his glossy back, when a
gust of rain came through the window and the cat vanished into the
darkness.

“I went back to the fire, pitying the cat out there in the night’s
storm, and was really sorry I had disturbed him. I didn’t give the
matter overmuch attention but sat before the fire, wondering who could
have built it and listening to the rain outside, when all of a sudden
Mr. Cat walked between my legs, rubbing himself against my boots,
purring and singing. Once or twice I thought of stroking his fur, but
checked myself on remembering he had spoken to me on the window sill.
He would walk over and rub himself against the jambs of the fireplace,
and then come back and rub himself against my boots friendly like. I
saw him just as clear as I see those pots on the fire or these saddles
lying around here. I was noting every move of his as he meandered
around, when presently he cocked up an eye at me and remarked: ‘Old
sport, this is a fine fire we have here.’

“I was beginning to feel a little creepy, for I’d seen mad dogs and
skunks, and they say a cat gets locoed likewise, and the cuss was
talking so cleverly that I began to lose my regard for him. After a
little while I concluded to pet him, for he didn’t seem a bit afraid;
but as I put out my hand to catch him, he nimbly hopped into the
roaring fire and vanished. Then I did feel foolish. I had a good
six-shooter, and made up my mind if he showed up again I’d plug him one
for luck. I was growing sleepy, and it was getting late, so I concluded
to spread down my saddle blankets and slicker before the fire and go to
sleep. While I was making down my bed, I happened to look towards the
fire, when there was my black cat, with not even a hair singed. I drew
my gun quietly and cracked away at him, when he let out the funniest
little laugh, saying: ‘You’ve been drinking, Aaron; you’re nervous; you
couldn’t hit a flock of barns.’

“I was getting excited by this time, and cut loose on him rapidly, but
he dodged every shot, jumping from the hearth to the mantel, from the
mantel to an old table, from there to a niche in the wall, and from the
niche clear across the room and out of the window. About then I was
some nervous, and after a while lay down before the fire and tried to
go to sleep.

“It was a terrible night outside—one of those nights when you can hear
things; and with the vivid imagination I was enjoying then, I was
almost afraid to try to sleep. But just as I was going into a doze, I
raised up my head, and there was my cat walking up and down my frame,
his back arched and his tail flirting with the slow sinuous movement of
a snake. I reached for my gun, and as it clicked in cocking, he began
raking my legs, sharpening his claws and growling like a tiger. I gave
a yell and kicked him off, when he sprang up on the old table and I
could see his eyes glaring at me. I emptied my gun at him a second
time, and at every shot he crouched lower and crept forward as if
getting ready to spring. When I had fired the last shot I jumped up and
ran out into the rain, and hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards before
I fell into a dry wash. When I crawled out there was that d——d cat
rubbing himself against my boot leg. I stood breathless for a minute,
thinking what next to do, and the cat remarked: ‘Wasn’t that a peach of
a race we just had!’

“I made one or two vicious kicks at him and he again vanished. Well,
fellows, in that dream I walked around that old _jacal_ all night in my
shirt sleeves, and it raining pitchforks. A number of times I peeped in
through the window or door, and there sat the cat on the hearth, in
full possession of the shack, and me out in the weather. Once when I
looked in he was missing, but while I was watching he sprang through a
hole in the roof, alighting in the fire, from which he walked out
gingerly, shaking his feet as if he had just been out in the wet. I
shot away every cartridge I had at him, but in the middle of the
shooting he would just coil up before the fire and snooze away.

“That night was an eternity of torment to me, and I was relieved when
some one knocked on the door, and I awoke to find myself in a good bed
and pounding my ear on a goose-hair pillow in a hotel in Oakville. Why,
I wouldn’t have another dream like that for a half interest in the Las
Palomas brand. No, honest, if I thought drinking gave me that hideous
dream, here would be one lad ripe for reform.”

“It strikes me,” said Uncle Lance, rising and lifting a pot lid, “that
these birds are parboiled by this time. Bring me a fork, Enrique. Well,
I should say they were. I hope hell ain’t any hotter than that fire.
Now, Tiburcio, if you have everything ready, we’ll put them in the
oven, and bake them a couple of hours.”

Several of us assisted in fixing the fire and properly coaling the
ovens. When this had been attended to, and we had again resumed our
easy positions around the fire, Trotter remarked: “Aaron, you ought to
cut drinking out of your amusements; you haven’t the constitution to
stand it. Now with me it’s different. I can drink a week and never
sleep; that’s the kind of a build to have if you expect to travel and
meet all comers. Last year I was working for a Kansas City man on the
trail, and after the cattle were delivered about a hundred miles
beyond,—Ellsworth, up in Kansas,—he sent us home by way of Kansas City.
In fact, that was about the only route we could take. Well, it was a
successful trip, and as this man was plum white, anyhow, he concluded
to show us the sights around his burg. He was interested in a
commission firm out at the stockyards, and the night we reached there
all the office men, including the old man himself, turned themselves
loose to show us a good time.

“We had been drinking alkali water all summer, and along about midnight
they began to drop out until there was no one left to face the music
except a little cattle salesman and myself. After all the others quit
us, we went into a feed trough on a back street, and had a good supper.
I had been drinking everything like a good fellow, and at several
places there was no salt to put in the beer. The idea struck me that I
would buy a sack of salt from this eating ranch and take it with me.
The landlord gave me a funny look, but after some little parley went to
the rear and brought out a five-pound sack of table salt.

“It was just what I wanted, and after paying for it the salesman and I
started out to make a night of it. This yard man was a short, fat
Dutchman, and we made a team for your whiskers. I carried the sack of
salt under my arm, and the quantity of beer we killed before daylight
was a caution. About daybreak, the salesman wanted me to go to our
hotel and go to bed, but as I never drink and sleep at the same time, I
declined. Finally he explained to me that he would have to be at the
yards at eight o’clock, and begged me to excuse him. By this time he
was several sheets in the wind, while I could walk a chalk line without
a waver. Somehow we drifted around to the hotel where the outfit were
supposed to be stopping, and lined up at the bar for a final drink. It
was just daybreak, and between that Dutch cattle salesman and the
barkeeper and myself, it would have taken a bookkeeper to have kept a
check on the drinks we consumed—every one the last.

“Then the Dutchman gave me the slip and was gone, and I wandered into
the office of the hotel. A newsboy sold me a paper, and the next minute
a bootblack wanted to give me a shine. Well, I took a seat for a shine,
and for two hours I sat there as full as a tick, and as dignified as a
judge on the bench. All the newsboys and bootblacks caught on, and
before any of the outfit showed up that morning to rescue me, I had
bought a dozen papers and had my boots shined for the tenth time. If
I’d been foxy enough to have got rid of that sack of salt, no one could
have told I was off the reservation; but there it was under my arm. If
ever I make another trip over the trail, and touch at Kansas City
returning, I’ll hunt up that cattle salesman, for he’s the only man I
ever met that can pace in my class.”

“Did you hear that tree break a few minutes ago?” inquired Mr. Nathan.
“There goes another one. It hardly looks possible that enough pigeons
could settle on a tree to break it down. Honestly, I’d give a purty to
know how many birds are in that roost to-night. More than there are
cattle in Texas, I’ll bet. Why, Hugh killed, with both barrels,
twenty-two at one shot.”

We had brought blankets along, but it was early and no one thought of
sleeping for an hour yet. Mr. Nathan was quite a sportsman, and after
he and Uncle Lance had discussed the safest method of hunting
_javalina_, it again devolved on the boys to entertain the party with
stories.

“I was working on a ranch once,” said Glenn Gallup, “out on the Concho
River. It was a stag outfit, there being few women then out Concho way.
One day two of the boys were riding in home when an accident occurred.
They had been shooting more or less during the morning, and one of
them, named Bill Cook, had carelessly left the hammer of his
six-shooter on a cartridge. As Bill jumped his horse over a dry
_arroyo_, his pistol was thrown from its holster, and, falling on the
hard ground, was discharged. The bullet struck him in the ankle, ranged
upward, shattering the large bone in his leg into fragments, and
finally lodged in the saddle.

“They were about five miles from camp when the accident happened. After
they realized how bad he was hurt, Bill remounted his horse and rode
nearly a mile; but the wound bled so then that the fellow with him
insisted on his getting off and lying on the ground while he went into
the ranch for a wagon. Well, it’s to be supposed that he lost no time
riding in, and I was sent to San Angelo for a doctor. It was just noon
when I got off. I had to ride thirty miles. Talk about your good
horses—I had one that day. I took a free gait from the start, but the
last ten miles was the fastest, for I covered the entire distance in
less than three hours. There was a doctor in the town who’d been on the
frontier all of his life, and was used to such calls. Well, before dark
that evening we drove into the ranch.

“They had got the lad into the ranch, had checked the flow of blood and
eased the pain by standing on a chair and pouring water on the wound
from a height. But Bill looked pale as a ghost from the loss of blood.
The doctor gave the leg a single look, and, turning to us, said: ‘Boys,
she has to come off.’

“The doctor talked to Bill freely and frankly, telling him that it was
the only chance for his life. He readily consented to the operation,
and while the doctor was getting him under the influence of opiates we
fixed up an operating table. When all was ready, the doctor took the
leg off below the knee, cursing us generally for being so sensitive to
cutting and the sight of blood. There was quite a number of boys at the
ranch, but it affected them all alike. It was interesting to watch him
cut and tie arteries and saw the bones, and I think I stood it better
than any of them. When the operation was over, we gave the fellow the
best bed the ranch afforded and fixed him up comfortable. The doctor
took the bloody stump and wrapped it up in an old newspaper, saying he
would take it home with him.

“After supper the surgeon took a sleep, saying we would start back to
town by two o’clock, so as to be there by daylight. He gave
instructions to call him in case Bill awoke, but he hoped the boy would
take a good sleep. As I had left my horse in town, I was expected to go
back with him. Shortly after midnight the fellow awoke, so we aroused
the doctor, who reported him doing well. The old Doc sat by his bed for
an hour and told him all kinds of stories. He had been a surgeon in the
Confederate army, and from the drift of his talk you’d think it was
impossible to kill a man without cutting off his head.

“‘Now take a young fellow like you,’ said the doctor to his patient,
‘if he was all shot to pieces, just so the parts would hang together, I
could fix him up and he would get well. You have no idea, son, how much
lead a young man can carry.’ We had coffee and lunch before starting,
the doctor promising to send me back at once with necessary medicines.

“We had a very pleasant trip driving back to town that night. The
stories he could tell were like a song with ninety verses, no two
alike. It was hardly daybreak when we reached San Angelo, rustled out a
sleepy hostler at the livery stable where the team belonged, and had
the horses cared for; and as we left the stable the doctor gave me his
instrument case, while he carried the amputated leg in the paper. We
both felt the need of a bracer after our night’s ride, so we looked
around to see if any saloons were open. There was only one that showed
any signs of life, and we headed for that. The doctor was in the lead
as we entered, and we both knew the barkeeper well. This barkeeper was
a practical joker himself, and he and the doctor were great hunting
companions. We walked up to the bar together, when the doctor laid the
package on the counter and asked: ‘Is this good for two drinks?’ The
barkeeper, with a look of expectation in his face as if the package
might contain half a dozen quail or some fresh fish, broke the string
and unrolled it. Without a word he walked straight from behind the bar
and out of the house. If he had been shot himself he couldn’t have
looked whiter.

“The doctor went behind the bar and said: ‘Glenn, what are you going to
take?’ ‘Let her come straight, doctor,’ was my reply, and we both took
the same. We had the house all to ourselves, and after a second round
of drinks took our leave. As we left by the front door, we saw the
barkeeper leaning against a hitching post half a block below. The
doctor called to him as we were leaving: ‘Billy, if the drinks ain’t on
you, charge them to me.’”

The moon was just rising, and at Uncle Lance’s suggestion we each
carried in a turn of wood. Piling a portion of it on the fire, the
blaze soon lighted up the camp, throwing shafts of light far into the
recesses of the woods around us. “In another hour,” said Uncle Lance,
recoaling the oven lids, “that smaller pie will be all ready to serve,
but we’ll keep the big one for breakfast. So, boys, if you want to sit
up awhile longer, we’ll have a midnight lunch, and then all turn in for
about forty winks.” As the oven lid was removed from time to time to
take note of the baking, savory odors of the pie were wafted to our
anxious nostrils. On the intimation that one oven would be ready in an
hour, not a man suggested blankets, and, taking advantage of the lull,
Theodore Quayle claimed attention.

“Another fellow and myself,” said Quayle, “were knocking around Fort
Worth one time seeing the sights. We had drunk until it didn’t taste
right any longer. This chum of mine was queer in his drinking. If he
ever got enough once, he didn’t want any more for several days: you
could cure him by offering him plenty. But with just the right amount
on board, he was a hail fellow. He was a big, ambling, awkward cuss,
who could be led into anything on a hint or suggestion. We had been
knocking around the town for a week, until there was nothing new to be
seen.

“Several times as we passed a millinery shop, kept by a little blonde,
we had seen her standing at the door. Something—it might have been his
ambling walk, but, anyway, something—about my chum amused her, for she
smiled and watched him as we passed. He never could walk along beside
you for any distance, but would trail behind and look into the windows.
He could not be hurried—not in town. I mentioned to him that he had
made a mash on the little blond milliner, and he at once insisted that
I should show her to him. We passed down on the opposite side of the
street and I pointed out the place. Then we walked by several times,
and finally passed when she was standing in the doorway talking to some
customers. As we came up he straightened himself, caught her eye, and
tipped his hat with the politeness of a dancing master. She blushed to
the roots of her hair, and he walked on very erect some little
distance, then we turned a corner and held a confab. He was for playing
the whole string, discount or no discount, anyway.

“An excuse to go in was wanting, but we thought we could invent one;
however, he needed a drink or two to facilitate his thinking and loosen
his tongue. To get them was easier than the excuse; but with the drinks
the motive was born. ‘You wait here,’ said he to me, ‘until I go round
to the livery stable and get my coat off my saddle.’ He never
encumbered himself with extra clothing. We had not seen our horses,
saddles, or any of our belongings during the week of our visit. When he
returned he inquired, ‘Do I need a shave?’

“‘Oh, no,’ I said, ‘you need no shave. You may have a drink too many,
or lack one of having enough. It’s hard to make a close calculation on
you.’

“‘Then I’m all ready,’ said he, ‘for I’ve just the right gauge of
steam.’ He led the way as we entered. It was getting dark and the shop
was empty of customers. Where he ever got the manners, heaven only
knows. Once inside the door we halted, and she kept a counter between
us as she approached. She ought to have called the police and had us
run in. She was probably scared, but her voice was fairly steady as she
spoke. ‘Gentlemen, what can I do for you?’

“‘My friend here,’ said he, with a bow and a wave of the hand, ‘was
unfortunate enough to lose a wager made between us. The terms of the
bet were that the loser was to buy a new hat for one of the dining-room
girls at our hotel. As we are leaving town to-morrow, we have just
dropped in to see if you have anything suitable. We are both totally
incompetent to decide on such a delicate matter, but we will trust
entirely to your judgment in the selection.’ The milliner was quite
collected by this time, as she asked: ‘Any particular style?—and about
what price?’

“‘The price is immaterial,’ said he disdainfully. ‘Any man who will
wager on the average weight of a train-load of cattle, his own cattle,
mind you, and miss them twenty pounds, ought to pay for his lack of
judgment. Don’t you think so, Miss—er—er. Excuse me for being unable to
call your name—but—but—’ ‘De Ment is my name,’ said she with some
little embarrassment.

“‘Livingstone is mine,’ said he with a profound bow,’ and this
gentleman is Mr. Ochiltree, youngest brother of Congressman Tom. Now
regarding the style, we will depend entirely upon your selection. But
possibly the loser is entitled to some choice in the matter. Mr.
Ochiltree, have you any preference in regard to style?’

“‘Why, no, I can generally tell whether a hat becomes a lady or not,
but as to selecting one I am at sea. We had better depend on Miss De
Ment’s judgment. Still, I always like an abundance of flowers on a
lady’s hat. Whenever a girl walks down the street ahead of me, I like
to watch the posies, grass, and buds on her hat wave and nod with the
motion of her walk. Miss De Ment, don’t you agree with me that an
abundance of flowers becomes a young lady? And this girl can’t be over
twenty.’

“‘Well, now,’ said she, going into matters in earnest, ‘I can scarcely
advise you. Is the young lady a brunette or blonde?’

“‘What difference does that make?’ he innocently asked.

“‘Oh,’ said she, smiling, ‘we must harmonize colors. What would suit
one complexion would not become another. What color is her hair?’

“‘Nearly the color of yours,’ said he. ‘Not so heavy and lacks the
natural wave which yours has—but she’s all right. She can ride a string
of my horses until they all have sore backs. I tell you she is a cute
trick. But, say, Miss De Ment, what do you think of a green hat, broad
brimmed, turned up behind and on one side, long black feathers run
round and turned up behind, with a blue bird on the other side swooping
down like a pigeon hawk, long tail feathers and an arrow in its beak?
That strikes me as about the mustard. What do you think of that kind of
a hat, dear?’

“‘Why, sir, the colors don’t harmonize,’ she replied, blushing.

“‘Theodore, do you know anything about this harmony of colors? Excuse
me, madam,—and I crave your pardon, Mr. Ochiltree, for using your given
name,—but really this harmony of colors is all French to me.’

“‘Well, if the young lady is in town, why can’t you have her drop in
and make her own selection?’ suggested the blond milliner. He studied a
moment, and then awoke as if from a trance. ‘Just as easy as not; this
very evening or in the morning. Strange we didn’t think of that sooner.
Yes; the landlady of the hotel can join us, and we can count on your
assistance in selecting the hat.’ With a number of comments on her
attractive place, inquiries regarding trade, and a flattering
compliment on having made such a charming acquaintance, we edged
towards the door. ‘This evening then, or in the morning at the
farthest, you may expect another call, when my friend must pay the
penalty of his folly by settling the bill. Put it on heavy.’ And he
gave her a parting wink.

“Together we bowed ourselves out, and once safe in the street he said:
‘Didn’t she help us out of that easy? If she wasn’t a blonde, I’d go
back and buy her two hats for suggesting it as she did.’

“‘Rather good looking too,’ I remarked.

“‘Oh, well, that’s a matter of taste. I like people with red blood in
them. Now if you was to saw her arm off, it wouldn’t bleed; just a
little white water might ooze out, possibly. The best-looking girl I
ever saw was down in the lower Rio Grande country, and she was milking
a goat. Theodore, my dear fellow, when I’m led blushingly to the altar,
you’ll be proud of my choice. I’m a judge of beauty.’”

It was after midnight when we disposed of the first oven of pigeon
pot-pie, and, wrapping ourselves in blankets, lay down around the fire.
With the first sign of dawn, we were aroused by Mr. Nathan and Uncle
Lance to witness the return flight of the birds to their feeding
grounds. Hurrying to the nearest opening, we saw the immense flight of
pigeons blackening the sky overhead. Stiffened by their night’s rest,
they flew low; but the beauty and immensity of the flight overawed us,
and we stood in mute admiration, no one firing a shot. For fully a
half-hour the flight continued, ending in a few scattering birds.




CHAPTER VI
SPRING OF ’76


The spring of ’76 was eventful at Las Palomas. After the pigeon hunt,
Uncle Lance went to San Antonio to sell cattle for spring delivery.
Meanwhile, Father Norquin visited the ranch and spent a few days among
his parishioners, Miss Jean acting the hostess in behalf of Las
Palomas. The priest proved a congenial fellow of the cloth, and among
us, with Miss Jean’s countenance, it was decided not to delay Enrique’s
marriage; for there was no telling when Uncle Lance would return. All
the arrangements were made by the padre and Miss Jean, the groom-to-be
apparently playing a minor part in the preliminaries. Though none of
the white element of the ranch were communicants of his church, the
priest apparently enjoyed the visit. At parting, the mistress pressed a
gold piece into his chubby palm as the marriage fee for Enrique; and,
after naming a day for the ceremony, the padre mounted his horse and
left us for the Tarancalous, showering his blessings on Las Palomas and
its people.

During the intervening days before the wedding, we overhauled an unused
_jacal_ and made it habitable for the bride and groom. The _jacal_ is a
crude structure of this semi-tropical country, containing but a single
room with a shady, protecting stoop. It is constructed by standing
palisades on end in a trench. These constitute the walls. The floor is
earthen, while the roof is thatched with the wild grass which grows
rank in the overflow portions of the river valley. It forms a
serviceable shelter for a warm country, the peculiar roofing equally
defying rain and the sun’s heat. Under the leadership of the mistress
of the ranch, assisted by the Mexican women, the _jacal_ was
transformed into a rustic bower; for Enrique was not only a favorite
among the whites, but also among his own people. A few gaudy pictures
of Saints and the Madonna ornamented the side walls, while in the rear
hung the necessary crucifix. At the time of its building the _jacal_
had been blessed, as was customary before occupancy, and to Enrique’s
reasoning the potency of the former sprinkling still held good.

Weddings were momentous occasions among the Mexican population at Las
Palomas. In outfitting the party to attend Enrique’s wedding at Santa
Maria, the ranch came to a standstill. Not only the regular ambulance
but a second conveyance was required to transport the numerous female
relatives of the groom, while the men, all in gala attire, were mounted
on the best horses on the ranch. As none of the whites attended,
Deweese charged Tiburcio with humanity to the stock, while the mistress
admonished every one to be on his good behavior. With greetings to
Santa Maria, the wedding party set out. They were expected to return
the following evening, and the ranch was set in order to give the bride
a rousing reception on her arrival at Las Palomas. The largest place on
the ranch was a warehouse, and we shifted its contents in such a manner
as to have quite a commodious ball-room. The most notable decoration of
the room was an immense heart-shaped figure, in which was worked in
live-oak leaves the names of the two ranches, flanked on either side
with the American and Mexican flags. Numerous other decorations,
expressing welcome to the bride, were in evidence on every hand. Tallow
was plentiful at Las Palomas, and candles were fastened at every
possible projection.

The mounted members of the wedding party returned near the middle of
the afternoon. According to reports, Santa Maria had treated them most
hospitably. The marriage was simple, but the festivities following had
lasted until dawn. The returning guests sought their _jacals_ to snatch
a few hours’ sleep before the revelry would be resumed at Las Palomas.
An hour before sunset the four-mule ambulance bearing the bride and
groom drove into Las Palomas with a flourish. Before leaving the bridal
couple at their own _jacal_, Tiburcio halted the ambulance in front of
the ranch-house for the formal welcome. In the absence of her brother,
Miss Jean officiated in behalf of Las Palomas, tenderly caressing the
bride. The boys monopolized her with their congratulations and welcome,
which delighted Enrique. As for the bride, she seemed at home from the
first, soon recognizing me as the _padrino segundo_ at the time of her
betrothal.

Quite a delegation of the bride’s friends from Santa Maria accompanied
the party on their return, from whom were chosen part of the musicians
for the evening—violins and guitars in the hands of the native element
of the two ranches making up a pastoral orchestra. I volunteered my
services; but so much of the music was new to me that I frequently
excused myself for a dance with the senoritas. In the absence of Uncle
Lance, our _segundo_, June Deweese, claimed the first dance of the
evening with the bride. Miss Jean lent only the approval of her
presence, not participating, and withdrawing at an early hour. As all
the American element present spoke Spanish slightly, that became the
language of the evening. But, further than to countenance with our
presence the festivities, we were out of place, and, ere midnight, all
had excused themselves with the exception of Aaron Scales and myself.
On the pleadings of Enrique, I remained an hour or two longer, dancing
with his bride, or playing some favorite selection for the delighted
groom.

Several days after the wedding Uncle Lance returned. He had been
successful in contracting a trail herd of thirty-five hundred cattle,
and a _remuda_ of one hundred and twenty-five saddle horses with which
to handle them. The contract called for two thousand two-year-old
steers and fifteen hundred threes. There was a difference of four
dollars a head in favor of the older cattle, and it was the ranchero’s
intention to fill the latter class entirely from the Las Palomas brand.
As to the younger cattle, neighboring ranches would be invited to
deliver twos in filling the contract, and if any were lacking, the home
ranch would supply the deficiency. Having ample range, the difference
in price was an inducement to hold the younger cattle. To keep a steer
another year cost nothing, while the ranchero returned convinced that
the trail might soon furnish an outlet for all surplus cattle. In the
matter of the horses, too, rather than reduce our supply of saddle
stock below the actual needs of the ranch, Uncle Lance concluded to buy
fifty head in making up the _remuda_. There were several hundred
geldings on the ranch old enough for saddle purposes, but they would be
as good as useless in handling cattle the first year after breaking.

As this would be the first trail herd from Las Palomas, we naturally
felt no small pride in the transaction. According to contract,
everything was to be ready for final delivery on the twenty-fifth of
March. The contractors, Camp & Dupree, of Fort Worth, Texas, were to
send their foreman two weeks in advance to receive, classify, and pass
upon the cattle and saddle stock. They were exacting in their demands,
yet humane and reasonable. In making up the herd no cattle were to be
corralled at night, and no animal would be received which had been
roped. The saddle horses were to be treated likewise. These conditions
would put into the saddle every available man on the ranch as well as
on the ranchitas. But we looked eagerly forward to the putting up of
the herd. Letters were written and dispatched to a dozen ranches within
striking distance, inviting them to turn in two-year-old steers at the
full contract price. June Deweese was sent out to buy fifty saddle
horses, which would fill the required standard, “fourteen hands or
better, serviceable and gentle broken.” I was dispatched to Santa
Maria, to invite Don Mateo Gonzales to participate in the contract. The
range of every saddle horse on the ranch was located, so that we could
gather them, when wanted, in a day. Less than a month’s time now
remained before the delivery day, though we did not expect to go into
camp for actual gathering until the arrival of the trail foreman.

In going and returning from San Antonio my employer had traveled by
stage. As it happened, the driver of the up-stage out of Oakville was
Jack Martin, the son-in-law of Mrs. McLeod. He and Uncle Lance being
acquainted, the old ranchero’s matchmaking instincts had, during the
day’s travel, again forged to the front. By roundabout inquiries he had
elicited the information that Mrs. McLeod had, immediately after the
holidays, taken Esther to San Antonio and placed her in school. By
innocent artful suggestions of his interest in the welfare of the
family, he learned the name of the private school of which Esther was a
pupil. Furthermore, he cultivated the good will of the driver in
various ways over good cigars, and at parting assured him on returning
he would take the stage so as to have the pleasure of his company on
the return trip—the highest compliment that could be paid a
stage-driver.

From several sources I had learned that Esther had left the ranch for
the city, but on Uncle Lance’s return I got the full particulars. As a
neighboring ranchman, and bearing self-invented messages from the
family, he had the assurance to call at the school. His honest
countenance was a passport anywhere, and he not only saw Esther but
prevailed on her teachers to give the girl, some time during his visit
in the city, a half holiday. The interest he manifested in the girl won
his request, and the two had spent an afternoon visiting the parks and
other points of interest. It is needless to add that he made hay in my
behalf during this half holiday. But the most encouraging fact that he
unearthed was that Esther was disgusted with her school life and was
homesick. She had declared that if she ever got away from school, no
power on earth could force her back again.

“Shucks, Tom,” said he, the next morning after his return, as we were
sitting in the shade of the corrals waiting for the _remuda_ to come
in, “that poor little country girl might as well be in a penitentiary
as in that school. She belongs on these prairies, and you can’t make
anything else out of her. I can read between the lines, and any one can
see that her education is finished. When she told me how rudely her
mother had treated you, her heart was an open book and easily read.
Don’t you lose any sleep on how you stand in her affections—that’s all
serene. She’ll he home on a spring vacation, and that’ll be your
chance. If I was your age, I’d make it a point to see that she didn’t
go back to school. She’ll run off with you rather than that. In the
game of matrimony, son, you want to play your cards boldly and never
hesitate to lead trumps.”

To further matters, when returning by stage my employer had ingratiated
himself into the favor of the driver in many ways, and urged him to
send word to Mrs. McLeod to turn in her two-year-olds on his contract.
A few days later her foreman and son-in-law, Tony Hunter, rode down to
Las Palomas, anxious for the chance to turn in cattle. There had been
little opportunity for several years to sell steers, and when a chance
like this came, there would have been no trouble to fill half a dozen
contracts, as supply far exceeded demand.

Uncle Lance let Mrs. McLeod’s foreman feel that in allotting her five
hundred of the younger cattle, he was actuated by old-time friendship
for the family. As a mark of special consideration he promised to send
the trail foreman to the San Miguel to pass on the cattle on their home
range, but advised the foreman to gather at least seven hundred steers,
allowing for two hundred to be culled or cut back. Hunter remained over
night, departing the next morning, delighted over his allowance of
cattle and the liberal terms of the contract.

It was understood that, in advance of his outfit, the trail foreman
would come down by stage, and I was sent into Oakville with an extra
saddle horse to meet him. He had arrived the day previous, and we lost
no time in starting for Las Palomas. This trail foreman was about
thirty years of age, a quiet red-headed fellow, giving the name of
Frank Nancrede, and before we had covered half the distance to the
ranch I was satisfied that he was a cowman. I always prided myself on
possessing a good eye for brands, but he outclassed me, reading strange
brands at over a hundred yards, and distinguishing cattle from horse
stock at a distance of three miles.’

We got fairly well acquainted before reaching the ranch, but it was
impossible to start him on any subject save cattle. I was able to give
him a very good idea of the _remuda_, which was then under herd and
waiting his approval, and I saw the man brighten into a smile for the
first time on my offering to help him pick out a good mount for his own
saddle. I had a vague idea of what the trail was like, and felt the
usual boyish attraction for it; but when I tried to draw him out in
regard to it, he advised me, if I had a regular job on a ranch, to let
trail work alone.

We reached the ranch late in the evening and I introduced Nancrede to
Uncle Lance, who took charge of him. We had established a horse camp
for the trail _remuda_, north of the river, and the next morning the
trail foreman, my employer, and June Deweese, rode over to pass on the
saddle stock. The _remuda_ pleased him, being fully up to the contract
standard, and he accepted it with but a single exception. This
exception tickled Uncle Lance, as it gave him an opportunity to annoy
his sister about Nancrede, as he did about every other cowman or drover
who visited the ranch. That evening, as I was chatting with Miss Jean,
who was superintending the Mexican help milking at the cow pen, Uncle
Lance joined us.

“Say, Sis,” said he, “our man Nancrede is a cowman all right. I tried
to ring in a ‘hipped’ horse on him this morning,—one hip knocked down
just the least little bit,—but he noticed it and refused to accept him.
Oh, he’s got an eye in his head all right. So if you say so, I’ll give
him the best horse on the ranch in old Hippy’s place. You’re always
making fun of slab-sided cowmen; he’s pony-built enough to suit you,
and I kind o’ like the color of his hair myself. Did you notice his
neck?—he’ll never tie it if it gets broken. I like a short man; if he
stubs his toe and falls down he doesn’t reach halfway home. Now, if he
has as good cow sense in receiving the herd as he had on the _remuda_,
I’d kind o’ like to have him for a brother-in-law. I’m getting a little
too old for active work and would like to retire, but June, the durn
fool, won’t get married, and about the only show I’ve got is to get a
husband for you. I’d as lief live in Hades as on a ranch without a
woman on it. What do you think of him?”

“Why, I think he’s an awful nice fellow, but he won’t talk. And
besides, I’m not baiting my hook for small fish like trail foremen; I
was aiming to keep my smiles for the contractors. Aren’t they coming
down?”

“Well, they might come to look the herd over before it starts out. Now,
Dupree is a good cowman, but he’s got a wife already. And Camp, the
financial man of the firm, made his money peddling Yankee clocks. Now,
you don’t suppose for a moment I’d let you marry him and carry you away
from Las Palomas. Marry an old clock peddler?—not if he had a million!
The idea! If they come down here and I catch you smiling on old Camp,
I’ll set the hounds on you. What you want to do is to set your cap for
Nancrede. Of course, you’re ten years the elder, but that needn’t cut
any figure. So just burn a few smiles on the red-headed trail foreman!
You know you can count on your loving brother to help all he can.”

The conversation was interrupted by our _segundo_ and the trail foreman
riding up to the cow pen. The two had been up the river during the
afternoon, looking over the cattle on the range, for as yet we had not
commenced gathering. Nancrede was very reticent, discovering a
conspicuous lack of words to express his opinion of what cattle Deweese
had shown him.

The second day after the arrival of the trail foreman, we divided our
forces into two squads and started out to gather our three-year-olds.
By the ranch records, there were over two thousand steers of that age
in the Las Palomas brand. Deweese took ten men and half of the ranch
saddle horses and went up above the mouth of the Ganso to begin
gathering. Uncle Lance took the remainder of the men and horses and
went down the river nearly to Shepherd’s, leaving Dan Happersett and
three Mexicans to hold and night-herd the trail _remuda._ Nancrede
declined to stay at the ranch and so joined our outfit on the
down-river trip. We had postponed the gathering until the last hour,
for every day improved the growing grass on which our mounts must
depend for subsistence, and once we started, there would be little rest
for men or horses.

The younger cattle for the herd were made up within a week after the
invitations were sent to the neighboring ranches. Naturally they would
be the last cattle to be received and would come in for delivery
between the twentieth and the last of the month. With the plans thus
outlined, we started our gathering. Counting Nancrede, we had twelve
men in the saddle in our down-river outfit. Taking nothing but
three-year-olds, we did not accumulate cattle fast; but it was
continuous work, every man, with the exception of Uncle Lance, standing
a guard on night-herd. The first two days we only gathered about five
hundred steers. This number was increased by about three hundred on the
third day, and that evening Dan Happersett with a vaquero rode into
camp and reported that Nancrede’s outfit had arrived from San Antonio.
He had turned the _remuda_ over to them on their arrival, sending the
other two Mexicans to join Deweese above on the river.

The fourth day finished the gathering. Nancrede remained with us to the
last, making a hand which left no doubt in any one’s mind that he was a
cowman from the ground up. The last round-up on the afternoon of the
fourth day, our outriders sighted the vaqueros from Deweese’s outfit,
circling and drifting in the cattle on their half of the circle. The
next morning the two camps were thrown together on the river opposite
the ranch. Deweese had fully as many cattle as we had, and when the two
cuts had been united and counted, we lacked but five head of nineteen
hundred. Several of Nancrede’s men joined us that morning, and within
an hour, under the trail foreman’s directions, we cut back the
overplus, and the cattle were accepted.

Under the contract we were to road-brand them, though Nancrede ordered
his men to assist us in the work. Under ordinary circumstances we
should also have vented the ranch brand, but owing to the fact that
this herd was to be trailed to Abilene, Kansas, and possibly sold
beyond that point, it was unnecessary and therefore omitted. We had a
branding chute on the ranch for grown cattle, and the following morning
the herd was corralled and the road-branding commenced. The cattle were
uniform in size, and the stamping of the figure ‘4’ over the holding
“Lazy L” of Las Palomas, moved like clockwork. With a daybreak start
and an abundance of help the last animal was ironed up before sundown.
As a favor to Nancrede’s outfit, their camp being nearly five miles
distant, we held them the first night after branding.

No sooner had the trail foreman accepted our three-year-olds than he
and Glen Gallup set out for the McLeod ranch on the San Miguel. The day
our branding was finished, the two returned near midnight, reported the
San Miguel cattle accepted and due the next evening at Las Palomas. By
dawn Nancrede and myself started for Santa Maria, the former being
deficient in Spanish, the only weak point, if it was one, in his
make-up as a cowman. We were slightly disappointed in not finding the
cattle ready to pass upon at Santa Maria. That ranch was to deliver
seven hundred, and on our arrival they had not even that number under
herd. Don Mateo, an easy-going ranchero, could not understand the
necessity of such haste. What did it matter if the cattle were
delivered on the twenty-fifth or twenty-seventh? But I explained as
delicately as I could that this was a trail man, whose vocabulary did
not contain _mañana_. In interpreting for Nancrede, I learned something
of the trail myself: that a herd should start with the grass and move
with it, keeping the freshness of spring, day after day and week after
week, as they trailed northward. The trail foreman assured Don Mateo
that had his employers known that this was to be such an early spring,
the herd would have started a week sooner.

By impressing on the ranchero the importance of not delaying this trail
man, we got him to inject a little action into his corporal. We asked
Don Mateo for horses and, joining his outfit, made three rodeos that
afternoon, turning into the cattle under herd nearly two hundred and
fifty head by dark that evening. Nancrede spent a restless night, and
at dawn, as the cattle were leaving the bed ground, he and I got an
easy count on them and culled them down to the required number before
breakfasting. We had some little trouble explaining to Don Mateo the
necessity of giving the bill of sale to my employer, who, in turn,
would reconvey the stock to the contractors. Once the matter was made
clear, the accepted cattle were started for Las Palomas. When we
overtook them an hour afterward, I instructed the corporal, at the
instance of the red-headed foreman, to take a day and a half in
reaching the ranch; that tardiness in gathering must not be made up by
a hasty drive to the point of delivery; that the animals must be
treated humanely.

On reaching the ranch we found that Mr. Booth and some of his neighbors
had arrived from the Frio with their contingent. They had been allotted
six hundred head, and had brought down about two hundred extra cattle
in order to allow some choice in accepting. These were the only mixed
brands that came in on the delivery, and after they had been culled
down and accepted, my employer appointed Aaron Scales as clerk. There
were some five or six owners, and Scales must catch the brands as they
were freed from the branding chute. Several of the owners kept a
private tally, but not once did they have occasion to check up the
Marylander’s decisions. Before the branding of this hunch was finished,
Wilson, from Ramirena, rode into the ranch and announced his cattle
within five miles of Las Palomas. As these were the last two hundred to
be passed upon, Nancrede asked to have them in sight of the ranch by
sun-up in the morning.

On the arrival of the trail outfit from San Antonio, they brought a
letter from the contractors, asking that a conveyance meet them at
Oakville, as they wished to see the herd before it started. Tiburcio
went in with the ambulance to meet them, and they reached the ranch
late at night. On their arrival twenty-six hundred of the cattle had
already been passed upon, branded, and were then being held by
Nancrede’s outfit across the river at their camp. Dupree, being a
practical cowman, understood the situation; but Camp was restless and
uneasy as if he expected to find the cattle in the corrals at the
ranch. Camp was years the older of the two, a pudgy man with a florid
complexion and nasal twang, and kept the junior member busy answering
his questions. Uncle Lance enjoyed the situation, jollying his sister
about the elder contractor and quietly inquiring of the red-haired
foreman how and where Dupree had picked him up.

The contractors had brought no saddles with them, so the ambulance was
the only mode of travel. As we rode out to receive the Wilson cattle
the next morning, Uncle Lance took advantage of the occasion to jolly
Nancrede further about the senior member of the firm, the foreman
smiling appreciatingly. “The way your old man talked last night,” said
he, “you’d think he expected to find the herd in the front yard. Too
bad to disappoint him; for then he could have looked them over with a
lantern from the gallery of the house. Now, if they had been Yankee
clocks instead of cattle, why, he’d been right at home, and could have
taken them in the house and handled them easily. It certainly beats the
dickens why some men want to break into the cattle business. It won’t
surprise me if he asks you to trail the herd past the ranch so he can
see them. Well, you and Dupree will have to make him some _dinero_ this
summer or you will lose him for a partner. I can see that sticking
out.”

We received and branded the two hundred Wilson cattle that forenoon,
sending them to the main herd across the river. Mr. Wilson and Uncle
Lance were great cronies, and as the latter was feeling in fine fettle
over the successful fulfillment of his contract, he was tempted also to
jolly his neighbor ranchero over his cattle, which, by the way, were
fine. “Nate,” said he to Mr. Wilson, “it looks like you’d quit breeding
goats and rear cattle instead. Honest, if I didn’t know your brand, I’d
swear some Mexican raised this bunch. These Fort Worth cowmen are an
easy lot, or yours would never have passed under the classification.”

An hour before noon, Tomas Martines, the corporal of Santa Maria, rode
up to inquire what time we wished his cattle at the corrals. They were
back several miles, and he could deliver them on an hour’s notice. One
o’clock was agreed upon, and, never dismounting, the corporal galloped
away to his herd. “Quirk,” said Nancrede to me, noticing the Mexican’s
unaccustomed air of enterprise, “if we had that fellow under us awhile
we’d make a cow-hand out of him. See the wiggle he gets on himself now,
will you?” Promptly at the hour, the herd were counted and corralled,
Don Mateo Gonzales not troubling to appear, which was mystifying to the
North Texas men, but Uncle Lance explained that a mere incident like
selling seven hundred cattle was not sufficient occasion to arouse the
ranchero of Santa Maria when his corporal could attend to the business.

That evening saw the last of the cattle branded. The herd was completed
and ready to start the following morning. The two contractors were
driven across the river during the afternoon to look over the herd and
_remuda_. At the instance of my employer, I wrote a letter of
congratulation to Don Mateo, handing it to his corporal, informing him
that in the course of ten days a check would he sent him in payment.
Uncle Lance had fully investigated the financial standing of the
contractors, but it was necessary for him to return with them to San
Antonio for a final settlement.

The ambulance made an early start for Oakville on the morning of the
twenty-sixth, carrying the contractors and my employer, and the rest of
us rode away to witness the start of the herd. Nancrede’s outfit
numbered fifteen,—a cook, a horse wrangler, himself, and twelve
outriders. They comprised an odd mixture of men, several barely my age,
while others were gray-haired and looked like veteran cow-hands. On
leaving the Nueces valley, the herd was strung out a mile in length,
and after riding with them until they reached the first hills, we bade
them good-by. As we started to return Frank Nancrede made a remark to
June Deweese which I have often recalled: “You fellows may think this
is a snap; but if I had a job on as good a ranch as Las Palomas, you’d
never catch me on a cattle trail.”




CHAPTER VII
SAN JACINTO DAY


A few days later, when Uncle Lance returned from San Antonio, we had a
confidential talk, and he decided not to send me with the McLeod check
to the San Miguel. He had reasons of his own, and I was dispatched to
the Frio instead, while to Enrique fell the pleasant task of a similar
errand to Santa Maria. In order to grind an axe, Glenn Gallup was sent
down to Wilson’s with the settlement for the Ramirena cattle, which
Uncle Lance made the occasion of a jovial expression of his theory of
love-making. “Don’t waste any words with old man Nate,” said he, as he
handed Glenn the check; “but build right up to Miss Jule. Holy snakes,
boy, if I was your age I would make her dizzy with a big talk. Tell her
you’re thinking of quitting Las Palomas and driving a trail herd
yourself next year. Tell it big and scary. Make her eyes fairly bulge
out, and when you can’t think of anything else, tell her she’s pretty.”

I spent a day or two at the Booth ranch, and on my return found the Las
Palomas outfit in the saddle working our horse stock. Yearly we made up
new _manadas_ from the two-year-old fillies. There were enough young
mares to form twelve bands of about twenty-five head each. In selecting
these we were governed by standard colors, bays, browns, grays, blacks,
and sorrels forming separate _manadas,_ while all mongrel colors went
into two bands by themselves. In the latter class there was a tendency
for the colors of the old Spanish stock,—coyotes, and other hybrid
mixtures,—after being dormant for generations, to crop out again. In
breaking these fillies into new bands, we added a stallion a year or
two older and of acceptable color, and they were placed in charge of a
trusty vaquero, whose duty was to herd them for the first month after
being formed. The Mexican in charge usually took the band round the
circuit of the various ranchitas, corralling his charge at night,
drifting at will, so that by the end of the month old associations
would be severed, and from that time the stallion could be depended on
as herdsman.

In gathering the fillies, we also cut out all the geldings three years
old and upward to break for saddle purposes. There were fully two
hundred of these, and the month of April was spent in saddle-breaking
this number. They were a fine lot of young horses, and under the master
eye of two perfect horsemen, our _segundo_ and employer, every horse
was broken with intelligence and humanity. Since the day of their
branding as colts these geldings had never felt the touch of a human
hand; and it required more than ordinary patience to overcome their
fear, bring them to a condition of submission, and make serviceable
ranch horses out of them. The most difficult matter was in overcoming
their fear. It was also necessary to show the mastery of man over the
animal, though this process was tempered with humanity. We had several
circular, sandy corrals into which the horse to be broken was admitted
for the first saddling. As he ran round, a lasso skillfully thrown
encircled his front feet and he came down on his side. One fore foot
was strapped up, a hackamore or bitless bridle was adjusted in place,
and he was allowed to arise. After this, all depended on the patience
and firmness of the handler. Some horses yielded to kind advances and
accepted the saddle within half an hour, not even offering to pitch,
while others repelled every kindness and fought for hours. But in
handling the gelding of spirit, we could always count on the help of an
extra saddler.

While this work was being done, the herd of geldings was held close at
hand. After the first riding, four horses were the daily allowance of
each rider. With the amount of help available, this allowed twelve to
fifteen horses to the man, so that every animal was ridden once in
three or four days. Rather than corral, we night-herded, penning them
by dawn and riding our first horse before sun-up. As they gradually
yielded, we increased our number to six a day and finally before the
breaking was over to eight. When the work was finally over they were
cut into _remudas_ of fifty horses each, furnished a gentle bell mare,
when possible with a young colt by her side, and were turned over to a
similar treatment as was given the fillies in forming _manadas._ Thus
the different _remudas_ at Las Palomas always took the name of the bell
mare, and when we were at work, it was only necessary for us to hobble
the princess at night to insure the presence of her band in the
morning.

When this month’s work was two thirds over, we enjoyed a holiday. All
good Texans, whether by birth or adoption, celebrate the twenty-first
of April,—San Jacinto Day. National holidays may not always be observed
in sparsely settled communities, but this event will remain a great
anniversary until the sons and daughters of the Lone Star State lose
their patriotism or forget the blessings of liberty. As Shepherd’s
Ferry was centrally located, it became by common consent the
meeting-point for our local celebration. Residents from the Frio and
San Miguel and as far south on the home river as Lagarto, including the
villagers of Oakville, usually lent their presence on this occasion.
The white element of Las Palomas was present without an exception. As
usual, Miss Jean went by ambulance, starting the afternoon before and
spending the night at a ranch above the ferry. Those remaining made a
daybreak start, reaching Shepherd’s by ten in the morning.

While on the way from the ranch to the ferry, I was visited with some
misgivings as to whether Esther McLeod had yet returned from San
Antonio. At the delivery of San Miguel’s cattle at Las Palomas, Miss
Jean had been very attentive to Tony Hunter, Esther’s brother-in-law,
and through him she learned that Esther’s school closed for the summer
vacation on the fifteenth of April, and that within a week afterward
she was expected at home. Shortly after our reaching the ferry, a
number of vehicles drove in from Oakville. One of these conveyances was
an elaborate six-horse stage, owned by Bethel & Oxenford, star route
mail contractors between San Antonio and Brownsville, Texas. Seated by
young Oxenford’s side in the driver’s box sat Esther McLeod, while
inside the coach was her sister, Mrs. Martin, with the senior member of
the firm, his wife, and several other invited guests. I had heard
something of the gallantry of young Jack Oxenford, who was the nephew
of a carpet-bag member of Congress, and prided himself on being the
best whip in the country. In the latter field I would gladly have
yielded him all honors, but his attentions to Esther were altogether
too marked to please either me or my employer. I am free to admit that
I was troubled by this turn of affairs. The junior mail contractor made
up in egotism what he lacked in appearance, and no doubt had money to
burn, as star route mail contracting was profitable those days, while I
had nothing but my monthly wages. To make matters more embarrassing, a
blind man could have read Mrs. Martin’s approval of young Oxenford.

The programme for the forenoon was brief—a few patriotic songs and an
oration by a young lawyer who had come up from Corpus Christi for the
occasion. After listening to the opening song, my employer and I took a
stroll down by the river, as we were too absorbed in the new
complications to pay proper attention to the young orator.

“Tom,” said Uncle Lance, as we strolled away from the grove, “we are up
against the real thing now. I know young Oxenford, and he’s a dangerous
fellow to have for a rival, if he really is one. You can’t tell much
about a Yankee, though, for he’s usually egotistical enough to think
that every girl in the country is breaking her neck to win him. The
worst of it is, this young fellow is rich—he’s got dead oodles of money
and he’s making more every hour out of his mail contracts. One good
thing is, we understand the situation, and all’s fair in love and war.
You can see, though, that Mrs. Martin has dealt herself a hand in the
game. By the dough on her fingers she proposes to have a fist in the
pie. Well, now, son, we’ll give them a run for their money or break a
tug in the effort. Tom, just you play to my lead to-day and we’ll see
who holds the high cards or knows best how to play them. If I can cut
him off, that’ll be your chance to sail in and do a little
close-herding yourself.”

We loitered along the river bank until the oration was concluded, my
employer giving me quite an interesting account of my rival. It seems
that young Oxenford belonged to a family then notoriously prominent in
politics. He had inherited quite a sum of money, and, through the
influence of his congressional uncle, had been fortunate enough to form
a partnership with Bethel, a man who knew all the ropes in mail
contracting. The senior member of the firm knew how to shake the tree,
while the financial resources of the junior member and the political
influence of his uncle made him a valuable man in gathering the plums
on their large field of star route contracts. Had not exposure
interrupted, they were due to have made a large fortune out of the
government.

On our return to the picnic grounds, the assembly was dispersing for
luncheon. Miss Jean had ably provided for the occasion, and on reaching
our ambulance on the outer edge of the grove, Tiburcio had coffee all
ready and the boys from the home ranch began to straggle in for dinner.
Miss Jean had prevailed on Tony Hunter and his wife, who had come down
on horseback from the San Miguel, to take luncheon with us, and from
the hearty greetings which Uncle Lance extended to the guests of his
sister, I could see that the owner and mistress of Las Palomas were
diplomatically dividing the house of McLeod. I followed suit, making
myself agreeable to Mrs. Hunter, who was but very few years the elder
of Esther. Having spent a couple of nights at their ranch, and feeling
a certain comradeship with her husband, I decided before dinner was
over that I had a friend and ally in Tony’s wife. There was something
romantic about the young matron, as any one could see, and since the
sisters favored each other in many ways, I had hopes that Esther might
not overvalue Jack Oxenford’s money.

After luncheon, as we were on our way to the dancing arbor, we met the
Oakville party with Esther in tow. I was introduced to Mrs. Martin,
who, in turn, made me acquainted with her friends, including her
sister, perfectly unconscious that we were already more than mere
acquaintances. From the demure manner of Esther, who accepted the
introduction as a matter of course, I surmised she was concealing our
acquaintance from her sister and my rival. We had hardly reached the
arbor before Uncle Lance created a diversion and interested the mail
contractors with a glowing yarn about a fine lot of young mules he had
at the ranch, large enough for stage purposes. There was some doubt
expressed by the stage men as to their size and weight, when my
employer invited them to the outskirts of the grove, where he would
show them a sample in our ambulance team. So he led them away, and I
saw that the time had come to play to my employer’s lead. The music
striking up, I claimed Esther for the first dance, leaving Mrs. Martin,
for the time being, in charge of her sister and Miss Jean. Before the
first waltz ended I caught sight of all three of the ladies mingling in
the dance. It was a source of no small satisfaction to me to see my two
best friends, Deweese and Gallup, dancing with the married sisters,
while Miss Jean was giving her whole attention to her partner, Tony
Hunter. With the entire Las Palomas crowd pulling strings in my
interest, and Father, in the absence of Oxenford, becoming extremely
gracious, I grew bold and threw out my chest like the brisket on a beef
steer.

I permitted no one to separate me from Esther. We started the second
dance together, but no sooner did I see her sister, Mrs. Martin, whirl
by us in the polka with Dan Happersett, than I suggested that we drop
out and take a stroll. She consented, and we were soon out of sight,
wandering in a labyrinth of lover’s lanes which abounded throughout
this live-oak grove. On reaching the outskirts of the picnic grounds,
we came to an extensive opening in which our saddle horses were
picketed. At a glance Esther recognized Wolf, the horse I had ridden
the Christmas before when passing their ranch. Being a favorite saddle
horse of the old ranchero, he was reserved for special occasions, and
Uncle Lance had ridden him down to Shepherd’s on this holiday. Like a
bird freed from a cage, the ranch girl took to the horses and insisted
on a little ride. Since her proposal alone prevented my making a
similar suggestion, I allowed myself to be won over, but came near
getting caught in protesting. “But you told me at the ranch that Wolf
was one of ten in your Las Palomas mount,” she poutingly protested.

“He is,” I insisted, “but I have loaned him to Uncle Lance for the
day.”

“Throw the saddle on him then—I’ll tell Mr. Lovelace when we return
that I borrowed his horse when he wasn’t looking.”

Had she killed the horse, I felt sure that the apology would have been
accepted; so, throwing saddles on the black and my own mount, we were
soon scampering down the river. The inconvenience of a man’s saddle, or
the total absence of any, was a negligible incident to this daughter of
the plains. A mile down the river, we halted and watered the horses.
Then, crossing the stream, we spent about an hour circling slowly about
on the surrounding uplands, never being over a mile from the picnic
grounds. It was late for the first flora of the season, but there was
still an abundance of blue bonnets. Dismounting, we gathered and wove
wreaths for our horses’ necks, and wandered picking the Mexican
strawberries which grew plentifully on every hand.

But this was all preliminary to the main question. When it came up for
discussion, this one of Quirk’s boys made the talk of his life in
behalf of Thomas Moore. Nor was it in vain. When Esther apologized for
the rudeness her mother had shown me at her home, that afforded me the
opening for which I was longing. We were sitting on a grassy hummock,
weaving garlands, when I replied to the apology by declaring my
intention of marrying her, with or without her mother’s consent.
Unconventional as the declaration was, to my surprise she showed
neither offense nor wonderment. Dropping the flowers with which we were
working, she avoided my gaze, and, turning slightly from me, began
watching our horses, which had strayed away some distance. But I gave
her little time for meditation, and when I aroused her from her
reverie, she rose, saying, “We’d better go back—they’ll miss us if we
stay too long.”

Before complying with her wish, I urged an answer; but she, artfully
avoiding my question, insisted on our immediate return. Being in a
quandary as to what to say or do, I went after the horses, which was a
simple proposition. On my return, while we were adjusting the garlands
about the necks of our mounts, I again urged her for an answer, but in
vain. We stood for a moment between the two horses, and as I lowered my
hand on my knee to afford her a stepping-stone in mounting, I thought
she did not offer to mount with the same alacrity as she had done
before. Something flashed through my addled mind, and, withdrawing the
hand proffered as a mounting block, I clasped the demure maiden closely
in my arms. What transpired has no witnesses save two saddle horses,
and as Wolf usually kept an eye on his rider in mounting, I dropped the
reins and gave him his freedom rather than endure his scrutiny. When we
were finally aroused from this delicious trance, the horses had strayed
away fully fifty yards, but I had received a favorable answer, breathed
in a voice so low and tender that it haunts me yet.

As we rode along, returning to the grove, Esther requested that our
betrothal be kept a profound secret. No doubt she had good reasons, and
it was quite possible that there then existed some complications which
she wished to conceal, though I avoided all mention of any possible
rival. Since she was not due to return to her school before September,
there seemed ample time to carry out our intentions of marrying. But as
we jogged along, she informed me that after spending a few weeks with
her sister in Oakville, it was her intention to return to the San
Miguel for the summer. To allay her mother’s distrust, it would be
better for me not to call at the ranch. But this was easily compensated
for when she suggested making several visits during the season with the
Vaux girls, chums of hers, who lived on the Frio about thirty miles due
north of Las Palomas. This was fortunate, since the Vaux ranch and ours
were on the most friendly terms.

We returned by the route by which we had left the grounds. I repicketed
the horses and we were soon mingling again with the revelers, having
been absent little over an hour. No one seemed to have taken any notice
of our absence. Mrs. Martin, I rejoiced to see, was still in tow of her
sister and Miss Jean, and from the circle of Las Palomas courtiers who
surrounded the ladies, I felt sure they had given her no opportunity
even to miss her younger sister. Uncle Lance was the only member of our
company absent, but I gave myself no uneasiness about him, since the
mail contractors were both likewise missing. Rejoining our friends and
assuming a nonchalant air, I flattered myself that my disguise was
perfect.

During the remainder of the afternoon, in view of the possibility that
Esther might take her sister, Mrs. Martin, into our secret and win her
as an ally, I cultivated that lady’s acquaintance, dancing with her and
leaving nothing undone to foster her friendship. Near the middle of the
afternoon, as the three sisters, Miss Jean, and I were indulging in
light refreshment at a booth some distance from the dancing arbor, I
sighted my employer, Dan Happersett, and the two stage men returning
from the store. They passed near, not observing us, and from the
defiant tones of Uncle Lance’s voice, I knew they had been tampering
with the ‘private stock’ of the merchant at Shepherd’s. “Why,
gentlemen,” said he, “that ambulance team is no exception to the
quality of mules I’m raising at Las Palomas. Drive up some time and
spend a few days and take a look at the stock we’re breeding. If you
will, and I don’t show you fifty mules fourteen and a half hands or
better, I’ll round up five hundred head and let you pick fifty as a
pelon for your time and trouble. Why, gentlemen, Las Palomas has sold
mules to the government.”

On the return of our party to the arbor, Happersett claimed a dance
with Esther, thus freeing me. Uncle Lance was standing some little
distance away, still entertaining the mail contractors, and I edged
near enough to notice Oxenford’s florid face and leery eye. But on my
employer’s catching sight of me, he excused himself to the stage men,
and taking my arm led me off. Together we promenaded out of sight of
the crowd. “How do you like my style of a man herder?” inquired the old
matchmaker, once we were out of hearing. “Why, Tom, I’d have held those
mail thieves until dark, if Dan hadn’t drifted in and given me the
wink. Shepherd kicked like a bay steer on letting me have a second
quart bottle, but it took that to put the right glaze in the young
Yank’s eye. Oh, I had him going south all right! But tell me, how did
you and Esther make it?”

We had reached a secluded spot, and, seating ourselves on an old fallen
tree trunk, I told of my success, even to the using of his horse. Never
before or since did I see Uncle Lance give way to such a fit of
hilarity as he indulged in over the perfect working out of our plans.
With his hat he whipped me, the ground, the log on which we sat, while
his peals of laughter rang out like the reports of a rifle. In his fit
of ecstasy, tears of joy streaming from his eyes, he kept repeating
again and again, “Oh, sister, run quick and tell pa to come!”

As we neared the grounds returning, he stopped me and we had a further
brief confidential talk together. I was young and egotistical enough to
think that I could defy all the rivals in existence, but he cautioned
me, saying: “Hold on, Tom. You’re young yet; you know nothing about the
weaker sex, absolutely nothing. It’s not your fault, but due to your
mere raw youth. Now, listen to me, son: Don’t underestimate any rival,
particularly if he has gall and money, most of all, money. Humanity is
the same the world over, and while you may not have seen it here among
the ranches, it is natural for a woman to rave over a man with money,
even if he is only a pimply excuse for a creature. Still, I don’t see
that we have very much to fear. We can cut old lady McLeod out of the
matter entirely. But then there’s the girl’s sister, Mrs. Martin, and I
look for her to cut up shameful when she smells the rat, which she’s
sure to do. And then there’s her husband to figure on. If the ox knows
his master’s crib, it’s only reasonable to suppose that Jack Martin
knows where his bread and butter comes from. These stage men will stick
up for each other like thieves. Now, don’t you be too crack sure. Be
just a trifle leary of every one, except, of course, the Las Palomas
outfit.”

I admit that I did not see clearly the reasoning behind much of this
lecture, but I knew better than reject the advice of the old matchmaker
with his sixty odd years of experience. I was still meditating over his
remarks when we rejoined the crowd and were soon separated among the
dancers. Several urged me to play the violin; but I was too busy
looking after my own fences, and declined the invitation. Casting about
for the Vaux girls, I found the eldest, with whom I had a slight
acquaintance, being monopolized by Theodore Quayle and John Cotton,
friendly rivals and favorites of the young lady. On my imploring the
favor of a dance, she excused herself, and joined me on a promenade
about the grounds, missing one dance entirely. In arranging matters
with her to send me word on the arrival of Esther at their ranch, I
attempted to make her show some preference between my two comrades,
under the pretense of knowing which one to bring along, but she only
smiled and maintained an admirable neutrality.

After a dance I returned the elder Miss Vaux to the tender care of John
Cotton, and caught sight of my employer leaving the arbor for the
refreshment booth with a party of women, including Mrs. Martin and
Esther McLeod, to whom he was paying the most devoted attention.
Witnessing the tireless energy of the old matchmaker, and in a quarter
where he had little hope of an ally, brought me to thinking that there
might be good cause for alarm in his warnings not to be overconfident.
Miss Jean, whom I had not seen since luncheon, aroused me from my
reverie, and on her wishing to know my motive for cultivating the
acquaintance of Miss Vaux and neglecting my own sweetheart, I told her
the simple truth. “Good idea, Tom,” she assented. “I think I’ll just
ask Miss Frances home with me to spend Sunday. Then you can take her
across to the Frio on horseback, so as not to offend either John or
Theodore. What do you think?”

I thought it was a good idea, and said so. At least the taking of the
young lady home would be a pleasanter task for me than breaking horses.
But as I expressed myself so, I could not help thinking, seeing Miss
Jean’s zeal in the matter, that the matchmaking instinct was equally
well developed on both sides of the Lovelace family.

The afternoon was drawing to a close. The festivities would conclude by
early sundown. Miss Jean would spend the night again at the halfway
ranch, returning to Las Palomas the next morning; we would start on our
return with the close of the amusements. Many who lived at a distance
had already started home. It lacked but a few minutes of the closing
hour when I sought out Esther for the “Home, Sweet Home” waltz, finding
her in company of Oxenford, chaperoned by Mrs. Martin, of which there
was need. My sweetheart excused herself with a poise that made my heart
leap, and as we whirled away in the mazes of the final dance, rivals
and all else passed into oblivion. Before we could realize the change
in the music, the orchestra had stopped, and struck into “My Country,
’tis of Thee,” in which the voice of every patriotic Texan present
swelled the chorus until it echoed throughout the grove, befittingly
closing San Jacinto Day.




CHAPTER VIII
A CAT HUNT ON THE FRIO


The return of Miss Jean the next forenoon, accompanied by Frances Vaux,
was an occasion of more than ordinary moment at Las Palomas. The Vaux
family were of creole extraction, but had settled on the Frio River
nearly a generation before. Under the climatic change, from the swamps
of Louisiana to the mesas of Texas, the girls grew up fine physical
specimens of rustic Southern beauty. To a close observer, certain
traces of the French were distinctly discernible in Miss Frances,
notably in the large, lustrous eyes, the swarthy complexion, and early
maturity of womanhood. Small wonder then that our guest should have
played havoc among the young men of the countryside, adding to her
train of gallants the devoted Quayle and Cotton of Las Palomas.

Aside from her charming personality, that Miss Vaux should receive a
cordial welcome at Las Palomas goes without saying, since there were
many reasons why she should. The old ranchero and his sister chaperoned
the young lady, while I, betrothed to another, became her most obedient
slave. It is needless to add that there was a fair field and no favor
shown by her hosts, as between John and Theodore. The prize was worthy
of any effort. The best man was welcome to win, while the blessings of
master and mistress seemed impatient to descend on the favored one.

In the work in hand, I was forced to act as a rival to my friends, for
I could not afford to lower my reputation for horsemanship before Miss
Frances, when my betrothed was shortly to be her guest. So it was not
to be wondered at that Quayle and Cotton should abandon the _medeno_ in
mounting their unbroken geldings, and I had to follow suit or suffer by
comparison. The other rascals, equal if not superior to our trio in
horsemanship, including Enrique, born with just sense enough to be a
fearless vaquero, took to the heavy sand in mounting vicious geldings;
but we three jauntily gave the wildest horses their heads and even
encouraged them to buck whenever our guest was sighted on the gallery.
What gave special vim to our work was the fact that Miss Frances was a
horsewoman herself, and it was with difficulty that she could be kept
away from the corrals. Several times a day our guest prevailed on Uncle
Lance to take her out to witness the roping. From a safe vantage place
on the palisades, the old ranchero and his protégé would watch us
catching, saddling, and mounting the geldings. Under those bright eyes,
lariats encircled the feet of the horse to be ridden deftly indeed, and
he was laid on his side in the sand as daintily as a mother would lay
her babe in its crib. Outside of the trio, the work of the gang was
bunglesome, calling for many a protest from Uncle Lance,—they had no
lady’s glance to spur them on,—while ours merited the enthusiastic
plaudits of Miss Frances.


[Illustration: GAVE THE WILDEST HORSES THEIR HEADS]


Then came Sunday and we observed the commandment. Miss Jean had planned
a picnic for the day on the river. We excused Tiburcio, and pressed the
ambulance team into service to convey the party of six for the day’s
outing among the fine groves of elm that bordered the river in several
places, and afforded ample shade from the sun. The day was delightfully
spent. The chaperons were negligent and dilatory. Uncle Lance even fell
asleep for several hours. But when we returned at twilight, the
ambulance mules were garlanded as if for a wedding party.

The next morning our guest was to depart, and to me fell the pleasant
task of acting as her escort. Uncle Lance prevailed on Miss Frances to
ride a spirited chestnut horse from his mount, while I rode a _grulla_
from my own. We made an early start, the old ranchero riding with us as
far as the river. As he held the hand of Miss Vaux in parting, he
cautioned her not to detain me at their ranch, as he had use for me at
Las Palomas. “Of course,” said he, “I don’t mean that you shall hurry
him right off to-day or even to-morrow. But these lazy rascals of mine
will hang around a girl a week, if she’ll allow it. Had John or
Theodore taken you home, I shouldn’t expect to see either of them in a
fortnight. Now, if they don’t treat you right at home, come back and
live with us. I’ll adopt you as my daughter. And tell your pa that the
first general rain that falls, I’m coming over with my hounds for a cat
hunt with him. Good-by, sweetheart.”

It was a delightful ride across to the Frio. Mounted on two splendid
horses, we put the Nueces behind us as the hours passed. Frequently we
met large strings of cattle drifting in towards the river for their
daily drink, and Miss Frances insisted on riding through the cows,
noticing every brand as keenly as a vaquero on the lookout for strays
from her father’s ranch. The young calves scampered out of our way, but
their sedate mothers permitted us to ride near enough to read the
brands as we met and passed. Once we rode a mile out of our way to look
at a _manada_. The stallion met us as we approached as if to challenge
all intruders on his domain, but we met him defiantly and he turned
aside and permitted us to examine his harem and its frolicsome colts.

But when cattle and horses no longer served as a subject, and the wide
expanse of flowery mesa, studded here and there with Spanish daggers
whose creamy flowers nodded to us as we passed, ceased to interest us,
we turned to the ever interesting subject of sweethearts. But try as I
might, I could never wring any confession from her which even suggested
a preference among her string of admirers. On the other hand, when she
twitted me about Esther, I proudly plead guilty of a Platonic
friendship which some day I hoped would ripen into something more
permanent, fully realizing that the very first time these two chums met
there would be an interchange of confidences. And in the full knowledge
that during these whispered admissions the truth would be revealed, I
stoutly denied that Esther and I were even betrothed.

But during that morning’s ride I made a friend and ally of Frances
Vaux. There was some talk of a tournament to be held during the summer
at Campbellton on the Atascosa. She promised that she would detain
Esther for it and find a way to send me word, and we would make up a
party and attend it together. I had never been present at any of these
pastoral tourneys and was hopeful that one would be held within reach
of our ranch, for I had heard a great deal about them and was anxious
to see one. But this was only one of several social outings which she
outlined as on her summer programme, to all of which I was cordially
invited as a member of her party. There was to be a dance on St. John’s
Day at the Mission, a barbecue in June on the San Miguel, and other
local meets for the summer and early fall. By the time we reached the
ranch, I was just beginning to realize that, socially, Shepherd’s Ferry
and the Nueces was a poky place.

The next morning I returned to Las Palomas. The horse-breaking was
nearing an end. During the month of May we went into camp on a new
tract of land which had been recently acquired, to build a tank on a
dry _arroyo_ which crossed this last landed addition to the ranch. It
was a commercial peculiarity of Uncle Lance to acquire land but never
to part with it under any consideration. To a certain extent, cows and
land had become his religion, and whenever either, adjoining Las
Palomas, was for sale, they were looked upon as a safe bank of deposit
for any surplus funds. The last tract thus secured was dry, but by
damming the _arroyo_ we could store water in this tank or reservoir to
tide over the dry spells. All the Mexican help on the ranch was put to
work with wheelbarrows, while six mule teams ploughed, scraped, and
hauled rock, one four-mule team being constantly employed in hauling
water over ten miles for camp and stock purposes. This dry stream ran
water, when conditions were favorable, several months in the year, and
by building the tank our cattle capacity would be largely increased.

One evening, late in the month, when the water wagon returned, Tiburcio
brought a request from Miss Jean, asking me to come into the ranch that
night. Responding to the summons, I was rewarded by finding a letter
awaiting me from Frances Vaux, left by a vaquero passing from the Frio
to Santa Maria. It was a dainty missive, informing me that Esther was
her guest; that the tournament would not take place, but to be sure and
come over on Sunday. Personally the note was satisfactory, but that I
was to bring any one along was artfully omitted. Being thus forced to
read between the lines, on my return to camp the next morning by dawn,
without a word of explanation, I submitted the matter to John and
Theodore. Uncle Lance, of course, had to know what had called me in to
the ranch, and, taking the letter from Quayle, read it himself.

“That’s plain enough,” said he, on the first reading. “John will go
with you Sunday, and if it rains next month, I’ll take Theodore with me
when I go over for a cat hunt with old man Pierre. I’ll let him act as
master of the horse,—no, of the hounds,—and give him a chance to toot
his own horn with Frances. Honest, boys, I’m getting disgusted with the
white element of Las Palomas. We raise most everything here but white
babies. Even Enrique, the rascal, has to live in camp now to hold down
his breakfast. But you young whites—with the country just full of young
women—well, it’s certainly discouraging. I do all I can, and Sis helps
a little, but what does it amount to—what are the results? That poem
that Jean reads to us occasionally must be right. I reckon the
Caucasian is played out.”

Before the sun was an hour high, John Cotton and myself rode into the
Vaux ranch on Sunday morning. The girls gave us a cheerful welcome.
While we were breakfasting, several other lads and lasses rode up, and
we were informed that a little picnic for the day had been arranged. As
this was to our liking, John and I readily acquiesced, and shortly
afterward a mounted party of about a dozen young folks set out for a
hackberry grove, up the river several miles. Lunch baskets were taken
along, but no chaperons. The girls were all dressed in cambric and
muslin and as light in heart as the fabrics and ribbons they flaunted.
I was gratified with the boldness of Cotton, as he cantered away with
Frances, and with the day before him there was every reason to believe
that his cause would he advanced. As to myself, with Esther by my side
the livelong day, I could not have asked the world to widen an inch.

It was midnight when we reached Las Palomas returning. As we rode along
that night, John confessed to me that Frances was a tantalizing enigma.
Up to a certain point, she offered every encouragement, but beyond that
there seemed to be a dead line over which she allowed no sentiment to
pass. It was plain to be seen that he was discouraged, but I told him I
had gone through worse ordeals.

Throughout southern Texas and the country tributary to the Nueces
River, we always looked for our heaviest rainfall during the month of
June. This year in particular, we were anxious to see a regular
downpour to start the _arroyo_ and test our new tank. Besides, we had
sold for delivery in July, twelve hundred beef steers for shipment at
Rockport on the coast. If only a soaking rain would fall, making water
plentiful, we could make the drive in little over a hundred miles,
while a dry season would compel; us to follow the river nearly double
the distance.

We were riding our range thoroughly, locating our fattest beeves, when
one evening as June Deweese and I were on the way back from the Ganso,
a regular equinoctial struck us, accompanied by a downpour of rain and
hail. Our horses turned their backs to the storm, but we drew slickers
over our heads, and defied the elements. Instead of letting up as
darkness set in, the storm seemed to increase in fury and we were
forced to seek shelter. We were at least fifteen miles from the ranch,
and it was simply impossible to force a horse against that sheeting
rain. So turning to catch the storm in our backs, we rode for a
ranchita belonging to Las Palomas. By the aid of flashes of lightning
and the course of the storm, we reached the little ranch and found a
haven. A steady rain fell all night, continuing the next day, but we
saddled early and rode for our new reservoir on the _arroyo_. Imagine
our surprise on sighting the embankment to see two horsemen ride up
from the opposite direction and halt at the dam. Giving rein to our
horses and galloping up, we found they were Uncle Lance and Theodore
Quayle. Above the dam the _arroyo_ was running like a mill-tail. The
water in the reservoir covered several acres and had backed up stream
nearly a quarter mile, the deepest point in the tank reaching my saddle
skirts. The embankment had settled solidly, holding the gathering water
to our satisfaction, and after several hours’ inspection we rode for
home.

With this splendid rain, Las Palomas ranch took on an air of activity.
The old ranchero paced the gallery for hours in great glee, watching
the downpour. It was too soon yet by a week to gather the beeves. But
under the glowing prospect, we could not remain inert. The next morning
the _segunão_ took all the teams and returned to the tank to watch the
dam and haul rock to rip-rap the flanks of the embankment. Taking extra
saddle horses with us, Uncle Lance, Dan Happersett, Quayle, and myself
took the hounds and struck across for the Frio. On reaching the Vaux
ranch, as showers were still falling and the underbrush reeking with
moisture, wetting any one to the skin who dared to invade it, we did
not hunt that afternoon. Pierre Vaux was enthusiastic over the rain,
while his daughters were equally so over the prospects of riding to the
hounds, there being now nearly forty dogs in the double pack.

At the first opportunity, Frances confided to me that Mrs. McLeod had
forbidden Esther visiting them again, since some busybody had carried
the news of our picnic to her ears. But she promised me that if I could
direct the hunt on the morrow within a few miles of the McLeod ranch,
she would entice my sweetheart out and give me a chance to meet her.
There was a roguish look in Miss Frances’s eye during this disclosure
which I was unable to fathom, but I promised during the few days’ hunt
to find some means to direct the chase within striking distance of the
ranch on the San Miguel.

I promptly gave this bit of news in confidence to Uncle Lance, and was
told to lie low and leave matters to him. That evening, amid clouds of
tobacco smoke, the two old rancheros discussed the best hunting in the
country, while we youngsters danced on the gallery to the strains of a
fiddle. I heard Mr. Vaux narrating a fight with a cougar which killed
two of his best dogs during the winter just passed, and before we
retired it was understood that we would give the haunts of this same
old cougar our first attention.




CHAPTER IX
THE ROSE AND ITS THORN


Dawn found the ranch astir and a heavy fog hanging over the Frio
valley. Don Pierre had a _remuda_ corralled before sun-up, and insisted
on our riding his horses, an invitation which my employer alone
declined. For the first hour or two the pack scouted the river bottoms
with no success, and Uncle Lance’s verdict was that the valley was too
soggy for any animal belonging to the cat family, so we turned back to
the divide between the Frio and San Miguel. Here there grew among the
hills many Guajio thickets, and from the first one we beat, the hounds
opened on a hot trail in splendid chorus. The pack led us through
thickets for over a mile, when they suddenly turned down a ravine,
heading for the river. With the ground ill splendid condition for
trailing, the dogs in full cry, the quarry sought every shelter
possible; but within an hour of striking the scent, the pack came to
bay in the encinal. On coming up with the hounds, we found the animal
was a large catamount. A single shot brought him from his perch in a
scraggy oak, and the first chase of the day was over. The pelt was
worthless and was not taken.

It was nearly noon when the kill was made, and Don Pierre insisted that
we return to the ranch. Uncle Lance protested against wasting the
remainder of the day, but the courteous Creole urged that the ground
would be in fine condition for hunting at least a week longer; this
hunt he declared was merely preliminary—to break the pack together and
give them a taste of the chase before attacking the cougar. “Ah,” said
Don Pierre, with a deprecating shrug of the shoulders, “you have
nothing to hurry you home. I come by your rancho an’ stay one hol’
week. You come by mine, al’ time hurry. Sacré! Let de li’l dogs rest,
an’ in de mornin’, mebbe we hunt de cougar. Ah, Meester Lance, we must
haff de pack fresh for him. By Gar, he was one dam’ wil’ fellow. Mek
one two pass, so. Biff! two dog dead.”

Uncle Lance yielded, and we rode back to the ranch. The next morning
our party included the three daughters of our host. Don Pierre led the
way on a roan stallion, and after two hours’ riding we crossed the San
Miguel to the north of his ranch. A few miles beyond we entered some
chalky hills, interspersed with white chaparral thickets which were
just bursting into bloom, with a fragrance that was almost
intoxicating. Under the direction of our host, we started to beat a
long chain of these thickets, and were shortly rewarded by hearing the
pack give mouth. The quarry kept to the cover of the thickets for
several miles, impeding the chase until the last covert in the chain
was reached, where a fight occurred with the lead hound. Don Pierre was
the first to reach the scene, and caught several glimpses of a monster
puma as he slunk away through the Brazil brush, leaving one of the
Don’s favorite hounds lacerated to the bone. But the pack passed on,
and, lifting the wounded dog to a vaquero’s saddle, we followed,
lustily shouting to the hounds.

The spoor now turned down the San Miguel, and the pace was such that it
took hard riding to keep within hearing. Mr. Vaux and Uncle Lance
usually held the lead, the remainder of the party, including the girls,
bringing up the rear. The chase continued down stream for fully an
hour, until we encountered some heavy timber on the main Frio, our
course having carried us several miles to the north of the McLeod
ranch. Some distance below the juncture with the San Miguel the river
made a large horseshoe, embracing nearly a thousand acres, which was
covered with a dense growth of ash, pecan, and cypress. The trail led
into this jungle, circling it several times before leading away. We
were fortunately able to keep track of the chase from the baying of the
hounds without entering the timber, and were watching its course, when
suddenly it changed; the pack followed the scent across a bridge of
driftwood on the Frio, and started up the river in full cry.

As the chase down the San Miguel passed beyond the mouth of the creek,
Theodore Quayle and Frances Vaux dropped out and rode for the McLeod
ranch. It was still early in the day, and understanding their motive, I
knew they would rejoin us if their mission was successful. By the
sudden turn of the chase, we were likely to pass several miles south of
the home of my sweetheart, but our location could be easily followed by
the music of the pack. Within an hour after leaving us, Theodore and
Frances rejoined the chase, adding Tony Hunter and Esther to our
numbers. With this addition, I lost interest in the hunt, as the course
carried us straightaway five miles up the stream. The quarry was
cunning and delayed the pack at every thicket or large body of timber
encountered. Several times he craftily attempted to throw the hounds
off the scent by climbing leaning trees, only to spring down again. But
the pack were running wide and the ruse was only tiring the hunted. The
scent at times left the river and circled through outlying mesquite
groves, always keeping well under cover. On these occasions we rested
our horses, for the hunt was certain to return to the river.

From the scattering order in which we rode, I was afforded a good
opportunity for free conversation with Esther. But the information I
obtained was not very encouraging. Her mother’s authority had grown so
severe that existence under the same roof was a mere armistice between
mother and daughter, while this day’s sport was likely to break the
already strained relations. The thought that her suffering was largely
on my account, nerved me to resolution.

The kill was made late in the day, in a bend of the river, about
fifteen miles above the Vaux ranch, forming a jungle of several
thousand acres. In this thickety covert the fugitive made his final
stand, taking refuge in an immense old live-oak, the mossy festoons of
which partially screened him from view. The larger portion of the
cavalcade remained in the open, but the rest of us, under the
leadership of the two rancheros, forced our horses through the
underbrush and reached the hounds. The pack were as good as exhausted
by the long run, and, lest the animal should spring out of the tree and
escape, we circled it at a distance. On catching a fair view of the
quarry, Uncle Lance called for a carbine. Two shots through the
shoulders served to loosen the puma’s footing, when he came down by
easy stages from limb to limb, spitting and hissing defiance into the
upturned faces of the pack. As he fell, we dashed in to beat off the
dogs as a matter of precaution, but the bullets had done their work,
and the pack mouthed the fallen feline with entire impunity.

Dan Happersett dragged the dead puma out with a rope over the neck for
the inspection of the girls, while our horses, which had had no less
than a fifty-mile ride, were unsaddled and allowed a roll and a half
hour’s graze before starting back. As we were watering our mounts, I
caught my employer’s ear long enough to repeat what I had learned about
Esther’s home difficulties. After picketing our horses, we strolled
away from the remainder of the party, when Uncle Lance remarked: “Tom,
your chance has come where you must play your hand and play it boldly.
I’ll keep Tony at the Vaux ranch, and if Esther has to go home
to-night, why, of course, you’ll have to take her. There’s your chance
to run off and marry. Now, Tom, you’ve never failed me yet; and this
thing has gone far enough. We’ll give old lady McLeod good cause to
hate us from now on. I’ve got some money with me, and I’ll rob the
other boys, and to-night you make a spoon or spoil a horn. Sabe?”

I understood and approved. As we jogged along homeward, Esther and I
fell to the rear, and I outlined my programme. Nor did she protest when
I suggested that to-night was the accepted time. Before we reached the
Vaux ranch every little detail was arranged. There was a splendid moon,
and after supper she plead the necessity of returning home. Meanwhile
every cent my friends possessed had been given me, and the two best
horses of Las Palomas were under saddle for the start. Uncle Lance was
arranging a big hunt for the morrow with Tony Hunter and Don Pierre,
when Esther took leave of her friends, only a few of whom were
cognizant of our intended elopement.

With fresh mounts under us, we soon covered the intervening distance
between the two ranches. I would gladly have waived touching at the
McLeod ranch, but Esther had torn her dress during the day and insisted
on a change, and I, of necessity, yielded. The corrals were at some
distance from the main buildings, and, halting at a saddle shed
adjoining, Esther left me and entered the house. Fortunately her mother
had retired, and after making a hasty change of apparel, she returned
unobserved to the corrals. As we quietly rode out from the inclosure,
my spirits soared to the moon above us. The night was an ideal one.
Crossing the Frio, we followed the divide some distance, keeping in the
open, and an hour before midnight forded the Nueces at Shepherd’s. A
flood of recollections crossed my mind, as our steaming horses bent
their heads to drink at the ferry. Less than a year before, in this
very grove, I had met her; it was but two months since, on those hills
beyond, we had gathered flowers, plighted our troth, and exchanged our
first rapturous kiss. And the thought that she was renouncing home and
all for my sake, softened my heart and nerved me to every exertion.

Our intention was to intercept the south-bound stage at the first road
house south of Oakville. I knew the hour it was due to leave the
station, and by steady riding we could connect with it at the first
stage stand some fifteen miles below. Lighthearted and happy, we set
out on this last lap of our ride. Our horses seemed to understand the
emergency, as they put the miles behind them, thrilling us with their
energy and vigor. Never for a moment in our flight did my sweetheart
discover a single qualm over her decision, while in my case all
scruples were buried in the hope of victory. Recrossing the Nueces and
entering the stage road, we followed it down several miles, sighting
the stage stand about two o’clock in the morning. I was saddle weary
from the hunt, together with this fifty-mile ride, and rejoiced in
reaching our temporary destination. Esther, however, seemed little the
worse for the long ride.

The welcome extended by the keeper of this relay station was gruff
enough. But his tone and manner moderated when he learned we were
passengers for Corpus Christi. When I made arrangements with him to
look after our horses for a week or ten days at a handsome figure, he
became amiable, invited us to a cup of coffee, and politely informed us
that the stage was due in half an hour. But on its arrival, promptly on
time, our hearts sank within us. On the driver’s box sat an express
guard holding across his knees a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun. As
it halted, two other guards stepped out of the coach, similarly armed.
The stage was carrying an unusual amount of treasure, we were informed,
and no passengers could be accepted, as an attempted robbery was
expected between this and the next station.

Our situation became embarrassing. For the first time during our ride,
Esther showed the timidity of her sex. The chosen destination of our
honeymoon, nearly a hundred miles to the south, was now out of the
question. To return to Oakville, where a sister and friends of my
sweetheart resided, seemed the only avenue open. I had misgivings that
it was unsafe, but Esther urged it, declaring that Mrs. Martin would
offer no opposition, and even if she did, nothing now could come that
would ever separate us. We learned from the keeper that Jack Martin was
due to drive the north-bound stage out of Oakville that morning, and
was expected to pass this relay station about daybreak. This was
favorable, and we decided to wait and allow the stage to pass north
before resuming our journey.

On the arrival of the stage, we learned that the down coach had been
attacked, but the robbers, finding it guarded, had fled after an
exchange of shots in the darkness. This had a further depressing effect
on my betrothed, and only my encouragement to be brave and face the
dilemma confronting us kept her up. Bred on the frontier, this little
ranch girl was no weakling; but the sudden overturn of our well-laid
plans had chilled my own spirits as well as hers. Giving the up stage a
good start of us, we resaddled and started for Oakville, slightly
crestfallen but still confident. In the open air Esther’s fears
gradually subsided, and, invigorated by the morning and the gallop, we
reached our destination after our night’s adventure with hopes buoyant
and colors flying.

Mrs. Martin looked a trifle dumfounded at her early callers, but I lost
no time in informing her that our mission was an elopement, and asked
her approval and blessing. Surprised as she was, she welcomed us to
breakfast, inquiring of our plans and showing alarm over our
experience. Since Oakville was a county seat where a license could be
secured, for fear of pursuit I urged an immediate marriage, but Mrs.
Martin could see no necessity for haste. There was, she said, no one
there whom she would allow to solemnize a wedding of her sister, and,
to my chagrin, Esther agreed with her.

This was just what I had dreaded; but Mrs. Martin, with apparent
enthusiasm over our union, took the reins in her own hands, and decided
that we should wait until Jack’s return, when we would all take the
stage to Pleasanton, where an Episcopal minister lived. My heart sank
at this, for it meant a delay of two days, and I stood up and stoutly
protested. But now that the excitement of our flight had abated, my own
Esther innocently sided with her sister, and I was at my wit’s end. To
all my appeals, the sisters replied with the argument that there was no
hurry—that while the hunt lasted at the Vaux ranch Tony Hunter could be
depended upon to follow the hounds; Esther would never be missed until
his return; her mother would suppose she was with the Vaux girls, and
would be busy preparing a lecture against her return.

Of course the argument of the sisters won the hour. Though dreading
some unforeseen danger, I temporarily yielded. I knew the motive of the
hunt well enough to know that the moment we had an ample start it would
be abandoned, and the Las Palomas contingent would return to the ranch.
Yet I dare not tell, even my betrothed, that there were ulterior
motives in my employer’s hunting on the Frio, one of which was to
afford an opportunity for our elopement. Full of apprehension and
alarm, I took a room at the village hostelry, for I had our horses to
look after, and secured a much-needed sleep during the afternoon. That
evening I returned to the Martin cottage, to urge again that we carry
out our original programme by taking the south-bound stage at midnight.
But all I could say was of no avail. Mrs. Martin was equal to every
suggestion. She had all the plans outlined, and there was no occasion
for me to do any thinking at all. Corpus Christi was not to be
considered for a single moment, compared to Pleasanton and an
Episcopalian service. What could I do?

At an early hour Mrs. Martin withdrew. The reaction from our escapade
had left a pallor on my sweetheart’s countenance, almost alarming.
Noticing this, I took my leave early, hoping that a good night’s rest
would restore her color and her spirits. Returning to the hostelry, I
resignedly sought my room, since there was nothing I could do but wait.
Tossing and pitching on my bed, I upbraided myself for having returned
to Oakville, where any interference with our plans could possibly
develop.

The next morning at breakfast, I noticed that I was the object of
particular attention, and of no very kindly sort. No one even gave me a
friendly nod, while several avoided my glances. Supposing that some
rumor of our elopement might be abroad, I hurriedly finished my meal
and started for the Martins’. On reaching the door, I was met by its
mistress, who, I had need to remind myself, was the sister of my
betrothed. To my friendly salutation, she gave me a scornful, withering
look.

“You’re too late, young man,” she said. “Shortly after you left last
night, Esther and Jack Oxenford took a private conveyance for Beeville,
and are married before this. You Las Palomas people are slow. Old Lance
Lovelace thought he was playing it cute San Jacinto Day, but I saw
through his little game. Somebody must have told him he was a
matchmaker. Well, just give him my regards, and tell him he don’t know
the first principles of that little game. Tell him to drop in some time
when he’s passing; I may be able to give him some pointers that I’m not
using at the moment. I hope your sorrow will not exceed my happiness.
Good-morning, sir.”




CHAPTER X
AFTERMATH


My memory of what happened immediately after Mrs. Martin’s contemptuous
treatment of me is as vague and indefinite as the vaporings of a
fevered dream. I have a faint recollection of several friendly people
offering their sympathy. The old stableman, who looked after the
horses, cautioned me not to start out alone; but I have since learned
that I cursed him and all the rest, and rode away as one in a trance.
But I must have had some little caution left, for I remember giving
Shepherd’s a wide berth, passing several miles to the south.

The horses, taking their own way, were wandering home. Any exercise of
control or guidance over them on my part was inspired by an instinct to
avoid being seen. Of conscious direction there was none. Somewhere
between the ferry and the ranch I remember being awakened from my
torpor by the horse which I was leading showing an inclination to
graze. Then I noticed their gaunted condition, and in sympathy for the
poor brutes unsaddled and picketed them in a secluded spot. What
happened at this halt has slipped from my memory. But I must have slept
a long time; for I awoke to find the moon high overhead, and my watch,
through neglect, run down and stopped. I now realized the better my
predicament, and reasoned with myself whether I should return to Las
Palomas or not. But there was no place else to go, and the horses did
not belong to me. If I could only reach the ranch and secure my own
horse, I felt that no power on earth could chain me to the scenes of my
humiliation.

The horses decided me to return. Resaddling at an unknown hour, I rode
for the ranch. The animals were refreshed and made good time. As I rode
along I tried to convince myself that I could slip into the ranch,
secure my own saddle horse, and meet no one except the Mexicans. There
was a possibility that Deweese might still be in camp at the new
reservoir, and I was hopeful that my employer might not yet be returned
from the hunt on the Frio. After a number of hours’ riding, the horse
under saddle nickered. Halting him, I listened and heard the roosters
crowing in a chorus at the ranch. Clouds had obscured the moon, and so
by making a detour around the home buildings I was able to reach the
Mexican quarters unobserved. I rode up to the house of Enrique, and
quietly aroused him; told him my misfortune and asked him to hide me
until he could get up my horse. We turned the animals loose, and,
taking my saddle inside the _jacal_, held a whispered conversation.
Deweese was yet at the tank. If the hunting party had returned, they
had done so during the night. The distant range of my horse made it
impossible to get him before the middle of the forenoon, but Enrique
and Doña Anita assured me that my slightest wish was law to them.
Furnishing me with a blanket and pillow, they made me a couch on a dry
cowskin on the dirt floor at the foot of their bed, and before day
broke I had fallen asleep.

On awakening, I found the sun had already risen. Enrique and his wife
were missing from the room, but a peep through a crevice in the
palisade wall revealed Doña Anita in the kitchen adjoining. She had
detected my awakening, and soon brought me a cup of splendid coffee,
which I drank with relish. She urged on me also some dainty dishes,
which had always been favorites with me in Mexican cookery, but my
appetite was gone. Throwing myself back on the cowskin, I asked Doña
Anita how long Enrique had been gone in quest of my horse, and was
informed that he left before dawn, not even waiting for his customary
cup of coffee. With the kindness of a sister, the girl wife urged me to
take their bed; but I assured her that comfort was the least of my
concerns, complete effacement being my consuming thought.

Doña Anita withdrew, and as I lay pondering over the several possible
routes of escape, I heard a commotion in the ranch. I was in the act of
rising when Doña Anita burst into the _jacal_ to tell me that Don Lance
had been sighted returning. I was on my feet in an instant, heard the
long-drawn notes of the horn calling in the hounds, and, peering
through the largest crack, saw the cavalcade. As they approached,
driving their loose mounts in front of them, I felt that my ill luck
still hung over me; for among the unsaddled horses were the two which I
had turned free but a few hours before. The hunters had met the gaunted
animals between the ranch and the river, and were bringing them in to
return them to their own _remuda_. But at the same time the horses were
evidence that I was in the ranch. From the position of Uncle Lance, in
advance, I could see that he was riding direct to the house, and my
absence there would surely cause surprise. At best it was but a
question of time until I was discovered.

In the face of this new development, I gave up. There was no escaping
fate. Enrique might not return for two hours yet, and if he came,
driving in my horse, it would only prove my presence. I begged Doña
Anita to throw open the door and conceal nothing. But she was still
ready to aid in my concealment until night, offering to deny my
presence. But how could I conceal myself in a single room, and what was
so simple a device to a worldly man of sixty years’ experience? To me
the case looked hopeless. Even before we had concluded our discussion,
I saw Uncle Lance and the boys coming towards the Mexican quarters,
followed by Miss Jean and the household contingent. The fact that the
door of Enrique’s _jacal_ was closed, made it a shining mark for
investigation. Opening the inner door, I started to meet the visitors;
but Doña Anita planted herself at the outer entrance of the stoop, met
the visitors, and within my hearing and without being asked stoutly
denied my presence. “Hush up, you little liar,” said a voice, and I
heard a step and clanking spurs which I recognized. I had sat down on
the edge of the bed, and was rolling a cigarette as the crowd filed
into the _jacal_. A fortunate flush of anger came over me which served
to steady my voice; but I met their staring, after all, much as if I
had been a culprit and they a vigilance committee.

“Well, young fellow, explain your presence here,” demanded Uncle Lance.
Had it not been for the presence of Miss Jean, I had on my tongue’s end
a reply, relative to the eleventh commandment, emphasized with
sulphurous adjectives. But out of deference to the mistress of the
ranch, I controlled my anger, and, taking out of my pocket a flint, a
steel, and, a bit of _yesca,_ struck fire and leisurely lighted my
cigarette. Throwing myself back on the bed, as my employer repeated his
demand, I replied, “Ask Anita.” The girl understood, and, nothing
abashed, told the story in her native tongue, continually referring to
me as _pobre Tomas_. When her disconnected narrative was concluded,
Uncle Lance turned on me, saying:—

“And this is the result of all our plans. You went into Oakville, did
you? Tom, you haven’t, got as much sense as a candy frog. Walked right
into a trap with your head up and sassy. That’s right—don’t you listen
to any one. Didn’t I tell you that stage people would stick by each
other like thieves? And you forgot all my warnings and deliberately”—

“Hold on,” I interrupted. “You must recollect that the horses had had a
fifty-mile forced ride, were jaded, and on the point of collapse. With
the down stage refusing to carry us, and the girl on the point of
hysteria, where else could I go?”

“Go to jail if necessary. Go anywhere but the place you went. The
horses were jaded on a fifty-mile ride, were they? Either one of them
was good for a hundred without unsaddling, and you know it. Haven’t I
told you that this ranch would raise horses when we were all dead and
gone? Suppose you had killed a couple of horses? What would that have
been, compared to your sneaking into the ranch this way, like a whipped
cur with your tail between your legs? Now, the countryside will laugh
at us both.”

“The country may laugh,” I answered, “but I’ll not be here to hear it.
Enrique has gone after my horse, and as soon as he gets in I’m leaving
you for good.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind. You think you’re all shot to pieces,
don’t you? Well, you’ll stay right here until all your wounds heal.
I’ve taken all these degrees myself, and have lived to laugh at them
afterward. And I have had lessons that I hope you’ll never have to
learn. When I found out that my third wife had known a gambler before
she married me, I found out what the Bible means by rottenness of the
bones with which it says an evil woman uncrowns her husband. I’ll tell
you about it some day. But you’ve not been scarred in this little
side-play. You’re not even powder burnt. Why, in less than a month
you’ll be just as happy again as if you had good sense.”

Miss Jean now interrupted. “Clear right out of here,” she said to her
brother and the rest. “Yes, the whole pack of you. I want to talk with
Tom alone. Yes, you too—you’ve said too much already. Run along out.”

As they filed out, I noticed Uncle Lance pick up my saddle and throw it
across his shoulder, while Theodore gathered up the rancid blankets and
my fancy bridle, taking everything with them to the house. Waiting
until she saw that her orders were obeyed, Miss Jean came over and sat
down beside me on the bed. Anita stood like a fawn near the door,
likewise fearing banishment, but on a sign from her mistress she spread
a goatskin on the floor and sat down at our feet. Between two languages
and two women, I was as helpless as an ironed prisoner. Not that Anita
had any influence over me, but the mistress of the ranch had. In her
hands I was as helpless as a baby. I had come to the ranch a stranger
only a little over a year before, but had I been born there her
interest could have been no stronger. Jean Lovelace relinquished no
one, any more than a mother would one of her boys. I wanted to escape,
to get away from observation; I even plead for a month’s leave of
absence. But my reasons were of no avail, and after arguing pro and con
for over an hour, I went with her to the house. If the Almighty ever
made a good woman and placed her among men for their betterment, then
the presence of Jean Lovelace at Las Palomas savored of divine
appointment.

On reaching the yard, we rested a long time on a settee under a group
of china trees. The boys had dispersed, and after quite a friendly chat
together, we saw Uncle Lance sauntering out of the house, smiling as he
approached. “Tom’s going to stay,” said Miss Jean to her brother, as
the latter seated himself beside us; “but this abuse and blame you’re
heaping on him must stop. He did what he thought was best under the
circumstances, and you don’t know what they were. He has given me his
promise to stay, and I have given him mine that talk about this matter
will be dropped. Now that your anger has cooled, and I have you both
together, I want your word.”

“Tom,” said my employer, throwing his long bony arm around me, “I was
disappointed, terribly put out, and I showed it in freeing my mind. But
I feel better now—towards you, at least. I understand just how you felt
when your plans were thwarted by an unforeseen incident. If I don’t
know everything, then, since the milk is spilt, I’m not asking for
further particulars. If you did what you thought was best under the
circumstances, why, that’s all we ever ask of any one at Las Palomas. A
mistake is nothing; my whole life is a series of errors. I’ve been
trying, and expect to keep right on trying, to give you youngsters the
benefit of my years; but if you insist on learning it for yourselves,
well enough. When I was your age, I took no one’s advice; but look how
I’ve paid the fiddler. Possibly it was ordained otherwise, but it looks
to me like a shame that I can’t give you boys the benefit of my dearly
bought experience. But whether you take my advice or not, we’re going
to be just as good friends as ever. I need young fellows like you on
this ranch. I’ve sent Dan out after Deweese, and to-morrow we’re going
to commence gathering beeves. A few weeks’ good hard work will do you
worlds of good. In less than a year, you’ll look back at this as a
splendid lesson. Shucks! boy, a man is a narrow, calloused creature
until he has been shook up a few times by love affairs. They develop
him into the man he was intended to be. Come on into the house, Tom,
and Jean will make us a couple of mint juleps.”

What a blessed panacea for mental trouble is work! We were in the
saddle by daybreak the next morning, rounding up _remudas_. Every
available vaquero at the outlying ranchitas had been summoned. Dividing
the outfit and horses, Uncle Lance took twelve men and struck west for
the Ganso. With an equal number of men, Deweese pushed north for the
Frio, which he was to work down below Shepherd’s, thence back along the
home river. From the ranch books, we knew there were fully two thousand
beeves over five years old in our brand. These cattle had never known
an hour’s restraint since the day they were branded, and caution and
cool judgment would be required in handling them. Since the contract
only required twelve hundred, we expected to make an extra clean
gathering, using the oldest and naturally the largest beeves.

During the week spent in gathering, I got the full benefit of every
possible hour in the saddle. We reached the Ganso about an hour before
sundown. The weather had settled; water was plentiful, and every one
realized that the work in hand would require wider riding than under
dry conditions. By the time we had caught up fresh horses, the sun had
gone down. “Boys,” said Uncle Lance, “we want to make a big rodeo on
the head of this creek in the morning. Tom, you take two vaqueros and
lay off to the southwest about ten miles, and make a dry camp to-night.
Glenn may have the same help to the southeast; and every rascal of you
be in your saddles by daybreak. There are a lot of big _ladino_ beeves
in those brushy hills to the south and west. Be sure and be in your
saddles early enough to catch _all_ wild cattle out on the prairies. If
you want to, you can take a lunch in your pocket for breakfast. No; you
need no blankets—you’ll get up earlier if you sleep cold.”

Taking José Pena and Pasquale Arispe with me, I struck off on our
course in the gathering twilight. The first twitter of a bird in the
morning brought me to my feet; I roused the others, and we saddled and
were riding with the first sign of dawn in the east. Taking the outside
circle myself, I gave every bunch of cattle met on my course a good
start for the centre of the round-up. Pasquale and Jose followed
several miles to my rear on inner circles, drifting on the cattle which
I had started inward. As the sun arose, dispelling the morning mists, I
could see other cattle coming down in long strings out of the hills to
the eastward. Within an hour after starting, Gallup and I met. Our half
circle to the southward was perfect, and each turning back, we rode our
appointed divisions until the vaqueros from the wagon were sighted,
throwing in cattle and closing up the northern portion of the circle.
Before the sun was two hours high, the first rodeo of the day was
together, numbering about three thousand mixed cattle. In the few hours
since dawn, we had concentrated all animals in a territory at least
fifteen miles in diameter.

Uncle Lance was in his element. Detailing two vaqueros to hold the beef
cut within reach and a half dozen to keep the main herd compact, he
ordered the remainder of us to enter and begin the selecting of beeves.
There were a number of big wild steers in the round-up, but we left
those until the cut numbered over two hundred. When every hoof over
five years of age was separated, we had a nucleus for our beef herd
numbering about two hundred and forty steers. They were in fine
condition for grass cattle, and, turning the main herd free, we started
our cut for the wagon, being compelled to ride wide of them as we
drifted down stream towards camp, as there were a number of old beeves
which showed impatience at the restraint. But by letting them scatter
well, by the time they reached the wagon it required but two vaqueros
to hold them.

The afternoon was but a repetition of the morning. Everything on the
south side of the Nueces between the river and the wagon was thrown
together on the second round-up of the day, which yielded less than two
hundred cattle for our beef herd. But when we went into camp, dividing
into squads for night-herding, the day’s work was satisfactory to the
ranchero. Dan Happersett was given five vaqueros and stood the first
watch or until one A.M. Glenn Gallup and myself took the remainder of
the men and stood guard until morning. When Happersett called our guard
an hour after midnight, he said to Gallup and me as we were pulling on
our boots: “About a dozen big steers haven’t laid down. There’s only
one of them that has given any trouble. He’s a pinto that we cut in the
first round-up in the morning. He has made two breaks already to get
away, and if you don’t watch him close, he’ll surely give you the
slip.”

While riding to the relief, Glenn and I posted our vaqueros to be on
the lookout for the pinto beef. The cattle were intentionally bedded
loose; but even in the starlight and waning moon, every man easily
spotted the _ladino_ beef, uneasily stalking back and forth like a
caged tiger across the bed ground. A half hour before dawn, he made a
final effort to escape, charging out between Gallup and the vaquero
following up on the same side. From the other side of the bed ground, I
heard the commotion, but dare not leave the herd to assist. There was a
mile of open country surrounding our camp, and if two men could not
turn the beef on that space, it was useless for others to offer
assistance. In the stillness of the morning hour, we could hear the
running and see the flashes from six-shooters, marking the course of
the outlaw. After making a half circle, we heard them coming direct for
the herd. For fear of a stampede, we raised a great commotion around
the sleeping cattle; but in spite of our precaution, as the _ladino_
beef reëntered the herd, over half the beeves jumped to their feet and
began milling. But we held them until dawn, and after scattering them
over several hundred acres, left them grazing contentedly, when,
leaving two vaqueros with the feeding herd, we went back to the wagon.
The camp had been astir some time, and when Glenn reported the incident
of our watch, Uncle Lance said: “I thought I heard some shooting while
I was cat-napping at daylight. Well, we can use a little fresh beef in
this very camp. We’ll kill him at noon. The wagon will move down near
the river this morning, so we can make three rodeos from it without
moving camp, and to-night we’ll have a side of Pinto’s ribs barbecued.
My mouth is watering this very minute for a rib roast.”

That morning after a big rodeo on the Nueces, well above the Ganso, we
returned to camp. Throwing into our herd the cut of less than a hundred
secured on the morning round-up, Uncle Lance, who had preceded us, rode
out from the wagon with a carbine. Allowing the beeves to scatter, the
old ranchero met and rode zigzagging through them until he came face to
face with the pinto _ladino_. On noticing the intruding horseman, the
outlaw threw up his head. There was a carbine report and the big fellow
went down in his tracks. By the time the herd had grazed away,
Tiburcio, who was cooking with our wagon, brought out all the knives,
and the beef was bled, dressed, and quartered.

“You can afford to be extravagant with this beef,” said Uncle Lance to
the old cook, when the quarters had been carried in to the wagon. “I’ve
been ranching on this river nearly forty years, and I’ve always made it
a rule, where cattle cannot be safely handled, to beef them then and
there. I’ve sat up many a night barbecuing the ribs of a _ladino_. If
you have plenty of salt, Tiburcio, you can make a brine and jerk those
hind quarters. It will make fine chewing for the boys on night herd
when once we start for the coast.”

Following down the home river, we made ten other rodeos before we met
Deweese. We had something over a thousand beeves while he had less than
eight hundred. Throwing the two cuts together, we made a count, and cut
back all the younger and smaller cattle until the herd was reduced to
the required number. Before my advent at Las Palomas, about the only
outlet for beef cattle had been the canneries at Rockport and Fulton.
But these cattle were for shipment by boat to New Orleans and other
coast cities. The route to the coast was well known to my employer, and
detailing twelve men for the herd, a horse wrangler and cook extra, we
started for it, barely touching at the ranch on our course. It was a
nice ten days’ trip. After the first night, we used three guards of
four men each. Grazing contentedly, the cattle quieted down until on
our arrival half our numbers could have handled them. The herd was
counted and received on the outlying prairies, and as no steamer was
due for a few days, another outfit took charge of them.

Uncle Lance was never much of a man for towns, and soon after
settlement the next morning we were ready to start home. But the
payment, amounting to thirty thousand dollars, presented a problem, as
the bulk of it came to us in silver. There was scarcely a merchant in
the place who would assume the responsibility of receiving it even on
deposit, and in the absence of a bank, there was no alternative but to
take it home. The agent for the steamship company solicited the money
for transportation to New Orleans, mentioning the danger of robbery,
and referring to the recent attempt of bandits to hold up the San
Antonio and Corpus Christi stage. I had good cause to remember that
incident, and was wondering what my employer would do under the
circumstances, when he turned from the agent, saying:—

“Well, we’ll take it home just the same. I have no use for money in New
Orleans. Nor do I care if every bandit in Texas knows we’ve got the
money in the wagon. I want to buy a few new guns, anyhow. If robbers
tackle us, we’ll promise them a warm reception—and I never knew a thief
who didn’t think more of his own carcass than of another man’s money.”

The silver was loaded into the wagon in sacks, and we started on our
return. It was rather a risky trip, but we never concealed the fact
that we had every dollar of the money in the wagon. It would have been
dangerous to make an attempt on us, for we were all well armed. We
reached the ranch in safety, rested a day, and then took the ambulance
and went on to San Antonio. Three of us, besides Tiburcio, accompanied
our employer, each taking a saddle horse, and stopping by night at
ranches where we were known. On the third day we reached the city in
good time to bank the money, much to my relief.

As there was no work pressing at home, we spent a week in the city,
thoroughly enjoying ourselves. Uncle Lance was negotiating for the
purchase of a large Spanish land grant, which adjoined our range on the
west, taking in the Ganso and several miles’ frontage on both sides of
the home river. This required his attention for a few days, during
which time Deweese met two men on the lookout for stock cattle with
which to start a new ranch on the Devil’s River in Valverde County.
They were in the market for three thousand cows, to be delivered that
fall or the following spring. Our _segundo_ promptly invited them to
meet his employer that evening at our hotel. As the ranges in eastern
Texas became of value for agriculture, the cowman moved westward,
disposing of his cattle or taking them with him. It was men of this
class whom Deweese had met during the day, and on filling their
appointment in the evening, our employer and the buyers soon came to an
agreement. References were exchanged, and the next afternoon a contract
was entered into whereby we were to deliver, May first, at Las Palomas
ranch, three thousand cows between the ages of two and four years.

There was some delay in perfecting the title to the land grant. “We’ll
start home in the morning, boys,” said Uncle Lance, the evening after
the contract was drawn. “You simply can’t hurry a land deal. I’ll get
that tract in time, but there’s over a hundred heirs now of the
original Don. I’d just like to know what the grandee did for his king
to get that grant. Tickled his royal nibs, I reckon, with some cock and
bull story, and here I have to give up nearly forty thousand dollars of
good honest money. Twenty years ago I was offered this same grant for
ten cents an acre, and now I’m paying four bits. But I didn’t have the
money then, and I’m not sure I’d have bought it if I had. But I need it
now, and I need it bad, and that’s why I’m letting them hold me up for
such a figure.”

Stopping at the “last chance” road house on the outskirts of the city
the next morning, for a final drink as we were leaving, Uncle Lance
said to us over the cattle contract: “There’s money in it—good money,
too. But we’re not going to fill it out of our home brand. Not in this
year of our Lord. I think too much of my cows to part with a single
animal. Boys, cows made Las Palomas what she is, and as long as they
win for me, I intend—to swear by them through thick and thin, in good
and bad repute, fair weather or foul. So, June, just as soon as the
fall branding is over, you can take Tom with you for an interpreter and
start for Mexico to contract these cows. Las Palomas is going to branch
out and spread herself. As a ranchman, I can bring the cows across for
breeding purposes free of duty, and I know of no good reason why I
can’t change my mind and sell them. Dan, take Tiburcio out a cigar.”




CHAPTER XI
A TURKEY BAKE


Deweese and I came back from Mexico during Christmas week. On reaching
Las Palomas, we found Frank Nancrede and Add Tully, the latter being
also a trail foreman, at the ranch. They were wintering in San Antonio,
and were spending a few weeks at our ranch, incidentally on the lookout
for several hundred saddle horses for trail purposes the coming spring.
We had no horses for sale, but nevertheless Uncle Lance had prevailed
on them to make Las Palomas headquarters during their stay in the
country.

The first night at the ranch, Miss Jean and I talked until nearly
midnight. There had been so many happenings during my absence that it
required a whole evening to tell them all. From the naming of Anita’s
baby to the rivalry between John and Theodore for the favor of Frances
Vaux, all the latest social news of the countryside was discussed. Miss
Jean had attended the dance at Shepherd’s during the fall, and had
heard it whispered that Oxenford and Esther were anything but happy.
The latest word from the Vaux ranch said that the couple had separated;
at least there was some trouble, for when Oxenford had attempted to
force her to return to Oakville, and had made some disparaging remarks,
Tony Hunter had crimped a six-shooter over his head. I pretended not to
be interested in this, but secretly had I learned that Hunter had
killed Oxenford, I should have had no very serious regrets.

Uncle Lance had promised Tully and Nancrede a turkey hunt during the
holidays, so on our unexpected return it was decided to have it at
once. There had been a heavy mast that year, and in the encinal ridges
to the east wild turkeys were reported plentiful. Accordingly we set
out the next afternoon for a camp hunt in some oak cross timbers which
grew on the eastern border of our ranch lands. Taking two pack mules
and Tiburcio as cook, a party of eight of us rode away, expecting to
remain overnight. Uncle Lance knew of a fine camping spot about ten
miles from the ranch. When within a few miles of the place, Tiburcio
was sent on ahead with the pack mules to make camp. “Boys, we’ll divide
up here,” said Uncle Lance, “and take a little scout through these
cross timbers and try and locate some roosts. The camp will be in those
narrows ahead yonder where that burnt timber is to your right. Keep an
eye open for _javalina_ signs; they used to be plentiful through here
when there was good mast. Now, scatter out in pairs, and if you can
knock down a gobbler or two we’ll have a turkey bake to-night.”

Dan Happersett knew the camping spot, so I went with him, and together
we took a big circle through the encinal, keeping alert for game signs.
Before we had gone far, evidence became plentiful, not only of turkeys,
but of peccary and deer. Where the turkeys had recently been
scratching, many times we dismounted and led our horses—but either the
turkeys were too wary for us, or else we had been deceived as to the
freshness of the sign. Several successive shots on our right caused us
to hurry out of the timber in the direction of the reports. Halting in
the edge of the timber, we watched the strip of prairie between us and
the next cover to the south. Soon a flock of fully a hundred wild
turkeys came running out of the encinal on the opposite side and
started across to our ridge. Keeping under cover, we rode to intercept
them, never losing sight of the covey. They were running fast; but when
they were nearly halfway across the opening, there was another shot and
they took flight, sailing into cover ahead of us, well out of range.
But one gobbler was so fat that he was unable to fly over a hundred
yards and was still in the open. We rode to cut him off. On sighting
us, he attempted to rise; but his pounds were against him, and when we
crossed his course he was so winded that our horses ran all around him.
After we had both shot a few times, missing him, he squatted in some
tall grass and stuck his head under a tuft. Dismounting, Dan sprang on
to him like a fox, and he was ours. We wrung his neck, and agreed to
report that we had shot him through the head, thus concealing, in the
absence of bullet wounds, our poor marksmanship.

When we reached the camp shortly before dark, we found the others had
already arrived, ours making the sixth turkey in the evening’s bag. We
had drawn ours on killing it, as had the others, and after supper Uncle
Lance superintended the stuffing of the two largest birds. While this
was in progress, others made a stiff mortar, and we coated each turkey
with about three inches of the waxy play, feathers and all. Opening our
camp-fire, we placed the turkeys together, covered them with ashes and
built a heaping fire over and around them. A number of haunts had been
located by the others, but as we expected to make an early hunt in the
morning, we decided not to visit any of the roosts that night. After
Uncle Lance had regaled us with hunting stories of an early day, the
discussion innocently turned to my recent elopement. By this time the
scars had healed fairly well, and I took the chaffing in all good
humor. Tully told a personal experience, which, if it was the truth,
argued that in time I might become as indifferent to my recent mishap
as any one could wish.

“My prospects of marrying a few years ago,” said Tully, lying full
stretch before the fire, “were a whole lot better than yours, Quirk.
But my ambition those days was to boss a herd up the trail and get
top-notch wages. She was a Texas girl, just like yours, bred up in Van
Zandt County. She could ride a horse like an Indian. Bad horses seemed
afraid of her. Why, I saw her once when she was about sixteen, take a
black stallion out of his stable,—lead him out with but a rope about
his neck,—throw a half hitch about his nose, and mount him as though he
was her pet. Bareback and without a bridle she rode him ten miles for a
doctor. There wasn’t a mile of the distance either but he felt the
quirt burning in his flank and knew he was being ridden by a master.
Her father scolded her at the time, and boasted about it later.

“She had dozens of admirers, and the first impression I ever made on
her was when she was about twenty. There was a big tournament being
given, and all the young bloods in many counties came in to contest for
the prizes. I was a double winner in the games and contests—won a
roping prize and was the only lad that came inside the time limit as a
lancer, though several beat me on rings. Of course the tournament ended
with a ball. Having won the lance prize, it was my privilege of
crowning the ‘queen’ of the ball. Of course I wasn’t going to throw
away such a chance, for there was no end of rivalry amongst the girls
over it. The crown was made of flowers, or if there were none in
season, of live-oak leaves. Well, at the ball after the tournament I
crowned Miss Kate with a crown of oak leaves. After that I felt bold
enough to crowd matters, and things came my way. We were to be married
during Easter week, but her mother up and died, so we put it off awhile
for the sake of appearances.

“The next spring I got a chance to boss a herd up the trail for Jesse
Ellison. It was the chance of my life and I couldn’t think of refusing.
The girl put up quite a mouth about it, and I explained to her that a
hundred a month wasn’t offered to every man. She finally gave in, but
still you could see she wasn’t pleased. Girls that way don’t sabe
cattle matters a little bit. She promised to write me at several points
which I told her the herd would pass. When I bade her good-by, tears
stood in her eyes, though she tried to hide them. I’d have gambled my
life on her that morning.

“Well, we had a nice trip, good outfit and strong cattle. Uncle Jess
mounted us ten horses to the man, every one fourteen hands or better,
for we were contracted for delivery in Nebraska. It was a five months’
drive with scarcely an incident on the way. Just a run or two and a dry
drive or so. I had lots of time to think about Kate. When we reached
the Chisholm crossing on Red River, I felt certain that I would find a
letter, but I didn’t. I wrote her from there, but when we reached
Caldwell, nary a letter either. The same luck at Abilene. Try as I
might, I couldn’t make it out. Something was wrong, but what it was,
was anybody’s guess.

“At this last place we got our orders to deliver the cattle at the
junction of the middle and lower Loup. It was a terror of a long drive,
but that wasn’t a circumstance compared to not hearing from Kate. I
kept all this to myself, mind you. When our herd reached its
destination, which it did on time, as hard luck would have it there was
a hitch in the payment. The herd was turned loose and all the outfit
but myself sent home. I stayed there two months longer at a little
place called Broken Bow. I held the bill of sale for the herd, and
would turn it over, transferring the cattle from one owner to another,
on the word from my employer. At last I received a letter from Uncle
Jesse saying that the payment in full had been made, so I surrendered
the final document and came home. Those trains seemed to run awful
slow. But I got home all too soon, for she had then been married three
months.

“You see an agent for eight-day clocks came along, and being a stranger
took her eye. He was one of those nice, dapper fellows, wore a red
necktie, and could talk all day to a woman. He worked by the rule of
three,—tickle, talk, and flatter, with a few cutes thrown in for a
pelon; that gets nearly any of them. They live in town now. He’s a
windmill agent. I never went near them.”

Meanwhile the fire kept pace with the talk, thanks to Uncle Lance’s
watchful eye. “That’s right, Tiburcio, carry up plenty of good lena,”
he kept saying. “Bring in all the black-jack oak that you can find; it
makes fine coals. These are both big gobblers, and to bake them until
they fall to pieces like a watermelon will require a steady fire till
morning. Pile up a lot of wood, and if I wake up during the night,
trust to me to look after the fire. I’ve baked so many turkeys this way
that I’m an expert at the business.”

“A girl’s argument,” remarked Dan Happersett in a lull of talk, “don’t
have to be very weighty to fit any case. Anything she does is
justifiable. That’s one reason why I always kept shy of women. I admit
that I’ve toyed around with some of them; have tossed my tug on one or
two just to see if they would run on the rope. But now generally I keep
a wire fence between them and myself if they show any symptoms of being
on the marry. Maybe so I was in earnest once, back on the Trinity. But
it seems that every time that I made a pass, my loop would foul or fail
to open or there was brush in the way.”

“Just because you have a few gray hairs in your head you think you’re
awful foxy, don’t you?” said Uncle Lance to Dan. “I’ve seen lots of
independent fellows like you. If I had a little widow who knew her
cards, and just let her kitten up to you and act coltish, inside a week
you would he following her around like a pet lamb.”

“I knew a fellow,” said Nancrede, lighting his pipe with a firebrand,
“that when the clerk asked him, when he went for a license to marry, if
he would swear that the young lady—his intended—was over twenty-one,
said: ‘Yes, by G—, I’ll swear that she’s over thirty-one.’”

At the next pause in the yarning, I inquired why a wild turkey always
deceived itself by hiding its head and leaving the body exposed. “That
it’s a fact, we all know,” volunteered Uncle Lance, “but the why and
wherefore is too deep for me. I take it that it’s due to running to
neck too much in their construction. Now an ostrich is the same way,
all neck with not a lick of sense. And the same applies to the human
family. You take one of these long-necked cowmen and what does he know
outside of cattle. Nine times out of ten, I can tell a sensible girl by
merely looking at her neck. Now snicker, you dratted young fools, just
as if I wasn’t talking horse sense to you. Some of you boys haven’t got
much more sabe than a fat old gobbler.”

“When I first came to this State,” said June Deweese, who had been
quietly and attentively listening to the stories, “I stopped over on
the Neches River near a place called Shot-a-buck Crossing. I had an
uncle living there with whom I made my home the first few years that I
lived in Texas. There are more or less cattle there, but it is
principally a cotton country. There was an old cuss living over there
on that river who was land poor, but had a powerful purty girl. Her old
man owned any number of plantations on the river—generally had lots of
nigger renters to look after. Miss Sallie, the daughter, was the belle
of the neighborhood. She had all the graces with a fair mixture of the
weaknesses of her sex. The trouble was, there was no young man in the
whole country fit to hold her horse. At least she and her folks
entertained that idea. There was a storekeeper and a young doctor at
the county seat, who it seems took turns calling on her. It looked like
it was going to be a close race. Outside of these two there wasn’t a
one of us who could touch her with a twenty-four-foot fish-pole. We
simply took the side of the road when she passed by.

“About this time there drifted in from out west near Fort McKavett, a
young fellow named Curly Thorn. He had relatives living in that
neighborhood. Out at the fort he was a common foreman on a ranch. Talk
about your graceful riders, he sat a horse in a manner that left
nothing to be desired. Well, Curly made himself very agreeable with all
the girls on the range, but played no special favorites. He stayed in
the country, visiting among cousins, until camp meeting began over at
the Alabama Camp Ground. During this meeting Curly proved himself quite
a gallant by carrying first one young lady and the next evening some
other to camp meeting. During these two weeks of the meeting, some one
introduced him to Miss Sallie. Now, remember, he didn’t play her for a
favorite no more than any other. That’s what miffed her. She thought he
ought to.

“One Sunday afternoon she intimated to him, like a girl sometimes will,
that she was going home, and was sorry that she had no companion for
the ride. This was sufficient for the gallant Curly to offer himself to
her as an escort. She simply thought she was stealing a beau from some
other girl, and he never dreamt he was dallying with Neches River
royalty. But the only inequality in that couple as they rode away from
the ground was an erroneous idea in her and her folks’ minds. And that
difference was in the fact that her old dad had more land than he could
pay taxes on. Well, Curly not only saw her home, but stayed for
tea—that’s the name the girls have for supper over on the Neches—and
that night carried her back to the evening service. From that day till
the close of the session he was devotedly hers. A month afterward when
he left, it was the talk of the country that they were to be married
during the coming holidays.

“But then there were the young doctor and the storekeeper still in the
game. Curly was off the scene temporarily, but the other two were
riding their best horses to a shadow. Miss Sallie’s folks were pulling
like bay steers for the merchant, who had some money, while the young
doctor had nothing but empty pill bags and a saddle horse or two. The
doctor was the better looking, and, before meeting Curly Thorn, Miss
Sallie had favored him. Knowing ones said they were engaged. But near
the close of the race there was sufficient home influence used for the
storekeeper to take the lead and hold it until the show down came. Her
folks announced the wedding, and the merchant received the best wishes
of his friends, while the young doctor took a trip for his health.
Well, it developed afterwards that she was engaged to both the
storekeeper and the doctor at the same time. But that’s nothing. My
experience tells me that a girl don’t need broad shoulders to carry
three or four engagements at the same time.

“Well, within a week of the wedding, who should drift in to spend
Christmas but Curly Thorn. His cousins, of course, lost no time in
giving him the lay of the land. But Curly acted indifferent, and never
even offered to call on Miss Sallie. Us fellows joked him about his
girl going to marry another fellow, and he didn’t seem a little bit put
out. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the sudden turn as a good joke on
himself. But one morning, two days before the wedding was to take
place, Miss Sallie was missing from her home, as was likewise Curly
Thorn from the neighborhood. Yes, Thorn had eloped with her and they
were married the next morning in Nacogdoches. And the funny thing about
it was, Curly never met her after his return until the night they
eloped. But he had a girl cousin who had a finger in the pie. She and
Miss Sallie were as thick as three in a bed, and Curly didn’t have
anything to do but play the hand that was dealt him.

“Before I came to Las Palomas, I was over round Fort McKavett and met
Curly. We knew each other, and he took me home and had me stay
overnight with him. They had been married then four years. She had a
baby on each knee and another in her arms. There was so much reality in
life that she had no time to become a dreamer. Matrimony in that case
was a good leveler of imaginary rank. I always admired Curly for the
indifferent hand he played all through the various stages of the
courtship. He never knew there was such a thing as difference. He
simply coppered the play to win, and the cards came his way.”

“Bully for Curly!” said Uncle Lance, arising and fixing the fire, as
the rest of us unrolled our blankets. “If some of my rascals could make
a ten strike like that it would break a streak of bad luck which has
overshadowed Las Palomas for over thirty years. Great Scott!—but those
gobblers smell good. I can hear them blubbering and sizzling in their
shells. It will surely take an axe to crack that clay in the morning.
But get under your blankets, lads, for I’ll call you for a turkey
breakfast about dawn.”




CHAPTER XII
SUMMER OF ’77


During our trip into Mexico the fall before, Deweese contracted for
three thousand cows at two haciendas on the Rio San Juan. Early in the
spring June and I returned to receive the cattle. The ranch outfit
under Uncle Lance was to follow some three weeks later and camp on the
American side at Roma, Texas. We made arrangements as we crossed into
Mexico with a mercantile house in Mier to act as our bankers,
depositing our own drafts and taking letters of credit to the interior.
In buying the cows we had designated Mier, which was just opposite
Roma, as the place for settlement and Uncle Lance on his arrival
brought drafts to cover our purchases, depositing them with the same
merchant. On receiving, we used a tally mark which served as a road
brand, thus preventing a second branding, and throughout—much to the
disgust of the Mexican vaqueros—Deweese enforced every humane idea
which Nancrede had practiced the spring before in accepting the trail
herd at Las Palomas. There were endless quantities of stock cattle to
select from on the two haciendas, and when ready to start, under the
specifications, a finer lot of cows would have been hard to find. The
worst drawback was that they were constantly dropping calves on the
road, and before we reached the river we had a calf-wagon in regular
use. On arriving at the Rio Grande, the then stage of water was
fortunately low and we crossed the herd without a halt, the import
papers having been attended to in advance.

Uncle Lance believed in plenty of help, and had brought down from Las
Palomas an ample outfit of men and horses. He had also anticipated the
dropping of calves and had rigged up a carrier, the box of which was
open framework. Thus until a calf was strong enough to follow, the
mother, as she trailed along beside the wagon, could keep an eye on her
offspring. We made good drives the first two or three days; but after
clearing the first bottoms of the Rio Grande and on reaching the
tablelands, we made easy stages of ten to twelve miles a day. When near
enough to calculate on our arrival at Las Palomas, the old ranchero
quit us and went on into the ranch. Several days later a vaquero met
the herd about thirty miles south of Santa Maria, and brought the
information that the Valverde outfit was at the ranch, and instructions
to veer westward and drive down the Ganso on approaching the Nueces. By
these orders the delivery on the home river would occur at least twenty
miles west of the ranch headquarters.

As we were passing to the westward of Santa Maria, our employer and one
of the buyers rode out from that ranch and met the herd. They had
decided not to brand until arriving at their destination on the Devil’s
River, which would take them at least a month longer. While this
deviation was nothing to us, it was a gain to them. The purchaser was
delighted with the cattle and our handling of them, there being fully a
thousand young calves, and on reaching their camp on the Ganso, the
delivery was completed—four days in advance of the specified time. For
fear of losses, we had received a few head extra, and, on counting them
over, found we had not lost a single hoof. The buyers received the
extra cattle, and the delivery was satisfactorily concluded. One of the
partners returned with us to Las Palomas for the final settlement,
while the other, taking charge of the herd, turned them up the Nueces.
The receiving outfit had fourteen men and some hundred and odd horses.
Aside from their commissary, they also had a calf-wagon, drawn by two
yoke of oxen and driven by a strapping big negro. In view of the big
calf crop, the partners concluded that an extra conveyance would not be
amiss, and on Uncle Lance making them a reasonable figure on our
calf-wagon and the four mules drawing it, they never changed a word but
took the outfit. As it was late in the day when the delivery was made,
the double outfit remained in the same camp that night, and with the
best wishes, bade each other farewell in the morning. Nearly a month
had passed since Deweese and I had left Las Palomas for the Rio San
Juan, and, returning with the herd, had met our own outfit at the Rio
Grande. During the interim, before the ranch outfit had started, the
long-talked-of tournament on the Nueces had finally been arranged. The
date had been set for the fifth of June, and of all the home news which
the outfit brought down to the Rio Grande, none was as welcome as this.
According to the programme, the contests were to include riding,
roping, relay races, and handling the lance. Several of us had never
witnessed a tournament; but as far as roping and riding were concerned,
we all considered ourselves past masters of the arts. The relay races
were simple enough, and Dan Happersett volunteered this explanation of
a lance contest to those of us who were uninitiated:—

“Well,” said Dan, while we were riding home from the Ganso, “a straight
track is laid off about two hundred yards long. About every forty yards
there is a post set up along the line with an arm reaching out over the
track. From this there is suspended an iron ring about two inches in
diameter. The contestant is armed with a wooden lance of regulation
length, and as he rides down this track at full speed and within a time
limit, he is to impale as many of these rings as possible. Each
contestant is entitled to three trials and the one impaling the most
rings is declared the victor. That’s about all there is to it, except
the award. The festivities, of course, close with a dance, in which the
winner crowns the Queen of the ball. That’s the reason the girls always
take such an interest in the lancing, because the winner has the
choosing of his Queen. I won it once, over on the Trinity, and chose a
little cripple girl. Had to do it or leave the country, for it was
looked upon as an engagement to marry. Oh, I tell you, if a girl is
sweet on a fellow, it’s a mighty strong card to play.”

Before starting for the Rio Grande, the old ranchero had worked our
horse stock, forming fourteen new _manadas_, so that on our return
about the only work which could command our attention was the breaking
of more saddle horses. We had gentled two hundred the spring before,
and breaking a hundred and fifty now, together with the old _remudas_,
would give Las Palomas fully five hundred saddle horses. The ranch had
the geldings, the men had time, and there was no good excuse for not
gentling more horses. So after a few days’ rest the oldest and heaviest
geldings were gathered and we then settled down to routine horse work.
But not even this exciting employment could keep the coming tournament
from our minds. Within a week after returning to the ranch, we laid off
a lancing course, and during every spare hour the knights of Las
Palomas might be seen galloping over the course, practicing. I tried
using the lance several times, only to find that it was not as easy as
it looked, and I finally gave up the idea of lancing honors, and turned
my attention to the relay races.

Miss Jean had been the only representative of our ranch at Shepherd’s
on San Jacinto Day. But she had had her eyes open on that occasion, and
on our return had a message for nearly every one of us. I was not
expecting any, still the mistress of Las Palomas had met my old
sweetheart and her sister, Mrs. Hunter, at the ferry, and the three had
talked the matter over and mingled their tears in mutual sympathy. I
made a blustering talk which was to cover my real feelings and to show
that I had grown indifferent toward Esther, but that tactful woman had
not lived in vain, and read me aright.

“Tom,” said she, “I was a young woman when you were a baby. There’s
lots of things in which you might deceive me, but Esther McLeod is not
one of them. You loved her once, and you can’t tell me that in less
than a year you have forgotten her. I won’t say that men forget easier
than women, but you have never suffered one tenth the heartaches over
Esther McLeod that she has over you. You can afford to be generous with
her, Tom. True, she allowed an older sister to browbeat and bully her
into marrying another man, but she was an inexperienced girl then. If
you were honest, you would admit that Esther of her own accord would
never have married Jack Oxenford. Then why punish the innocent? Oh,
Tom, if you could only see her now! Sorrow and suffering have developed
the woman in her, and she is no longer the girl you knew and loved.”

Miss Jean was hewing too close to the line for my comfort. Her
observations were so near the truth that they touched me in a
vulnerable spot. Yet as I paced the room, I expressed myself
emphatically as never wishing to meet Esther McLeod again. I really
felt that way. But I had not reckoned on the mistress of Las Palomas,
nor considered that her strong sympathy for my former sweetheart had
moved her to more than ordinary endeavor.

The month of May passed. Uncle Lance spent several weeks at the Booth
ranch on the Frio. At the home ranch practice for the contests went
forward with vigor. By the first of June we had sifted the candidates
down until we had determined on our best men for each entry. The old
ranchero and our _segundo_, together with Dan Happersett, made up a
good set of judges on our special fitness for the different contests,
and we were finally picked in this order: Enrique Lopez was to rope;
Pasquale Arispe was to ride; to Theodore Quayle fell the chance of
handling the lance, while I, being young and nimble on my feet, was
decided on as the rider in the ten-mile relay race.

In this contest I was fortunate in having the pick of over three
hundred and fifty saddle horses. They were the accumulation of years of
the best that Las Palomas bred, and it was almost bewildering to make
the final selection. But in this I had the benefit of the home judges,
and when the latter differed on the speed of a horse, a trial usually
settled the point. June Deweese proved to be the best judge of the
ranch horses, yet Uncle Lance never yielded his opinion without a test
of speed. When the horses were finally decided on, we staked off a
half-mile circular track on the first bottom of the river, and every
evening the horses were sent over the course. Under the conditions, a
contestant was entitled to use as many horses as he wished, but must
change mounts at least twenty times in riding the ten miles, and must
finish under a time limit of twenty-five minutes. Out of our abundance
we decided to use ten mounts, thus allotting each horse two dashes of a
half mile with a rest between.

The horse-breaking ended a few days before the appointed time. Las
Palomas stood on the tiptoe of expectancy over the coming tourney. Even
Miss Jean rode—having a gentle saddle horse caught up for her use, and
taking daily rides about the ranch, to witness the practice, for she
was as deeply interested as any of us in the forthcoming contests. Born
to the soil of Texas, she was a horsewoman of no ordinary ability, and
rode like a veteran. On the appointed day, Las Palomas was abandoned;
even the Mexican contingent joining in the exodus for Shepherd’s, and
only a few old servants remaining at the ranch. As usual, Miss Jean
started by ambulance the afternoon before, taking along a horse for her
own saddle. The white element and the vaqueros made an early start,
driving a _remuda_ of thirty loose horses, several of which were
outlaws, and a bell mare. They were the picked horses of the
ranch—those which we expected to use in the contests, and a change of
mounts for the entire outfit on reaching the martial field. We had
herded the horses the night before, and the vaqueros were halfway to
the ferry when we overtook them. Uncle Lance was with us and in the
height of his glory, in one breath bragging on Enrique and Pasquale,
and admonishing and cautioning Theodore and myself in the next.

On nearing Shepherd’s, Uncle Lance preceded us, to hunt up the
committee and enter a man from Las Palomas for each of the contests.
The ground had been well chosen,—a large open bottom on the north side
of the river and about a mile above the ferry. The lancing course was
laid off; temporary corrals had been built, to hold about thirty range
cattle for the roping, and an equal number of outlaw horses for the
riding contests; at the upper end of the valley a half-mile circular
racecourse had been staked off. Throwing our outlaws into the corral,
and leaving the _remuda_ in charge of two vaqueros, we galloped into
Shepherd’s with the gathering crowd. From all indications this would be
a red-letter day at the ferry, for the attendance drained a section of
country fully a hundred miles in diameter. On the north from
Campbellton on the Atascosa to San Patricio on the home river to the
south, and from the Blanco on the east to well up the Frio and San
Miguel on the west, horsemen were flocking by platoons. I did not know
one man in twenty, but Deweese greeted them all as if they were near
neighbors. Later in the morning, conveyances began to arrive from
Oakville and near-by points, and the presence of women lent variety to
the scene.

Under the rules, all entries were to be made before ten o’clock. The
contests were due to begin half an hour later, and each contestant was
expected to be ready to compete in the order of his application. There
were eight entries in the relay race all told, mine being the seventh,
which gave me a good opportunity to study the riding of those who
preceded me. There were ten or twelve entries each in the roping and
riding contests, while the knights of the lance numbered an even
thirty. On account of the large number of entries the contests would
require a full day, running the three classes simultaneously, allowing
a slight intermission for lunch. The selection of disinterested judges
for each class slightly delayed the commencement. After changing horses
on reaching the field, the contests with the lance opened with a lad
from Ramirena, who galloped over the course and got but a single ring.
From the lateness of our entries, none of us would be called until
afternoon, and we wandered at will from one section of the field to
another. “Red” Earnest, from Waugh’s ranch on the Frio, was the first
entry in the relay race. He had a good mount of eight Spanish horses
which he rode bareback, making many of his changes in less than fifteen
seconds apiece, and finishing full three minutes under the time limit.
The feat was cheered to the echo, I joining with the rest, and numerous
friendly bets were made that the time would not be lowered that day.
Two other riders rode before the noon recess, only one of whom came
under the time limit, and his time was a minute over Earnest’s record.

Miss Jean had camped the ambulance in sight of the field, and kept open
house to all comers. Suspecting that she would have Mrs. Hunter and
Esther for lunch, if they were present, I avoided our party and took
dinner with Mrs. Booth. Meanwhile Uncle Lance detailed Deweese and
Happersett to handle my horses, allowing us five vaqueros, and
distributing the other men as assistants to our other three
contestants. The day was an ideal one for the contests, rather warm
during the morning, but tempered later by a fine afternoon breeze. It
was after four o’clock when I was called, with Waugh’s man still in the
lead. Forming a small circle at the starting-point, each of our
vaqueros led a pair of horses, in bridles only, around a
ring,—constantly having in hand eight of my mount of ten. As handlers,
I had two good men in our _segundo_ and Dan Happersett. I crossed the
line amid the usual shouting with a running start, determined, if
possible, to lower the record of Red Earnest. In making the changes,
all I asked was a good grip on the mane, and I found my seat as the
horse shot away. The horses had broken into an easy sweat before the
race began, and having stripped to the lowest possible ounce of
clothing, I felt that I was getting out of them every fraction of speed
they possessed. The ninth horse in my mount, a roan, for some unknown
reason sulked at starting, then bolted out on the prairie, but got away
with the loss of only about ten seconds, running the half mile like a
scared wolf. Until it came the roan’s turn to go again, no untoward
incident happened, friendly timekeepers posting me at every change of
mounts. But when this bolter’s turn came again, he reared and plunged
away stiff-legged, crossed the inward furrow, and before I could turn
him again to the track, cut inside the course for two stakes or
possibly fifty yards. By this time I was beyond recall, but as I came
round and passed the starting-point, the judges attempted to stop me,
and I well knew my chances were over. Uncle Lance promptly waived all
rights to the award, and I was allowed to finish the race, lowering
Earnest’s time over twenty seconds. The eighth contestant, so I learned
later, barely came under the time limit.

The vaqueros took charge of the relay mounts, and, reinvesting myself
in my discarded clothing, I mounted my horse to leave the field, when
who should gallop up and extend sympathy and congratulations but Miss
Jean and my old sweetheart. There was no avoiding them, and discourtesy
to the mistress of Las Palomas being out of the question, I greeted
Esther with an affected warmth and cordiality. As I released her hand I
could not help noticing how she had saddened into a serious woman,
while the gentleness in her voice condemned me for my attitude toward
her. But Miss Jean artfully gave us little time for embarrassment,
inviting me to show them the unconcluded programme. From contest to
contest, we rode the field until the sun went down, and the trials
ended.

It was my first tournament and nothing escaped my notice. There were
fully one hundred and fifty women and girls, and possibly double that
number of men, old and young, every one mounted and galloping from one
point of the field to another. Blushing maidens and their swains
dropped out of the throng, and from shady vantage points watched the
crowd surge back and forth across the field of action. We were sorry to
miss Enrique’s roping; for having snapped his saddle horn with the
first cast, he recovered his rope, fastened it to the fork of his
saddletree, and tied his steer in fifty-four seconds, or within ten of
the winner’s record. When he apologized to Miss Jean for his bad luck,
hat in hand and his eyes as big as saucers, one would have supposed he
had brought lasting disgrace on Las Palomas.

We were more fortunate in witnessing Pasquale’s riding. For this
contest outlaws and spoilt horses had been collected from every
quarter. Riders drew their mounts by lot, and Pasquale drew a
cinnamon-colored coyote from the ranch of “Uncle Nate” Wilson of
Ramirena. Uncle Nate was feeling in fine fettle, and when he learned
that his contribution to the outlaw horses had been drawn by a Las
Palomas man, he hunted up the ranchero. “I’ll bet you a new five-dollar
hat that that cinnamon horse throws your vaquero so high that the birds
build nests in his crotch before he hits the ground.” Uncle Lance took
the bet, and disdainfully ran his eye up and down his old friend,
finally remarking, “Nate, you ought to keep perfectly sober on an
occasion like this—you’re liable to lose all your money.”

Pasquale was a shallow-brained, clownish fellow, and after saddling up,
as he led the coyote into the open to mount, he imitated a drunken
vaquero. Tipsily admonishing the horse in Spanish to behave himself, he
vaulted into the saddle and clouted his mount over the head with his
hat. The coyote resorted to every ruse known to a bucking horse to
unseat his rider, in the midst of which Pasquale, languidly lolling in
his saddle, took a small bottle from his pocket, and, drinking its
contents, tossed it backward over his head. “Look at that, Nate,” said
Uncle Lance, slapping Mr. Wilson with his hat; “that’s one of the Las
Palomas vaqueros, bred with just sense enough to ride anything that
wears hair. We’ll look at those new hats this evening.”

In the fancy riding which followed, Pasquale did a number of stunts. He
picked up hat and handkerchief from the ground at full speed, and
likewise gathered up silver dollars from alternate sides of his horse
as the animal sped over a short course. Stripping off his saddle and
bridle, he rode the naked horse with the grace of an Indian, and but
for his clownish indifference and the apparent ease with which he did
things, the judges might have taken his work more seriously. As it was,
our outfit and those friendly to our ranch were proud of his
performance, but among outsiders, and even the judges, it was generally
believed that he was tipsy, which was an injustice to him.

On the conclusion of the contest with the lance, among the thirty
participants, four were tied on honors, one of whom was Theodore
Quayle. The other contests being over, the crowd gathered round the
lancing course, excitement being at its highest pitch. A lad from the
Blanco was the first called for on the finals, and after three efforts
failed to make good his former trial. Quayle was the next called, and
as he sped down the course my heart stood still for a moment; but as he
returned, holding high his lance, five rings were impaled upon it. He
was entitled to two more trials, but rested on his record until it was
tied or beaten, and the next man was called. Forcing her way through
the crowded field, Miss Jean warmly congratulated Theodore, leaving
Esther to my tender care. But at this juncture, my old sweetheart
caught sight of Frances Vaux and some gallant approaching from the
river’s shade, and together we galloped out to meet them. Miss Vaux’s
escort was a neighbor lad from the Frio, but both he and I for the time
being were relegated to oblivion, in the prospects of a Las Palomas man
by the name of Quayle winning the lancing contest. Miss Frances, with a
shrug, was for denying all interest in the result, but Esther and I
doubled on her, forcing her to admit “that it would be real nice if
Teddy should win.” I never was so aggravated over the indifference of a
girl in my life, and my regard for my former sweetheart, on account of
her enthusiasm for a Las Palomas lad, kindled anew within me.


[Illustration: HE SPED DOWN THE COURSE]


But as the third man sped over the course, we hastily returned to watch
the final results. After a last trial the man threw down his lance,
and, riding up, congratulated Quayle. The last contestant was a
red-headed fellow from the Atascosa above Oakville, and seemed to have
a host of friends. On his first trial over the course, he stripped four
rings, but on neither subsequent effort did he equal his first attempt.
Imitating the former contestant, the red-headed fellow broke his lance
and congratulated the winner.

The tourney was over. Esther and I urged Miss Frances to ride over with
us and congratulate Quayle. She demurred; but as the crowd scattered I
caught Theodore’s eye and, signaling to him, he rode out of the crowd
and joined us. The compliments of Miss Vaux to the winner were insipid
and lifeless, while Esther, as if to atone for her friend’s lack of
interest, beamed with happiness over Quayle’s good luck. Poor Teddy
hardly knew which way to turn, and, nice girl as she was, I almost
hated Miss Frances for her indifferent attitude. A plain, blunt fellow
though he was, Quayle had noticed the coolness in the greeting of the
young lady whom he no doubt had had in mind for months, in case he
should win the privilege, to crown as Queen of the ball. Piqued and
unsettled in his mind, he excused himself on some trivial pretense and
withdrew. Every one was scattering to the picnic grounds for supper,
and under the pretense of escorting Esther to the Vaux conveyance, I
accompanied the young ladies. Managing to fall to the rear of Miss
Frances and her gallant for the day, I bluntly asked my old sweetheart
if she understood the attitude of her friend. For reply she gave me a
pitying glance, saying, “Oh, you boys know so little about a girl! You
see that Teddy chooses Frances for his Queen to-night, and leave the
rest to me.”

On reaching their picnic camp, I excused myself, promising to meet them
later at the dance, and rode for our ambulance. Tiburcio had supper all
ready, and after it was over I called Theodore to one side and repeated
Esther’s message. Quayle was still doubtful, and I called Miss Jean to
my assistance, hoping to convince him that Miss Vaux was not unfriendly
towards him. “You always want to judge a woman by contraries,” said
Miss Jean, seating herself on the log beside us. “When it comes to
acting her part, always depend on a girl to conceal her true feelings,
especially if she has tact. Now, from what you boys say, my judgment is
that she’d cry her eyes out if any other girl was chosen Queen.”

Uncle Lance had promised Mr. Wilson to take supper with his family, and
as we were all sprucing up for the dance, he returned. He had not been
present at the finals of the lancing contest, but from guests of the
Wilsons’ had learned that one of his boys had won the honors. So on
riding into camp, as the finishing touches were being added to our
rustic toilets, he accosted Quayle and said: “Well, Theo, they tell me
that you won the elephant. Great Scott, boy, that’s the best luck that
has struck Las Palomas since the big rain a year ago this month! Of
course, we all understand that you’re to choose the oldest Vaux girl.
What’s that? You don’t know? Well, I do. I’ve had that all planned out,
in case you won, ever since we decided that you was to contest as the
representative of Las Palomas. And now you want to balk, do you?”

Uncle Lance was showing some spirit, but his sister checked him with
this explanation: “Just because Miss Frances didn’t show any enthusiasm
over Theo winning, he and Tom somehow have got the idea in their minds
that she don’t care a rap to be chosen Queen. I’ve tried to explain it
to them, but the boys don’t understand girls, that’s all. Why, if Theo
was to choose any other girl, she’d set the river afire.”

“That’s it, is it?” snorted Uncle Lance, pulling his gray mustaches.
“Well, I’ve known for some time that Tom didn’t have good sense, but I
have always given you, Theo, credit for having a little. I’ll gamble my
all that what Jean says is Bible truth. Didn’t I have my eye on you and
that girl for nearly a week during the hunt a year ago, and haven’t you
been riding my horses over to the Frio once or twice a month ever
since? You can read a brand as far as I can, but I can see that you’re
as blind as a bat about a girl. Now, young fellow, listen to me: when
the master of ceremonies announces the winners of the day, and your
name is called, throw out your brisket, stand straight on those
bow-legs of yours, step forward and claim your privilege. When the
wreath is tendered you, accept it, carry it to the lady of your choice,
and kneeling before her, if she bids you arise, place the crown on her
brow and lead the grand march. I’d gladly give Las Palomas and every
hoof on it for your years and chance.”

The festivities began with falling darkness. The master of ceremonies,
a school teacher from Oakville, read out the successful contestants and
the prizes to which they were entitled. The name of Theodore Quayle was
the last to be called, and excusing himself to Miss Jean, who had him
in tow, he walked forward with a military air, executing every movement
in the ceremony like an actor. As the music struck up, he and the
blushing Frances Vaux, rare in rustic beauty and crowned with a wreath
of live-oak leaves, led the opening march. Hundreds of hands clapped in
approval, and as the applause quieted down, I turned to look for a
partner, only to meet Miss Jean and my former sweetheart. Both were in
a seventh heaven of delight, and promptly took occasion to remind me of
my lack of foresight, repeating in chorus, “Didn’t I tell you?” But the
music had broken into a waltz, which precluded any argument, and on the
mistress remarking “You young folks are missing a fine dance,”
involuntarily my arm encircled my old sweetheart, and we drifted away
into elysian fields.

The night after the first tournament at Shepherd’s on the Nueces in
June, ’77, lingers as a pleasant memory. Veiled in hazy retrospect,
attempting to recall it is like inviting the return of childish dreams
when one has reached the years of maturity. If I danced that night with
any other girl than poor Esther McLeod, the fact has certainly escaped
me. But somewhere in the archives of memory there is an indelible
picture of a stroll through dimly lighted picnic grounds; of sitting on
a rustic settee, built round the base of a patriarchal live-oak, and
listening to a broken-hearted woman lay bare the sorrows which less
than a year had brought her. I distinctly recall that my eyes, though
unused to weeping, filled with tears, when Esther in words of deepest
sorrow and contrition begged me to forgive her heedless and reckless
act. Could I harbor resentment in the face of such entreaty? The
impulsiveness of youth refused to believe that true happiness had gone
out of her life. She was again to me as she had been before her
unfortunate marriage, and must be released from the hateful bonds that
bound her. Firm in this resolve, dawn stole upon us, still sitting at
the root of the old oak, oblivious and happy in each other’s presence,
having pledged anew our troth for time and eternity.

With the breaking of day the revelers dispersed. Quite a large
contingent from those present rode several miles up the river with our
party. The _remuda_ had been sent home the evening before with the
returning vaqueros, while the impatience of the ambulance mules
frequently carried them in advance of the cavalcade. The mistress of
Las Palomas had as her guest returning, Miss Jule Wilson, and the first
time they passed us, some four or five miles above the ferry, I noticed
Uncle Lance ride up, swaggering in his saddle, and poke Glenn Gallup in
the ribs, with a wink and nod towards the conveyance as the mules
dashed past. The pace we were traveling would carry us home by the
middle of the forenoon, and once we were reduced to the home crowd, the
old matchmaker broke out enthusiastically:—

“This tourney was what I call a success. I don’t care a tinker’s darn
for the prizes, but the way you boys built up to the girls last night
warmed the sluggish blood in my old veins. Even if Cotton did claim a
dance or two with the oldest Vaux girl, if Theo and her don’t make the
riffle now—well, they simply can’t help it, having gone so far. And did
any of you notice Scales and old June and Dan cutting the pigeon wing
like colts? I reckon Quirk will have to make some new resolutions this
morning. Oh, I heard about your declaring that you never wanted to see
Esther McLeod again. That’s all right, son, but hereafter remember that
a resolve about a woman is only good for the day it is made, or until
you meet her. And notice, will you, ahead yonder, that sister of mine
playing second fiddle as a matchmaker. Glenn, if I was you, the next
time Miss Jule looks back this way, I’d play sick, and maybe they’d let
you ride in the ambulance. I can see at a glance that she’s being
poorly entertained.”




CHAPTER XIII
HIDE HUNTING


During the month of June only two showers fell, which revived the grass
but added not a drop of water to our tank supply or to the river. When
the coast winds which followed set in, all hope for rain passed for
another year. During the residence of the old ranchero at Las Palomas,
the Nueces valley had suffered several severe drouths as disastrous in
their effects as a pestilence. There were places in its miles of
meanderings across our range where the river was paved with the bones
of cattle which had perished with thirst. Realizing that such disasters
repeat themselves, the ranch was set in order. That fall we branded the
calf crop with unusual care. In every possible quarter, we prepared for
the worst. A dozen wells were sunk over the tract and equipped with
windmills. There was sufficient water in the river and tanks during the
summer and fall, but by Christmas the range was eaten off until the
cattle, ranging far, came in only every other day to slake their
thirst.

The social gayeties of the countryside received a check from the
threatened drouth. At Las Palomas we observed only the usual Christmas
festivities. Miss Jean always made it a point to have something extra
for the holiday season, not only in her own household, but also among
the Mexican families at headquarters and the outlying ranchites. Among
a number of delicacies brought up this time from Shepherd’s was a box
of Florida oranges, and in assisting Miss Jean to fill the baskets for
each _jacal_, Aaron Scales opened this box of oranges and found a
letter, evidently placed there by some mischievous girl in the packery
from which the oranges were shipped. There was not only a letter but a
visiting card and a small photograph of the writer. This could only be
accepted by the discoverer as a challenge, for the sender surely knew
this particular box was intended for shipment to Texas, and banteringly
invited the recipient to reply. The missive certainly fell upon fertile
soil, and Scales, by right of discovery, delegated to himself the
pleasure of answering.

Scales was the black sheep of Las Palomas. Born of a rich, aristocratic
family in Maryland, he had early developed into a good-natured but
reckless spendthrift, and his disreputable associates had contributed
no small part in forcing him to the refuge of a cattle ranch. He had
been offered every opportunity to secure a good education, but during
his last year in college had been expelled, and rather than face
parental reproach had taken passage in a coast schooner for Galveston,
Texas. Then by easy stages he drifted westward, and at last, to his
liking, found a home at Las Palomas. He made himself a useful man on
the ranch, but, not having been bred to the occupation and with a
tendency to waywardness, gave a rather free rein to the vagabond spirit
which possessed him. He was a good rider, even for a country where
every one was a born horseman, but the use of the rope was an art he
never attempted to master.

With the conclusion of the holiday festivities and on the return of the
absentees, a feature, new to me in cattle life, presented itself—hide
hunting. Freighters who brought merchandise from the coast towns to the
merchants of the interior were offering very liberal terms for return
cargoes. About the only local product was flint hides, and of these
there were very few, but the merchant at Shepherd’s Ferry offered so
generous inducements that Uncle Lance investigated the matter; the
result was his determination to rid his range of the old, logy,
worthless bulls. Heretofore they had been allowed to die of old age,
but ten cents a pound for flint hides was an encouragement to remove
these cumberers of the range, and turn them to some profit. So we were
ordered to kill every bull on the ranch over seven years old.

In our round-up for branding, we had driven to the home range all
outside cattle indiscriminately. They were still ranging near, so that
at the commencement of this work nearly all the bulls in our brand were
watering from the Nueces. These old residenter bulls never ranged over
a mile away from water, and during the middle of the day they could be
found along the river bank. Many of them were ten to twelve years old,
and were as useless on the range as drones in autumn to a colony of
honey-bees. Las Palomas boasted quite an arsenal of firearms, of every
make and pattern, from a musket to a repeater. The outfit was divided
into two squads, one going down nearly to Shepherd’s, and the other
beginning operations considerably above the Ganso. June Deweese took
the down-river end, while Uncle Lance took some ten of us with one
wagon on the up-river trip. To me this had all the appearance of a
picnic. But the work proved to be anything but a picnic. To make the
kill was most difficult. Not willing to leave the carcasses near the
river, we usually sought the bulls coming in to water; but an ordinary
charge of powder and lead, even when well directed at the forehead,
rarely killed and tended rather to aggravate the creature. Besides, as
we were compelled in nearly every instance to shoot from horseback, it
was almost impossible to deliver an effective shot from in front. After
one or more unsuccessful shots, the bull usually started for the
nearest thicket, or the river; then our ropes came into use. The work
was very slow; for though we operated in pairs, the first week we did
not average a hide a day to the man; after killing, there was the
animal to skin, the hide to be dragged from a saddle pommel into a hide
yard and pegged out to dry.

Until we had accumulated a load of hides, Tiburcio Leal, our teamster,
fell to me as partner. We had with us an abundance of our best horses,
and those who were reliable with the rope had first choice of the
_remuda_. Tiburcio was well mounted, but, on account of his years, was
timid about using a rope; and well he might be, for frequently we found
ourselves in a humorous predicament, and sometimes in one so grave that
hilarity was not even a remote possibility.

The second morning of the hunt, Tiburcio and I singled out a big black
bull about a mile from the river. I had not yet been convinced that I
could not make an effective shot from in front, and, dismounting,
attracted the bull’s attention and fired. The shot did not even stagger
him and he charged us; our horses avoided his rush, and he started for
the river. Sheathing my carbine, I took down my rope and caught him
before he had gone a hundred yards. As I threw my horse on his haunches
to receive the shock, the weight and momentum of the bull dragged my
double-cinched saddle over my horse’s head and sent me sprawling on the
ground. In wrapping the loose end of the rope around the pommel of the
saddle, I had given it a half hitch, and as I came to my feet my saddle
and carbine were bumping merrily along after Toro. Regaining my horse,
I soon overtook Tiburcio, who was attempting to turn the animal back
from the river, and urged him to “tie on,” but he hesitated, offering
me his horse instead. As there was no time to waste, we changed horses
like relay riders. I soon overtook the animal and made a successful
cast, catching the bull by the front feet. I threw Tiburcio’s horse,
like a wheeler, back on his haunches, and, on bringing the rope taut,
fetched Toro to his knees; but with the strain the half-inch manila
rope snapped at the pommel like a twine string. Then we were at our
wit’s end, the bull lumbering away with the second rope noosed over one
fore foot, and leaving my saddle far in the rear. But after a moment’s
hesitation my partner and I doubled on him, to make trial of our guns,
Tiburcio having a favorite old musket while I had only my six-shooter.
Tiburcio, on my stripped horse, overtook the bull first, and attempted
to turn him, but El Toro was not to be stopped. On coming up myself, I
tried the same tactics, firing several shots into the ground in front
of him but without deflecting the enraged bull from his course. Then I
unloosed a Mexican blanket from Tiburcio’s saddle, and flaunting it in
his face, led him like a matador inviting a charge. This held his
attention until Tiburcio, gaining courage, dashed past him from the
rear and planted a musket ball behind the base of his ear, and the
patriarch succumbed.

After the first few days’ work, we found that the most vulnerable spot
was where the spinal cord connects with the base of the brain. A
well-directed shot at this point, even from a six-shooter, never failed
to bring Toro to grass; and some of us became so expert that we could
deliver this favorite shot from a running horse. The trouble was to get
the bull to run evenly. That was one thing he objected to, and yet
unless he did we could not advantageously attack him with a
six-shooter. Many of these old bulls were surly in disposition, and
even when they did run, there was no telling what moment they would
sulk, stop without an instant’s notice, and attempt to gore a passing
horse.

We usually camped two or three days at a place, taking in both sides of
the river, and after the work was once well under way we kept our wagon
busy hauling the dry hides to a common yard on the river opposite Las
Palomas. Without apology, it can be admitted that we did not confine
our killing to the Las Palomas brand alone, but all cumberers on our
range met the same fate. There were numerous stray bulls belonging to
distant ranches which had taken up their abode on the Nueces, all of
which were fish to our net. We kept a brand tally of every bull thus
killed; for the primary motive was not one of profit, but to rid the
range of these drones.

When we had been at work some two weeks, we had an exciting chase one
afternoon in which Enrique Lopez figured as the hero. In coming in to
dinner that day, Uncle Lance told of the chase after a young _ladino_
bull with which we were all familiar. The old ranchero’s hatred to wild
cattle had caused him that morning to risk a long shot at this outlaw,
wounding him. Juan Leal and Enrique Lopez, who were there, had both
tried their marksmanship and their ropes on him in vain. Dragging down
horses and snapping ropes, the bull made his escape into a chaparral
thicket. He must have been exceedingly nimble; for I have seen Uncle
Lance kill a running deer at a hundred yards with a rifle. At any rate,
the entire squad turned out after dinner to renew the attack. We
saddled the best horses in our _remuda_ for the occasion, and sallied
forth to the lair of the _ladino_ bull, like a procession of
professional bull-fighters.

The chaparral thicket in which the outlaw had taken refuge lay about a
mile and a half back from the river and contained about two acres. On
reaching the edge of the thicket, Uncle Lance called for volunteers to
beat the brush and rout out the bull. As this must be done on foot,
responses were not numerous. But our employer relieved the
embarrassment by assigning vaqueros to the duty, also directing Enrique
to take one point of the thicket and me the other, with instructions to
use our ropes should the outlaw quit the thicket for the river.
Detailing Tiburcio, who was with us that afternoon, to assist him in
leading the loose saddle horses, he divided the six other men into two
squads under Theodore Quayle and Dan Happersett. When all was ready,
Enrique and myself took up our positions, hiding in the outlying
mesquite brush; leaving the loose horses under saddle in the cover at a
distance. The thicket was oval in form, lying with a point towards the
river, and we all felt confident if the bull were started he would make
for the timber on the river. With a whoop and hurrah and a free
discharge of firearms, the beaters entered the chaparral. From my
position I could see Enrique lying along the neck of his horse about
fifty yards distant; and I had fully made up my mind to give that
bucolic vaquero the first chance. During the past two weeks my
enthusiasm for roping stray bulls had undergone a change; I was now
quite willing that all honors of the afternoon should fall to Enrique.
The beaters approached without giving any warning that the bull had
been sighted, and so great was the strain and tension that I could feel
the beating of my horse’s heart beneath me. The suspense was finally
broken by one or two shots in rapid succession, and as the sound died
away, the voice of Juan Leal rang out distinctly: “Cuidado por el
toro!” and the next moment there was a cracking of brush and a pale dun
bull broke cover.

For a moment he halted on the border of the thicket: then, as the din
of the beaters increased, struck boldly across the prairie for the
river. Enrique and I were after him without loss of time. Enrique made
a successful cast for his horns, and reined in his horse; but when the
slack of the rope was taken up the rear cinch broke, the saddle was
jerked forward on the horse’s withers, and Enrique was compelled to
free the rope or have his horse dragged down. I saw the mishap, and,
giving my horse the rowel, rode at the bull and threw my rope. The loop
neatly encircled his front feet, and when the shock came between horse
and bull, it fetched the toro a somersault in the air, but unhappily
took off the pommel of my saddle. The bull was on his feet in a jiffy,
and before I could recover my rope, Enrique, who had reset his saddle,
passed me, followed by the entire squad. Uncle Lance had been a witness
to both mishaps, and on overtaking us urged me to tie on to the bull
again. For answer I could only point to my missing pommel; but every
man in the squad had loosened his rope, and it looked as if they would
all fasten on to the _ladino_, for they were all good ropers. Man after
man threw his loop on him; but the dun outlaw snapped the ropes as if
they had been cotton strings, dragging down two horses with their
riders and leaving them in the rear. I rode up alongside Enrique and
offered him my rope, but he refused it, knowing it would be useless to
try again with only a single cinch on his saddle. The young rascal had
a daring idea in mind. We were within a quarter mile of the river, and
escape of the outlaw seemed probable, when Enrique rode down on the
bull, took up his tail, and, wrapping the brush on the pommel of his
saddle, turned his horse abruptly to the left, rolling the bull over
like a hoop, and of course dismounting himself in the act. Then before
the dazed animal could rise, with the agility of a panther the vaquero
sprang astride his loins, and as he floundered, others leaped from
their horses. Toro was pinioned, and dispatched with a shot.

Then we loosened cinches to allow our heaving horses to breathe, and
threw ourselves on the ground for a moment’s rest. “That’s the best
kill we’ll make on this trip,” said Uncle Lance as we mounted, leaving
two vaqueros to take the hide. “I despise wild cattle, and I’ve been
hungering to get a shot at that fellow for the last three years.
Enrique, the day the baby is born, I’ll buy it a new cradle, and Tom
shall have a new saddle and we’ll charge it to Las Palomas—she’s the
girl that pays the bills.”

Scarcely a day passed but similar experiences were related around the
camp-fire. In fact, as the end of the work came in view, they became
commonplace with us. Finally the two outfits were united at the general
hide yard near the home ranch. Coils of small rope were brought from
headquarters, and a detail of men remained in camp, baling the flint
hides, while the remainder scoured the immediate country. A crude press
was arranged, and by the aid of a long lever the hides were compressed
into convenient space for handling by the freighters.

When we had nearly finished the killing and baling, an unlooked-for
incident occurred. While Deweese was working down near Shepherd’s
Ferry, report of our work circulated around the country, and his camp
had been frequently visited by cattlemen. Having nothing to conceal, he
had showed his list of outside brands killed, which was perfectly
satisfactory in most instances. As was customary in selling cattle, we
expected to make report of every outside hide taken, and settle for
them, deducting the necessary expense. But in every community there are
those who oppose prevailing customs, and some who can always see
sinister motives. One forenoon, when the baling was nearly finished, a
delegation of men, representing brands of the Frio and San Miguel, rode
up to our hide yard. They were all well-known cowmen, and Uncle Lance,
being present, saluted them in his usual hearty manner. In response to
an inquiry—“what he thought he was doing”—Uncle Lance jocularly
replied:—

“Well, you see, you fellows allow your old bulls to drift down on my
range, expecting Las Palomas to pension them the remainder of their
days. But that’s where you get fooled. Ten cents a pound for flint
hides beats letting these old stagers die of old age. And this being an
idle season with nothing much to do, we wanted to have a little fun.
And we’ve had it. But laying all jokes aside, fellows, it’s a good idea
to get rid of these old varmints. Hereafter, I’m going to make a
killing off every two or three years. The boys have kept a list of all
stray brands killed, and you can look them over and see how many of
yours we got. We have baled all the stray hides separate, so they can
be looked over. But it’s nearly noon, and you’d better all ride up to
the ranch for dinner—they feed better up there than we do in camp.”

Rather than make a three-mile ride to the house, the visitors took
dinner with the wagon, and about one o’clock Deweese and a vaquero came
in, dragging a hide between them. June cordially greeted the callers,
including Henry Annear, who represented the Las Norias ranch, though I
suppose it was well known to every one present that there was no love
lost between them. Uncle Lance asked our foreman for his list of
outside brands, explaining that these men wished to look them over.
Everything seemed perfectly satisfactory to all parties concerned, and
after remaining in camp over an hour, Deweese and the vaquero saddled
fresh horses and rode away. The visitors seemed in no hurry to go, so
Uncle Lance sat around camp entertaining them, while the rest of us
proceeded with our work of baling. Before leaving, however, the entire
party in company of our employer took a stroll about the hide yard,
which was some distance from camp. During this tour of inspection,
Annear asked which were the bales of outside hides taken in Deweese’s
division, claiming he represented a number of brands outside of Las
Norias. The bales were pointed out and some dozen unbaled hides looked
over. On a count the baled and unbaled hides were found to tally
exactly with the list submitted. But unfortunately Annear took occasion
to insinuate that the list of brands rendered had been “doctored.”
Uncle Lance paid little attention, though he heard, but the other
visitors remonstrated with Annear. This only seemed to make him more
contentious. Finally matters came to an open rupture when Annear
demanded that the cordage be cut on certain bales to allow him to
inspect them. Possibly he was within his rights, but on the Nueces
during the seventies, to question a man’s word was equivalent to
calling him a liar; and _liar_ was a fighting word all over the cattle
range.

“Well, Henry,” said Uncle Lance, rather firmly, “if you are not
satisfied, I suppose I’ll have to open the bales for you, but before I
do, I’m going to send after June. Neither you nor any one else can cast
any reflections on a man in my employ. No unjust act can be charged in
my presence against an absent man. The vaqueros tell me that my foreman
is only around the bend of the river, and I’m going to ask all you
gentlemen to remain until I can send for him.”

John Cotton was dispatched after Deweese. Conversation meanwhile became
polite and changed to other subjects. Those of us at work baling hides
went ahead as if nothing unusual was on the tapis. The visitors were
all armed, which was nothing unusual, for the wearing of six-shooters
was as common as the wearing of boots. During the interim, several
level-headed visitors took Henry Annear to one side, evidently to
reason with him and urge an apology, for they could readily see that
Uncle Lance was justly offended. But it seemed that Annear would listen
to no one, and while they were yet conversing among themselves, John
Cotton and our foreman galloped around the bend of the river and rode
up to the yard. No doubt Cotton had explained the situation, but as
they dismounted Uncle Lance stepped between his foreman and Annear,
saying:—

“June, Henry, here, questions the honesty of your list of strays
killed, and insists on our cutting the bales for his inspection.”
Turning to Annear, Uncle Lance inquired, “Do you still insist on
opening the bales?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

Deweese stepped to one side of his employer, saying to Annear: “You
offer to cut a bale here to-day, and I’ll cut your heart out. Behind my
back, you questioned my word. Question it to my face, you dirty sneak.”

Annear sprang backward and to one side, drawing a six-shooter in the
movement, while June was equally active. Like a flash, two shots rang
out. Following the reports, Henry turned halfway round, while Deweese
staggered a step backward. Taking advantage of the instant, Uncle Lance
sprang like a panther on to June and bore him to the ground, while the
visitors fell on Annear and disarmed him in a flash. They were dragged
struggling farther apart, and after some semblance of sanity had
returned, we stripped our foreman and found an ugly flesh wound
crossing his side under the armpit, the bullet having been deflected by
a rib. Annear had fared worse, and was spitting blood freely, and the
marks of exit and entrance of the bullet indicated that the point of
one lung had been slightly chipped.

“I suppose this outcome is what you might call the _amende honorable_”
smilingly said George Nathan, one of the visitors, later to Uncle
Lance. “I always knew there was a little bad blood existing between the
boys, but I had no idea that it would flash in the pan so suddenly or
I’d have stayed at home. Shooting always lets me out. But the question
now is, How are we going to get our man home?”

Uncle Lance at once offered them horses and a wagon, in case Annear
would not go into Las Palomas. This he objected to, so a wagon was
fitted up, and, promising to return it the next day, our visitors
departed with the best of feelings, save between the two belligerents.
We sent June into the ranch and a man to Oakville after a surgeon, and
resumed our work in the hide yard as if nothing had happened. Somewhere
I have seen the statement that the climate of California was especially
conducive to the healing of gunshot wounds. The same claim might be
made in behalf of the Nueces valley, for within a month both the
combatants were again in their saddles.

Within a week after this incident, we concluded our work and the hides
were ready for the freighters. We had spent over a month and had taken
fully seven hundred hides, many of which, when dry, would weigh one
hundred pounds, the total having a value of between five and six
thousand dollars. Like their predecessors the buffalo, the remains of
the ladinos were left to enrich the soil; but there was no danger of
the extinction of the species, for at Las Palomas it was the custom to
allow every tenth male calf to grow up a bull.




CHAPTER XIV
A TWO YEARS’ DROUTH


The spring of ’78 was an early one, but the drouth continued, and after
the hide hunting was over we rode our range almost night and day.
Thousands of cattle had drifted down from the Frio River country, which
section was suffering from drouth as badly as the Nueces. The new wells
were furnishing a limited supply of water, but we rigged pulleys on the
best of them, and when the wind failed we had recourse to buckets and a
rope worked from the pommel of a saddle. A breeze usually arose about
ten in the morning and fell about midnight. During the lull the buckets
rose and fell incessantly at eight wells, with no lack of suffering
cattle in attendance to consume it as fast as it was hoisted. Many
thirsty animals gorged themselves, and died in sight of the well; weak
ones being frequently trampled to death by the stronger, while flint
hides were corded at every watering point. The river had quit flowing,
and with the first warmth of spring the pools became rancid and
stagnant. In sandy and subirrigated sections, under a March sun, the
grass made a sickly effort to spring; but it lacked substance, and so
far from furnishing food for the cattle, it only weakened them.

This was my first experience with a serious drouth. Uncle Lance,
however, met the emergency as though it were part of the day’s work,
riding continually with the rest of us. During the latter part of
March, Aaron Scales, two vaqueros, and myself came in one night from
the Ganso and announced not over a month’s supply of water in that
creek. We also reported to our employer that during our two days’ ride,
we had skinned some ten cattle, four of which were in our own brand.

“That’s not as bad as it might be,” said the old ranchero,
philosophically. “You see, boys, I’ve been through three drouths since
I began ranching on this river. The second one, in ’51, was the worst;
cattle skulls were as thick along the Nueces that year as sunflowers in
August. In ’66 it was nearly as bad, there being more cattle; but it
didn’t hurt me very much, as mavericking had been good for some time
before and for several years following, and I soon recovered my losses.
The first one lasted three years, and had there been as many cattle as
there are now, half of them would have died. The spring before the
second drouth, I acted as _padrino_ for Tiburcio and his wife, who was
at that time a mere slip of a girl living at the Mission. Before they
had time to get married, the dry spell set in and they put the wedding
off until it should rain. I ridiculed the idea, but they were both
superstitious and stuck it out. And honest, boys, there wasn’t enough
rain fell in two years to wet your shirt. In my forty years on the
Nueces, I’ve seen hard times, but that drouth was the toughest of them
all. Game and birds left the country, and the cattle were too poor to
eat. Whenever our provisions ran low, I sent Tiburcio to the coast with
a load of hides, using six yoke of oxen to handle a cargo of about a
ton. The oxen were so poor that they had to stand twice in one place to
make a shadow, and we wouldn’t take gold for our flint hides but
insisted on the staples of life. At one point on the road, Tiburcio had
to give a quart of flour for watering his team both going and coming.
They say that when the Jews quit a country, it’s time for the gentiles
to leave. But we old timers are just like a horse that chooses a new
range and will stay with it until he starves or dies with old age.”

I could see nothing reassuring in the outlook. Near the wells and along
the river the stock had trampled out the grass until the ground was as
bare as a city street. Miles distant from the water the old dry grass,
with only an occasional green blade, was the only grazing for the
cattle. The black, waxy soil on the first bottom of the river, on which
the mesquite grass had flourished, was as bare now as a ploughed field,
while the ground had cracked open in places to an incredible depth, so
that without exercising caution it was dangerous to ride across. This
was the condition of the range at the approach of April. Our horse
stock, to be sure, fared better, ranging farther and not requiring
anything like the amount of water needed by the cattle. It was nothing
unusual to meet a Las Palomas _manada_ from ten to twelve miles from
the river, and coming in only every second or third night to quench
their thirst. We were fortunate in having an abundance of saddle
horses, which, whether under saddle or not, were always given the
preference in the matter of water. They were the motive power of the
ranch, and during this crisis, though worked hard, must be favored in
every possible manner.

Early that spring the old ranchero sent Deweese to Lagarto in an
attempt to sell Captain Byler a herd of horse stock for the trail. The
mission was a failure, though our _segundo_ offered to sell a thousand,
in the straight Las Palomas brand, at seven dollars a head on a year’s
credit. Even this was no inducement to the trail drover, and on
Deweese’s return my employer tried San Antonio and other points in
Texas in the hope of finding a market. From several places favorable
replies were received, particularly from places north of the Colorado
River; for the drouth was local and was chiefly confined to the
southern portion of the state. There was enough encouragement in the
letters to justify the old ranchero’s attempt to reduce the demand on
the ranch’s water supply, by sending a herd of horse stock north on
sale. Under ordinary conditions, every ranchman preferred to sell his
surplus stock at the ranch, and Las Palomas was no exception, being
generally congested with marketable animals. San Antonio was, however,
beginning to be a local horse and mule market of some moment, and
before my advent several small selected bunches of mares, mules, and
saddle horses had been sent there, and had found a ready and profitable
sale.

But this was an emergency year, and it was decided to send a herd of
stock horses up the country. Accordingly, before April, we worked every
_manada_ which we expected to keep, cutting out all the two-year-old
fillies. To these were added every mongrel-colored band to the number
of twenty odd, and when ready to start the herd numbered a few over
twelve hundred of all ages from yearlings up. A _remuda_ of fifty
saddle horses, broken in the spring of ’76, were allotted to our use,
and our _segundo_, myself, and five Mexican vaqueros were detailed to
drive the herd. We were allowed two pack mules for our commissary,
which was driven with the _remuda_. With instructions to sell and hurry
home, we left our horse camp on the river, and started on the morning
of the last day of March.

Live-stock commission firms in San Antonio were notified of our coming,
and with six men to the herd and the seventh driving the _remuda_, we
put twenty miles behind us the first day. With the exception of water
for saddle stock, which we hoisted from a well, there was no hope of
watering the herd before reaching Mr. Booth’s ranch on the Frio. He had
been husbanding his water supply, and early the second evening we
watered the herd to its contentment from a single shaded pool. From the
Frio we could not follow any road, but were compelled to direct our
course wherever there was a prospect of water. By hobbling the bell
mare of the _remuda_ at evening, and making two watches of the
night-herding, we easily systematized our work. Until we reached the
San Antonio River, about twenty miles below the city, not over two days
passed without water for all the stock, though, on account of the
variations from our course, we were over a week in reaching San
Antonio. Having moved the herd up near some old missions within five or
six miles of the city, with an abundance of water and some grass,
Deweese went into town, visiting the commission firms and looking for a
buyer. Fortunately a firm, which was expecting our arrival, had a
prospective purchaser from Fort Worth for about our number. Making a
date with the firm to show our horses the next morning, our _segundo_
returned to the herd, elated over the prospect of a sale.

On their arrival the next morning, we had the horses already watered
and were grazing them along an abrupt slope between the first and
second bottoms of the river. The salesman understood his business, and
drove the conveyance back and forth on the down hill side, below the
herd, and the rise in the ground made our range stock look as big as
American horses. After looking at the animals for an hour, from a
buckboard, the prospective buyer insisted on looking at the _remuda_.
But as these were gentle, he gave them a more critical examination,
insisting on their being penned in a rope corral at our temporary camp,
and had every horse that was then being ridden unsaddled to inspect
their backs. The _remuda_ was young, gentle, and sound, many of them
submitting to be caught without a rope. The buyer was pleased with
them, and when the price came up for discussion Deweese artfully set a
high figure on the saddle stock, and, to make his bluff good, offered
to reserve them and take them back to the ranch. But Tuttle would not
consider the herd without the _remuda_, and sparring between them
continued until all three returned to town.

It was a day of expectancy to the vaqueros and myself. In examining the
saddle horses, the buyer acted like a cowman; but as regarding the
range stock, it was evident to me that his armor was vulnerable, and if
he got any the best of our _segundo_ he was welcome to it. Deweese
returned shortly after dark, coming directly to the herd where I and
two vaqueros were on guard, to inform us that he had sold lock, stock,
and barrel, including the two pack mules. I felt like shouting over the
good news, when June threw a damper on my enthusiasm by the news that
he had sold for delivery at Fort Worth.

“You see,” said Deweese, by way of explanation, “the buyer is foreman
of a cattle company out on the forks of the Brazos in Young County. He
don’t sabe range horses as well as he does cows, and when we had agreed
on the saddle stock, and there were only two bits between us on the
herd, he offered me six bits a head all round, over and above his
offer, if I would put them in Fort Worth, and I took him up so quick
that I nearly bit my tongue doing it. Captain Redman tells me that it’s
only about three hundred miles, and grass and water is reported good. I
intended to take him up at his offer, anyhow, and seventy-five cents a
head extra will make the old man nearly a thousand dollars, which is
worth picking up. We’ll put them there easy in three weeks, learn the
trail and see the country besides. Uncle Lance can’t have any kick
coming, for I offered them to Captain Byler for seven dollars, and here
I’m getting ten six-bits—nearly four thousand dollars’ advance, and we
won’t be gone five weeks. Any money down? Well, I should remark! Five
thousand deposited with Smith & Redman, and I was particular to have it
inserted in the contract between us that every saddle horse, mare,
mule, gelding, and filly was to be in the straight ‘horse hoof’ brand.
There is a possibility that when Tuttle sees them again at Fort Worth,
they won’t look as large as they did on that hillside this morning.”

We made an early start from San Antonio the next morning, passing to
the westward of the then straggling city. The vaqueros were disturbed
over the journey, for Fort Worth was as foreign to them as a European
seaport, but I jollied them into believing it was but a little
_pasear_. Though I had never ridden on a train myself, I pictured to
them the luxuriant ease with which we would return, as well as the trip
by stage to Oakville. I threw enough enthusiasm into my description of
the good time we were going to have, coupled with their confidence in
Deweese, to convince them in spite of their forebodings. Our _segundo_
humored them in various ways, and after a week on the trail, water
getting plentiful, using two guards, we only herded until midnight,
turning the herd loose from then until daybreak. It usually took us
less than an hour to gather and count them in the morning, and
encouraged by their contentment, a few days later, we loose-herded
until darkness and then turned them free. From then on it was a picnic
as far as work was concerned, and our saddle horses and herd improved
every day.

After crossing the Colorado River, at every available chance en route
we mailed a letter to the buyer, notifying him of our progress as we
swept northward. When within a day’s drive of the Brazos, we mailed our
last letter, giving notice that we would deliver within three days of
date. On reaching that river, we found it swimming for between thirty
and forty yards; but by tying up the pack mules and cutting the herd
into four bunches, we swam the Brazos with less than an hour’s delay.
Overhauling and transferring the packs to horses, throwing away
everything but the barest necessities, we crossed the lightened
commissary, the freed mules swimming with the _remuda_. On the morning
of the twentieth day out from San Antonio, our _segundo_ rode into the
fort ahead of the herd. We followed at our regular gait, and near the
middle of the forenoon were met by Deweese and Tuttle, who piloted us
to a pasture west of the city, where an outfit was encamped to receive
the herd. They numbered fifteen men, and looked at our insignificant
crowd with contempt; but the count which followed showed we had not
lost a hoof since we left the Nueces, although for the last ten nights
the stock had had the fullest freedom.

The receiving outfit looked the brands over carefully. The splendid
grass and water of the past two weeks had transformed the famishing
herd of a month before, and they were received without a question.
Rounding in our _remuda_ for fresh mounts before starting to town, the
vaqueros and I did some fancy roping in catching out the horses,
partially from sheer lightness of heart because we were at our
journey’s end, and partially to show this north Texas outfit that we
were like the proverbial singed cat—better than we looked. Two of
Turtle’s men rode into town with us that evening to lead back our
mounts, the outfit having come in purposely to receive the horse herd
and drive it to their ranch in Young County. While riding in, they
thawed nicely towards us, but kept me busy interpreting for them with
our Mexicans. Tuttle and Deweese rode together in the lead, and on
nearing town one of the strangers bantered Pasquale to sell him a nice
maguey rope which the vaquero carried. When I interpreted the other’s
wish to him, Pasquale loosened the lasso and made a present of it to
Tuttle’s man. I had almost as good a rope of the same material, which I
presented to the other lad with us, and the drinks we afterward
consumed over this slight testimony of the amicable relations existing
between a northern and southern Texas outfit over the delivery and
receiving of a horse herd, showed no evidence of a drouth. The
following morning I made inquiry for Frank Nancrede and the drovers who
had driven a trail herd of cattle from Las Palomas two seasons before.
They were all well known about the fort, but were absent at the time,
having put up two trail herds that spring in Uvalde County. Deweese did
not waste an hour more than was necessary in that town, and while
waiting for the banks to open, arranged for our transportation to San
Antonio. We were all ready to start back before noon. Fort Worth was a
frontier town at the time, bustling and alert with live-stock
interests; but we were anxious to get home, and promptly boarded a
train for the south. After entering the train, our _segundo_ gave each
of the vaqueros and myself some spending money, the greater portion of
which went to the “butcher” for fruits. He was an enterprising fellow
and took a marked interest in our comfort and welfare. But on nearing
San Antonio after midnight, he attempted to sell us our choice of three
books, between the leaves of one of which he had placed a five-dollar
bill and in another a ten, and offered us our choice for two dollars,
and June Deweese became suddenly interested. Coming over to where we
were sitting, he knocked the books on the floor, kicked them under a
seat, and threatened to bend a gun over the butcher’s head unless he
made himself very scarce. Then reminding us that “there were tricks in
all trades but ours,” he kept an eye over us until we reached the city.

We were delayed another day in San Antonio, settling with the
commission firm and banking the money. The next morning we took stage
for Oakville, where we arrived late at night. When a short distance out
of San Antonio I inquired of our driver who would relieve him beyond
Pleasanton, and was gratified to hear that his name was not Jack
Martin. Not that I had anything particular against Martin, but I had no
love for his wife, and had no desire to press the acquaintance any
further with her or her husband. On reaching Oakville, we were within
forty miles of Las Palomas. We had our saddles with us, and early the
next morning tried to hire horses; but as the stage company domineered
the village we were unable to hire saddle stock, and on appealing to
the only livery in town we were informed that Bethel & Oxenford had the
first claim on their conveyances. Accordingly Deweese and I visited the
offices of the stage company, where, to our surprise, we came face to
face with Jack Oxenford. I do not think he knew us, though we both knew
him at a glance. Deweese made known his wants, but only asked for a
conveyance as far as Shepherd’s. Yankeelike, Oxenford had to know who
we were, where we had been, and where we were going. Our _segundo_ gave
him rather a short answer, but finally admitted that we belonged at Las
Palomas. Then the junior member of the mail contractors became
arrogant, claiming that the only conveyance capable of carrying our
party was being held for a sheriff with some witnesses. On second
thought he offered to send us to the ferry by two lighter vehicles in
consideration of five dollars apiece, insolently remarking that we
could either pay it or walk. I will not repeat Deweese’s reply, which I
silently endorsed.

With the soil of the Nueces valley once more under our feet we felt
independent. On returning to the vaqueros, we found a stranger among
them, Bernabe Cruze by name, who was a _muy amigo_ of Santiago Ortez,
one of our Mexicans. He belonged at the Mission, and when he learned of
our predicament offered to lend us his horse, as he expected to be in
town a few days. The offer was gratefully accepted, and within a
quarter of an hour Manuel Flores had started for Shepherd’s with an
order to the merchant to send in seven horses for us. It was less than
a two hours’ ride to the ferry, and with the early start we expected
Manuel to return before noon. Making ourselves at home in a coffeehouse
conducted by a Mexican, Deweese ordered a few bottles of wine to
celebrate properly our drive and to entertain Cruze and our vaqueros.
Before the horses arrived, those of us who had any money left spent it
in the _cantina_, not wishing to carry it home, where it would be
useless. The result was that on the return of Flores with mounts we
were all about three sheets in the wind, reckless and defiant.

After saddling up, I suggested to June that we ride by the stage office
and show Mr. Oxenford that we were independent of him. The stage stand
and office were on the outskirts of the scattered village, and while we
could have avoided it, our _segundo_ willingly led the way, and called
for the junior member of the firm. A hostler came to the door and
informed us that Mr. Oxenford was not in.

“Then I’ll just leave my card,” said Deweese, dismounting. Taking a
brown cigarette paper from his pocket, he wrote his name on it; then
pulling a tack from a notice pasted beside the office door, he drew his
six-shooter, and with it deftly tacked the cigarette paper against the
office door jamb. Remounting his horse, and perfectly conscious that
Oxenford was within hearing, he remarked to the hostler: “When your
boss returns, please tell him that those fellows from Las Palomas will
neither walk with him nor ride with him. We thought he might fret as to
how we were to get home, and we have just ridden by to tell him that he
need feel no uneasiness. Since I have never had the pleasure of an
introduction to him, I’ve put my name on that cigarette paper.
Good-day, sir.”

Arriving at Shepherd’s, we rested several hours, and on the suggestion
of the merchant changed horses before starting home. At the ferry we
learned that there had been no serious loss of cattle so far, but that
nearly all the stock from the Frio and San Miguel had drifted across to
the Nueces. We also learned that the attendance on San Jacinto Day had
been extremely light, not a person from Las Palomas being present,
while the tournament for that year had been abandoned. During our ride
up the river before darkness fell, we passed a strange medley of
brands, many of which Deweese assured me were owned from fifty to a
hundred miles to the north and west. Riding leisurely, it was nearly
midnight when we sighted the ranch and found it astir. An extra breeze
had been blowing, and the vaqueros were starting to their work at the
wells in order to be on hand the moment the wind slackened. Around the
two wells at headquarters were over a thousand cattle, whose constant
moaning reached our ears over a mile from the ranch.

Our return was like entering a house of mourning. Miss Jean barely
greeted Deweese and myself, while Uncle Lance paced the gallery without
making a single inquiry as to what had become of the horse herd. On the
mistress’s orders, servants set out a cold luncheon, and disappeared,
as if in the presence of death, without a word of greeting. Ever
thoughtful, Miss Jean added several little delicacies to our plain
meal, and, seating herself at the table with us, gave us a clear
outline of the situation. In seventy odd miles of the meanderings of
the river across our range, there was not a pool to the mile with water
enough for a hundred cattle. The wells were gradually becoming weaker,
yielding less water every week, while of four new ones which were
commenced before our departure, two were dry and worthless. The
vaqueros were then skinning on an average forty dead cattle a day,
fully a half of which were in the Las Palomas brand. Sympathetically as
a sister could, she accounted for her brother’s lack of interest in our
return by his anxiety and years, and she cautioned us to let no evil
report reach his ears, as this drouth had unnerved him.

Deweese at once resumed his position on the ranch, and the next morning
the ranchero held a short council with him, authorizing him to spare no
expense to save the cattle. Deweese returned the borrowed horses by
Enrique, and sent a letter to the merchant at the ferry, directing him
to secure and send at least twenty men to Las Palomas. The first day
after our return, we rode the mills and the river. Convinced that to
sink other wells on the mesas would be fruitless, the foreman decided
to dig a number of shallow ones in the bed of the river, in the hope of
catching seepage water. Accordingly the next morning, I was sent with a
commissary wagon and seven men to the mouth of the Ganso, with
instructions to begin sinking wells about two miles apart. Taking with
us such tools as we needed, we commenced our first well at the
confluence of the Ganso with the Nueces, and a second one above. From
timber along the river we cut the necessary temporary curbing, and put
it in place as the wells were sunk. On the third day both wells became
so wet as to impede our work, and on our foreman riding by, he ordered
them curbed to the bottom and a tripod set up over them on which to rig
a rope and pulley. The next morning troughs and rigging, with a
_remuda_ of horses and a watering crew of four strange vaqueros,
arrived. The wells were only about twenty feet deep; but by drawing the
water as fast as the seepage accumulated, each was capable of watering
several hundred head of cattle daily. By this time Deweese had secured
ample help, and started a second crew of well diggers opposite the
ranch, who worked down the river while my crew followed some fifteen
miles above. By the end of the month of May, we had some twenty
temporary wells in operation, and these, in addition to what water the
pools afforded, relieved the situation to some extent, though the
ravages of death by thirst went on apace among the weaker cattle.

With the beginning of June, we were operating nearly thirty wells. In
some cases two vaqueros could hoist all the water that accumulated in
three wells. We had a string of camps along the river, and at every
windmill on the mesas men were stationed night and day. Among the
cattle, the death rate was increasing all over the range. Frequently we
took over a hundred skins in a single day, while at every camp cords of
fallen flint hides were accumulating. The heat of summer was upon us,
the wind arose daily, sand storms and dust clouds swept across the
country, until our once prosperous range looked like a desert, withered
and accursed. Young cows forsook their offspring in the hour of their
birth. Motherless calves wandered about the range, hollow-eyed, their
piteous appeals unheeded, until some lurking wolf sucked their blood
and spread a feast to the vultures, constantly wheeling in great
flights overhead. The prickly pear, an extremely arid plant, affording
both food and drink to herds during drouths, had turned white,
blistered by the torrid sun until it had fallen down, lifeless. The
chaparral was destitute of foliage, and on the divides and higher
mesas, had died. The native women stripped their _jacals_ of every
sacred picture, and hung them on the withered trees about their doors,
where they hourly prayed to their patron saints. In the humblest homes
on Las Palomas, candles burned both night and day to appease the
frowning Deity.

The white element on the ranch worked almost unceasingly, stirring the
Mexicans to the greatest effort. The middle of June passed without a
drop of rain, but on the morning of the twentieth, after working all
night, as Pasquale Arispe and I were drawing water from a well on the
border of the encinal I felt a breeze spring up, that started the
windmill. Casting my eyes upward, I noticed that the wind had veered to
a quarter directly opposite to that of the customary coast breeze. Not
being able to read aright the portent of the change in the wind, I had
to learn from that native-born son of the soil: “Tomas,” he cried,
riding up excitedly, “in three days it will rain! Listen to me:
Pasquale Arispe says that in three days the _arroyos_ on the hacienda
of Don Lancelot will run like a mill-race. See, _companero_, the wind
has changed. The breeze is from the northwest this morning. Before
three days it will rain! Madre de Dios!”

The wind from the northwest continued steadily for two days, relieving
us from work. On the morning of the third day the signs in sky and air
were plain for falling weather. Cattle, tottering with weakness, came
into the well, and after drinking, playfully kicked up their heels on
leaving. Before noon the storm struck us like a cloud-burst. Pasquale
and I took refuge under the wagon to avoid the hailstones. In spite of
the parched ground drinking to its contentment, water flooded under the
wagon, driving us out. But we laughed at the violence of the deluge,
and after making everything secure, saddled our horses and set out for
home, taking our relay mounts with us. It was fifteen miles to the
ranch and in the eye of the storm; but the loose horses faced the rain
as if they enjoyed it, while those under saddle followed the free ones
as a hound does a scent. Within two hours after leaving the well, we
reined in at the gate, and I saw Uncle Lance and a number of the boys
promenading the gallery. But the old ranchero leisurely walked down the
pathway to the gate, and amid the downpour shouted to us: “Turn those
horses loose; this ranch is going to take a month’s holiday.”




CHAPTER XV
IN COMMEMORATION


A heavy rainfall continued the greater portion of two days. None of us
ventured away from the house until the weather settled, and meantime I
played the fiddle almost continuously. Night work and coarse living in
camps had prepared us to enjoy the comforts of a house, as well as to
do justice to the well-laden table. Miss Jean prided herself, on
special occasions and when the ranch had company, on good dinners; but
in commemoration of the breaking of this drouth, with none but us boys
to share it, she spread a continual feast. The Mexican contingent were
not forgotten by master or mistress, and the ranch supplies in the
warehouse were drawn upon, delicacies as well as staples, not only for
the _jacals_ about headquarters but also for the outlying ranchitas.
The native element had worked faithfully during the two years in which
no rain to speak of had fallen, until the breaking hour, and were not
forgotten in the hour of deliverance. Even the stranger vaqueros were
compelled to share the hospitality of Las Palomas like invited guests.

While the rain continued falling, Uncle Lance paced the gallery almost
night and day. Fearful lest the downpour might stop, he stood guard,
noting every change in the rainfall, barely taking time to eat or catch
an hour’s sleep. But when the grateful rain had continued until the
evening of the second day, assuring a bountiful supply of water all
over our range, he joined us at supper, exultant as a youth of twenty.
“Boys,” said he, “this has been a grand rain. If our tanks hold, we
will be independent for the next eighteen months, and if not another
drop falls, the river ought to flow for a year. I have seen worse
drouths since I lived here, but what hurt us now was the amount of
cattle and the heavy drift which flooded down on us from up the river
and north on the Frio. The loss is nothing; we won’t notice it in
another year. I have kept a close tally of the hides taken, and our
brand will be short about two thousand, or less than ten per cent of
our total numbers. They were principally old cows and will not be
missed. The calf crop this fall will be short, but taking it up one
side and down the other, we got off lucky.”

The third day after the rain began the sun rose bright and clear. Not a
hoof of cattle or horses was in sight, and though it was midsummer, the
freshness of earth and air was like that of a spring morning. Every one
felt like riding. While awaiting the arrival of saddle horses, the
extra help hired during the drouth was called in and settled with. Two
brothers, Fidel and Carlos Trujillo, begged for permanent employment.
They were promising young fellows, born on the Aransas River, and after
consulting with Deweese Uncle Lance took both into permanent service on
the ranch. A room in an outbuilding was allotted them, and they were
instructed to get their meals in the kitchen. The _remudas_ had
wandered far, but one was finally brought in by a vaquero, and by pairs
we mounted and rode away. On starting, the tanks demanded our first
attention, and finding all four of them safe, we threw out of gear all
the windmills. Theodore Quayle and I were partners during the day’s
ride to the south, and on coming in at evening fell in with Uncle Lance
and our _segundo_, who had been as far west as the Ganso. Quayle and I
had discussed during the day the prospect of a hunt at the Vaux ranch,
and on meeting our employer, artfully interested the old ranchero
regarding the amount of cat sign seen that day along the Arroyo Sordo.

“It’s hard luck, boys,” said he, “to find ourselves afoot, and the
hunting so promising. But we haven’t a horse on the ranch that could
carry a man ten miles in a straightaway dash after the hounds. It will
be a month yet before the grass has substance enough in it to
strengthen our _remudas_. Oh, if it hadn’t been for the condition of
saddle stock, Don Pierre would have come right through the rain
yesterday. But when Las Palomas can’t follow the hounds for lack of
mounts, you can depend on it that other ranches can’t either. It just
makes me sick to think of this good hunting, but what can we do for a
month but fold our hands and sit down? But if you boys are itching for
an excuse to get over on the Frio, why, I’ll make you a good one. This
drouth has knocked all the sociability out of the country; but now the
ordeal is past, Theodore is in honor bound to go over to the Vaux
ranch. I don’t suppose you boys have seen the girls on the Frio and San
Miguel in six months. Time? That’s about all we have got right now.
Time?—we’ve got time to burn.”

Our feeler had borne fruit. An excuse or permission to go to the Frio
was what Quayle and I were after, though no doubt the old matchmaker
was equally anxious to have us go. In expressing our thanks for the
promised vacation, we included several provisos—in case there was
nothing to do, or if we concluded to go—when Uncle Lance turned in his
saddle and gave us a withering look. “I’ve often wondered,” said he,
“if the blood in you fellows is really red, or if it’s white like a
fish’s. Now, when I was your age, I had to steal chances to go to see
my girl. But I never gave her any show to forget me, and worried her to
a fare-ye-well. And if my observation and years go for anything, that’s
just the way girls like to have a fellow act. Of course they’ll bluff
and let on they must be wooed and all that, just like Frances did at
the tournament a year ago. I contend that with a clear field the only
way to make any progress in sparking a girl, is to get one arm around
her waist, and with the other hand keep her from scratching you. That’s
the very way they like to be courted.”

Theodore and I dropped behind after this lecture, and before we reached
the ranch had agreed to ride over to the Frio the next morning. During
our absence that day, there had arrived at Las Palomas from the
Mission, a _padrino_ in the person of Don Alejandro Travino. Juana
Leal, only daughter of Tiburcio, had been sought in marriage by a
nephew of Don Alejandro, and the latter, dignified as a Castilian
noble, was then at the house negotiating for the girl’s hand. Juana was
nearly eighteen, had been born at the ranch, and after reaching years
of usefulness had been adopted into Miss Jean’s household. To ask for
her hand required audacity, for to master and mistress of Las Palomas
it was like asking for a daughter of the house. Miss Jean was agitated
and all in a flutter; Tiburcio and his wife were struck dumb; for Juana
was the baby and only unmarried one of their children, and to take her
from Las Palomas—they could never consent to that. But Uncle Lance had
gone through such experiences before, and met the emergency with
promptness.

“That’s all right, little sister,” said the old matchmaker to Miss
Jean, who had come out to the gate where we were unsaddling. “Don’t you
borrow any trouble in this matter—leave things to me. I’ve handled
trifles like this among these natives for nearly forty years now, and I
don’t see any occasion to try and make out a funeral right after the
drouth’s been broken by a fine rain. Shucks, girl, this is a time for
rejoicing! You go back in the house and entertain Don Alejandro with
your best smiles till I come in. I want to have a talk with Tiburcio
and his wife before I meet the _padrino_. There’s several families of
those Travinos over around the Mission and I want to locate which tribe
this _oso_ comes from. Some of them are good people and some of them
need a rope around their necks, and in a case of keeps like getting
married, it’s always safe to know what’s what and who’s who. Now, Sis,
go on back in the house and entertain the Don. Come with me, Tom.”

I saw our plans for the morrow vanish into thin air. On arriving at the
jacal, we were admitted, but a gloom like the pall of death seemed to
envelop the old Mexican couple. When we had taken seats around a small
table, Tia Inez handed the ranchero the formal written request. As it
was penned in Spanish, it was passed to me to read, and after running
through it hastily, I read it aloud, several times stopping to
interpret to Uncle Lance certain extravagant phrases. The salutatory
was in the usual form; the esteem which each family had always
entertained for the other was dwelt upon at length, and choicer
language was never used than the _padrino_ penned in asking for the
hand of Doña Juana. This dainty missive was signed by the godfather of
the swain, Don Alejandro Travino, whose rubric riotously ran back and
forth entirely across the delicately tinted sheet. On the conclusion of
the reading, Uncle Lance brushed the letter aside as of no moment, and,
turning to the old couple, demanded to know to which branch of the
Travino family young Don Blas belonged.

The account of Tiburcio and his wife was definite and clear. The father
of the swain conducted a small country store at the Mission, and
besides had landed and cattle interests. He was a younger brother of
Don Alejandro, who was the owner of a large land grant, had cattle in
abundance, and was a representative man among the Spanish element. No
better credentials could have been asked. But when their patron rallied
them as to the cause of their gloom, Tia Inez burst into tears,
admitting the match was satisfactory, but her baby would be carried
away from Las Palomas and she might never see her again. Her two sons
who lived at the ranch, allowed no day to pass without coming to see
their mother, and the one who lived at a distant ranchita came at every
opportunity. But if her little girl was carried away to a distant
ranch—ah! that made it impossible! Let Don Lance, worthy patron of his
people, forbid the match, and win the gratitude of an anguished mother.
Invoking the saints to guide her aright, Doña Inez threw herself on the
bed in hysterical lamentation. Realizing it is useless to argue with a
woman in tears, the old matchmaker suggested to Tiburcio that we delay
the answer the customary fortnight.

Promising to do nothing further without consulting them, we withdrew
from the _jacal_. On returning to the house, we found Miss Jean
entertaining the Don to the best of her ability, and, commanding my
presence, the old matchmaker advanced to meet the _padrino_, with whom
he had a slight acquaintance. Bidding his guest welcome to the ranch,
he listened to the Don’s apology for being such a stranger to Las
Palomas until a matter of a delicate nature had brought him hither.

Don Alejandro was a distinguished-looking man, and spoke his native
tongue in a manner which put my efforts as an interpreter to shame. The
conversation was allowed to drift at will, from the damages of the
recent drouth to the prospect of a market for beeves that fall, until
supper was announced. After the evening repast was over we retired to
the gallery, and Uncle Lance reopened the matchmaking by inquiring of
Don Alejandro if his nephew proposed taking his bride to the Mission.
The Don was all attention. Fortunately, anticipating that the question
might arise, he had discussed that very feature with his nephew. At
present the young man was assisting his father at the Mission, and in
time, no doubt, would succeed to the business. However, realizing that
her living fifty miles distant might be an objection to the girl’s
parents, he was not for insisting on that point, as no doubt Las
Palomas offered equally good advantages for business. He simply
mentioned this by way of suggestion, and invited the opinion of his
host.

“Well, now, Don Alejandro,” said the old matchmaker, in flutelike
tones, “we are a very simple people here at Las Palomas. Breeding a few
horses and mules for home purposes, and the rearing of cattle has been
our occupation. As to merchandising here at the ranch, I could not
countenance it, as I refused that privilege to the stage company when
they offered to run past Las Palomas. At present our few wants are
supplied by a merchant at Shepherd’s Ferry. True, it’s thirty miles,
but I sometimes wish it was farther, as it is quite a temptation to my
boys to ride down there on various pretexts. We send down every week
for our mail and such little necessities as the ranch may need. If
there was a store here, it would attract loafers and destroy the peace
and contentment which we now enjoy. I would object to it; ‘one man to
his trade and another to his merchandise.’”

The _padrino_, with good diplomacy, heartily agreed that a store was a
disturbing feature on a ranch, and instantly went off on a tangent on
the splendid business possibilities of the Mission. The matchmaker in
return agreed as heartily with him, and grew reminiscent. “In the
spring of ’51,” said he, “I made the match between Tiburcio and Doña
Inez, father and mother of Juana. Tiburcio was a vaquero of mine at the
time, Inez being a Mission girl, and I have taken a great interest in
the couple ever since. All their children were born here and still live
on the ranch. Understand, Don Alejandro, I have no personal feeling in
the matter, beyond the wishes of the parents of the girl. My sister has
taken a great interest in Juana, having had the girl under her charge
for the past eight years. Of course, I feel a pride in Juana, and she
is a fine girl. If your nephew wins her, I shall tell the lucky rascal
when he comes to claim her that he has won the pride of Las Palomas. I
take it, Don Alejandro, that your visit and request was rather
unexpected here, though I am aware that Juana has visited among cousins
at the Mission several times the past few years. But that she had lost
her heart to some of your gallants comes as a surprise to me, and from
what I learn, to her parents also. Under the circumstances, if I were
you, I would not urge an immediate reply, but give them the customary
period to think it over. Our vaqueros will not be very busy for some
time to come, and it will not inconvenience us to send a reply by
messenger to the Mission. And tell Don Blas, even should the reply be
unfavorable, not to be discouraged. Women, you know, are peculiar. Ah,
Don Alejandro, when you and I were young and went courting, would we
have been discouraged by a first refusal?”

Señor Travino appreciated the compliment, and, with a genial smile,
slapped his host on the back, while the old matchmaker gave vent to a
vociferous guffaw. The conversation thereafter took several tacks, but
always reverted to the proposed match. As the hour grew late, the host
apologized to his guest, as no doubt he was tired by his long ride, and
offered to show him his room. The _padrino_ denied all weariness,
maintaining that the enjoyable evening had rested him, but reluctantly
allowed himself to be shown to his apartment. No sooner were the
good-nights spoken, than the old ranchero returned, and, snapping his
fingers for attention, motioned me to follow. By a circuitous route we
reached the _jacal_ of Tiburcio. The old couple had not yet retired,
and Juana blushingly admitted us. Uncle Lance jollied the old people
like a robust, healthy son amusing his elders. We took seats as before
around the small table, and Uncle Lance scattered the gloom of the
_jacal_ with his gayety.

“Las Palomas forever!” said he, striking the table with his bony fist.
“This _padrino_ from the Mission is a very fine gentleman but a poor
matchmaker. Just because young Don Blas is the son of a Travino, the
keeper of a picayune _tienda_ at the Mission, was that any reason to
presume for the hand of a daughter of Las Palomas? Was he any better
than a vaquero just because he doled out _frijoles_ by the quart, and
never saw a piece of money larger than a _media real_? Why, a Las
Palomas vaquero was a prince compared to a fawning attendant in a
Mission store. Let Tia Inez stop fretting herself about losing Juana—it
would not be yet awhile. Just leave matters to him, and he’d send Don
Alejandro home, pleased with his visit and hopeful over the match, even
if it never took place. And none of those frowns from the young lady!”

As we all arose at parting, the old matchmaker went over to Juana and,
shaking his finger at her, said: “Now, look here, my little girl, your
mistress, your parents, and myself are all interested in you, and don’t
think we won’t act for your best interests. You’ve seen this young
fellow ride by on a horse several times, haven’t you? Danced with him a
few times under the eyes of a chaperon at the last _fiesta_, haven’t
you? And that’s all you care to know, and are ready to marry him. Well,
well, it’s fortunate that the marriage customs of the Mexicans protect
such innocents as you. Now, if young Don Blas had worked under me for a
year as a vaquero, I might be as ready to the match as you are; for
then I’d know whether he was worthy of you. What does a girl of your
age know about a man? But when you have as many gray hairs in your head
as your mother has, you’ll thank me for cautioning every one to proceed
slowly in this match. Now dry those tears and go to your mother.”

The next morning Don Alejandro proposed returning to the Mission. But
the old ranchero hooted the idea, and informed his guest that he had
ordered the ambulance, as he intended showing him the recent
improvements made on Las Palomas. When the guest protested against a
longer absence from home, the host artfully intimated that by remaining
another day a favorable reply might possibly go with him. Don Alejandro
finally consented. I was pressed in as driver and interpreter, and our
team tore away from the ranch with a flourish. To put it mildly, I was
disgusted at having my plans for the day knocked in the head, yet knew
better than protest. As we drove along, myriads of grass-blades were
peeping up since the rain, giving every view a greenish cast. Nearly
every windmill on the ranch on our circuit was pointed out, and we
passed three of our four tanks, one of which was over half a mile in
length. After stopping at an outlying ranchita for refreshment, we
spent the afternoon in a similar manner. From a swell of the prairie
some ten miles to the westward of the ranch, we could distinctly see an
outline of the Ganso. Halting the ambulance, the old ranchero pointed
out to his guest the meanderings of that creek from its confluence with
the parent stream until it became lost in the hills to the southward.

“That tract of ground,” said he, “is my last landed addition to Las
Palomas. It lies north and south, giving me six miles’ frontage on the
Nueces. and extending north of the river about four miles, Don
Alejandro, when I note the great change which has come over this valley
since I settled here, it convinces me that if one wishes to follow
ranching he had better acquire title to what range he needs. Land has
advanced in price from a few cents an acre to four bits, and now they
say the next generation will see it worth a dollar. This Ganso grant
contains a hundred and fourteen sections, and I have my eye on one or
two other adjoining tracts. My generation will not need it, but the one
who succeeds me may. Now, as we drive home, I’ll try to show you the
northern boundary of our range; it’s fairly well outlined by the divide
between the Nueces and the Frio rivers.”

From the conversation which followed until we reached headquarters, I
readily understood that the old matchmaker was showing the rose and
concealing its thorn. His motive was not always clear to me, for one
would have supposed from his almost boastful claims regarding its
extent and carrying capacity for cattle, he was showing the ranch to a
prospective buyer. But as we neared home, the conversation innocently
drifted to the Mexican element and their love for the land to which
they were born. Then I understood why I was driving four mules instead
of basking in the smiles of my own sweetheart on the San Miguel. Nor
did this boasting cease during the evening, but alternated from lands
and cattle to the native people, and finally centred about a Mexican
girl who had been so fortunate as to have been born to the soil of Las
Palomas.

When Don Alejandro asked for his horse the following morning on
leaving, Uncle Lance, Quayle, and myself formed a guard of honor to
escort our guest a distance on his way. He took leave of the mistress
of Las Palomas in an obeisance worthy of an old-time cavalier. Once we
were off, Uncle Lance pretended to have had a final interview with the
parents, in which they had insisted on the customary time in which to
consider the proposal. The _padrino_ graciously accepted the situation,
thanking his host for his interest in behalf of his nephew. On reaching
the river, where our ways separated, all halted for a few minutes at
parting.

“Well, Don Alejandro,” said the old ranchero, “this is my limit of
escort to guests of the ranch. Now, the only hope I have in parting is,
in case the reply should he unfavorable, that Don Blas will not be
discouraged and that we may see you again at Las Palomas. Tender my
congratulations to your nephew, and tell him that a welcome always
awaits him in case he finds time and inclination to visit us. I take
some little interest in matches. These boys of mine are going north to
the Frio on a courting errand to-day. But our marriage customs are
inferior to yours, and our young people, left to themselves, don’t seem
to marry. Don Alejandro, if you and I had the making of the matches,
there’d be a cradle rocking in every _jacal_.” Both smiled, said their
“Adios, amigos,” and he was gone.

As our guest cantered away, down the river road, Quayle and I began
looking for a ford. The river had been on a rampage, and while we were
seeking out a crossing our employer had time for a few comments. “The
Don’s tickled with his prospects. He thinks he’s got a half inch rope
on Juana right now; but if I thought your prospects were no better than
I know his are, you wouldn’t tire any horse-flesh of mine by riding to
the Frio and the San Miguel. But go right on, and stay as long as you
want to, for I’m in no hurry to see your faces again. Tom, with the ice
broken as it is, as soon as Esther can remove her disabilities—well,
you won’t have to run off the next time. And Theodore, remember what I
told you the other day about sparking a girl. You’re too timid and
backward for a young fellow. I don’t care if you come home with one eye
scratched out, just so you and Frances have come to an understanding
and named the day.”




CHAPTER XVI
MATCHMAKING


After our return to the Frio, my first duty was writing, relative to
the proposed match, an unfavorable reply to Don Alejandro Travino.

On resuming work, we spent six weeks baling hides, thus occupying our
time until the beginning of the branding season. A general round-up of
the Nueces valley, commencing on the coast at Corpus Christi Bay, had
been agreed upon among the cowmen of the country. In pursuance of the
plan four well-mounted men were sent from our ranch with Wilson’s wagon
to the coast, our _segundo_ following a week later with the wagon,
_remuda_ and twelve men, to meet the rodeo at San Patricio as they
worked up the river. Our cattle had drifted in every direction during
the drouth and though many of them had returned since the range had
again become good, they were still widely scattered. So Uncle Lance
took the rest of us and started for the Frio, working down that river
and along the Nueces, until we met the round-up coming up from below.
During this cow hunt, I carried my fiddle with me in the wagon, and at
nearly every ranch we passed we stopped and had a dance. Not over once
a week did we send in cattle to the ranch to brand, and on meeting the
rodeo from below, Deweese had over three thousand of our cattle. After
taking these in and branding the calves, we worked over our home range
until near the holidays.

On our return to the ranch, we learned that young Blas Travino from the
Mission had passed Las Palomas some days before. He had stopped in
passing; but, finding the ranchero absent, plead a matter of business
at Santa Maria, promising to call on his return. He was then at the
ranch on the Tarancalous, and hourly expecting his reappearance, the
women of the household were in an agitated state of mind. Since the
formal answer had been sent, no word had come from Don Blas and a rival
had meanwhile sprung up in the person of Fidel Trujillo. Within a month
after his employment I noticed the new vaquero casting shy glances at
Juana, but until the cow hunt on the Frio I did not recognize the fine
handwriting of the old matchmaker. Though my services were never called
for as interpreter between Uncle Lance and the new man, any one could
see there was an understanding between them. That the old ranchero was
pushing Fidel forward was evident during the fall cow hunting by his
sending that Mexican into Las Palomas with every bunch of cattle
gathered.

That evening Don Blas rode into the ranch, accompanied by Father
Norquin. The priest belonged at the Mission, and their meeting at Santa
Maria might, of course, have been accidental. None of the padre’s
parishioners at headquarters were expecting him, however, for several
months, and padres are able _padrinos_,—sometimes, among their own
faith, even despotic. Taking account, as it appeared, of the ulterior
motive, Uncle Lance welcomed the arrivals with a hearty hospitality,
which to a stranger seemed so genuine as to dispel any suspicion. Not
in many a day had a visitor at Las Palomas received more courteous
consideration than did Father Norquin. The choicest mint which grew in
the inclosures about the wells was none too good for the juleps which
were concocted by Miss Jean. Had the master and mistress of the ranch
been communicants of his church, the rosy-cheeked padre could have
received no more marked attention.

The conversation touched lightly on various topics, until Santa Maria
ranch was mentioned, when Uncle Lance asked the padre if Don Mateo had
yet built him a chapel. The priest shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly
and answered the question with another,—when Las Palomas proposed
building a place of worship.

“Well, Father, I’m glad you’ve brought the matter up again,” replied
the host. “That I should have lived here over forty years and never
done anything for your church or my people who belong to your faith, is
certainly saying little in my behalf. I never had the matter brought
home to me so clearly as during last summer’s drouth. Do you remember
that old maxim regarding when the devil was sick? Well, I was good and
sick. If you had happened in then and had asked for a chapel,—not that
I have any confidence in your teaching,—you could have got a church
with a steeple on it. I was in such sore straits that the women were
kept busy making candles, and we burnt them in every _jacal_ until the
hour of deliverance.”

Helping himself from the proffered snuffbox of the padre, the host
turned to his guest, and in all sincerity continued: “Yes, Father, I
ought to build you a nice place of worship. We could quarry the rock
during idle time, and burn our own lime right here on the ranch. While
you are here, give me some plans, and we’ll show you that the white
element of Las Palomas are not such hopeless heretics as you suppose.
Now, if we build the chapel, I’m just going to ask one favor in return:
I expect to die and be buried on this ranch. You’re a younger man by
twenty years and will outlive me, and on the day of my burial I want
you to lay aside your creed and preach my funeral in this little chapel
which you and I are going to build. I have been a witness to the
self-sacrifice of you and other priests ever since I lived here.
Father, I like an honest man, and the earnestness of your cloth for the
betterment of my people no one can question. And my covenant is, that
you are to preach a simple sermon, merely commemorating the fact that
here lived a man named Lovelace, who died and would be seen among his
fellow men no more. These being facts, you can mention them; but beyond
that, for fear our faiths might differ, the less said the better. Won’t
you have another mint julep before supper? No? You will, won’t you, Don
Blas?”

That the old ranchero was in earnest about building a chapel on Las
Palomas there was no doubt. In fact, the credit should be given to Miss
Jean, for she had been urging the matter ever since my coming to the
ranch. At headquarters and outlying ranchitas on the land, there were
nearly twenty families, or over a hundred persons of all ages. But that
the old matchmaker was going to make the most out of his opportunity by
erecting the building at an opportune time, there was not the shadow of
a question.

The evening passed without mention of the real errand of our guests.
The conversation was allowed to wander at will, during which several
times it drifted into gentle repartee between host and padre, both
artfully avoiding the rock of matchmaking. But the next morning, as if
anxious to begin the day’s work early, Father Norquin, on arising,
inquired for his host, strutted out to the corrals, and, on meeting
him, promptly inquired why, during the previous summer, Don Alejandro
Travino’s mission to obtain the hand of Juana Leal had failed.

“That’s so,” assented Uncle Lance, very affably, “Don Alejandro was
here as godfather to his nephew. And this young man with you is Don
Blas, the bear? Well, why did we waste so much time last night talking
about chapels and death when we might have made a match in less time?
You priests have everything in your favor as _padrinos_, but you are so
slow that a rival might appear and win the girl while you were drumming
up your courage. I don’t write Spanish myself, but I have boys here on
the ranch who do. One of them, if I remember rightly, wrote the answer
at the request of Juana’s mother. If my memory hasn’t failed me
entirely, the parents objected to being separated from their only
daughter. You know how that is among your people; and I never like to
interfere in family matters. But from what I hear Don Blas has a rival
now. Yes; young Travino failed to press his suit, and a girl will stand
for nearly anything but neglect. But that’s one thing they won’t stand
for, not when there’s a handsome fellow at hand to play the bear. Then
the old lover is easily forgotten for the new. Eh, Father?”

“Ah, Don Lance, I know your reputation as a matchmaker,” replied Father
Norquin, in a rich French accent. “Report says had you not had a hand
in it the match would have been successful. The supposition is that it
only lacked your approval. The daughter of a vaquero refusing a
Travino? Tut, tut, man!”

A hearty guffaw greeted these aspersions. “And so you’ve heard I was a
matchmaker, have you? Of course, you believed it just like any other
old granny. Now, of course, when I’m asked by any of my people to act
as _padrino_, I never refuse any more than you do. I’ve made many a
match and hope to be spared to make several more. But come; they’re
calling us to breakfast, and after that we’ll take a walk over to the
ranch burying ground. It’s less than a half mile—in that point of
encinal yonder. I want to show you what I think would be a nice spot
for our chapel.”

The conversation during breakfast was artfully directed by the host to
avoid the dangerous shoals, though the padre constantly kept an eye on
Juana as she passed back and forth. As we arose from the table and were
passing to the gallery, Uncle Lance nudged the priest, and, poking Don
Blas in the ribs, said: “Isn’t Juana a stunning fine cook? Got up that
breakfast herself. There isn’t an eighteen-year-old girl in Texas who
can make as fine biscuits as she does. But Las Palomas raises just as
fine girls as she does horses and cattle. The rascal who gets her for a
wife can thank his lucky stars. Don Blas, you ought to have me for
_padrino_. Your uncle and the padre here are too poky. Why, if I was
making a match for as fine a girl as Juana is, I’d set the river afire
before I’d let an unfavorable answer discourage me. Now, the padre and
I are going for a short walk, and we’ll leave you here at the house to
work out your own salvation. Don’t pay any attention to the mistress,
and I want to tell you right now, if you expect to win Juana, never
depend on old fogy _padrinos_ like your uncle and Father Norquin. Do a
little hustling for yourself.”

The old ranchero and the priest were gone nearly an hour, and on their
return looked at another site in the rear of the Mexican quarters. It
was a pretty knoll, and as the two joined us where we were repairing a
windmill at the corrals, Father Norquin, in an ecstasy of delight,
said: “Well, my children, the chapel is assured at Las Palomas. Don
Lance wanted to build it over in the encinal, with twice as nice a site
right here in the rancho. We may need the building for a school some
day, and if we should, we don’t want it a mile away. The very idea! And
the master tells me that a chapel has been the wish of his sister for
years. Poor woman—to have such a brother. I must hasten to the house
and thank her.”

No sooner had the padre started than I was called aside by my employer.
“Tom,” said he, “you slip around to Tia Inez’s _jacal_ and tell her
that I’m going to send Father Norquin over to see her. Tell her to
stand firm on not letting Juana leave the ranch for the Mission. Tell
her that I’ve promised the padre a chapel for Las Palomas, and rather
than miss it, the priest would consign the whole Travino family to
endless perdition. Tell her to laugh at his scoldings and inform him
that Juana can get a husband without going so far. And that you heard
me say that I was going to give Fidel, the day he married her daughter,
the same number of heifers that all her brothers got. Impress it on Tia
Inez’s mind that it means something to be born to Las Palomas.”

I set out on my errand and he hastened away to overtake the padre
before the latter reached the house. Tia Inez welcomed me, no doubt
anticipating that I was the bearer of some message. When I gave her the
message her eyes beamed with gratitude and she devoutly crossed her
breast invoking the blessing of the saints upon the master. I added a
few words of encouragement of my own—that I understood that when we
quarried the rock for the chapel, there was to be enough extra cut to
build a stone cottage for Juana and Fidel. This was pure invention on
my part, but I felt a very friendly interest in Las Palomas, for I
expected to bring my bride to it as soon as possible. Therefore, if I
could help the present match forward by the use of a little fiction,
why not?

Father Norquin’s time was limited at Las Palomas, as he was under
appointment to return to Santa Maria that evening. Therefore it became
an active morning about the ranch. Long before we had finished the
repairs on the windmill, a _mozo_ from the house came out to the
corrals to say I was wanted by the master. Returning with the servant,
I found Uncle Lance and the mistress of the ranch entertaining their
company before a cheerful fire in the sitting-room. On my entrance, my
employer said:—

“Tom, I have sent for you because I want you to go over with the padre
to the _jacal_ of Juana’s parents. Father Norquin here is such an old
granny that he believes I interfered, or the reply of last summer would
have been favorable. Now, Tom, you’re not to open your mouth one way or
the other. The padre will state his errand, and the old couple will
answer him in your presence. Don Blas will remain here, and whatever
the answer is, he and I must abide by it. Really, as I have said, I
have no interest in the match, except the welfare of the girl. Go on
now, Father, and let’s see what you can do as a _padrino_.”

As we arose to go, Miss Jean interposed and suggested that, out of
deference to Father Norquin, the old couple be sent for, but her
brother objected. He wanted the parents to make their own answer
beneath their own roof, unembarrassed by any influence. As we left the
room, the old matchmaker accompanied us as far as the gate, where he
halted and said to the padre:—

“Father Norquin, in a case like the present, you will not mind my
saying that your wish is not absolute, and I am sending a witness with
you to see that you issue no peremptory orders on this ranch. And
remember, that this old couple have been over thirty years in my
employ, and temper your words to them as you would to your own parents,
were they living. Juana was born here, which means a great deal, and
with the approval of her parents, she’ll marry the man of her choice,
and no _padrino_, let him be priest or layman, can crack his whip on
the soil of Las Palomas to the contrary. As my guest, you must excuse
me for talking so plain, but my people are as dear to me as your church
is to you.”

As my employer turned and leisurely walked back to the house, Father
Norquin stood stock-still. I was slightly embarrassed myself, but it
was easily to be seen that the padre’s plans had received a severe
shock. I made several starts toward the Mexican quarters before the
priest shook away his hesitations and joined me. That the old
ranchero’s words had agitated him was very evident in his voice and
manner. Several times he stopped me and demanded explanations, finally
raising the question of a rival. I told him all I knew about the
matter; that Fidel, a new vaquero on the ranch, had found favor in
Juana’s eyes, that he was a favorite man with master and mistress, but
what view the girl’s parents took of the matter I was unable to say.
This cleared up the situation wonderfully, and the padre brightened as
we neared the _jacal_.

Tiburcio was absent, and while awaiting his return, the priest became
amiable and delivered a number of messages from friends and relatives
at the Mission. Tia Inez was somewhat embarrassed at first, but
gradually grew composed, and before the return of her husband all three
of us were chatting like cronies. On the appearance of Tio Tiburcio,
coffee was ordered and the padre told several good stories, over which
we all laughed heartily. Cigarettes were next, and in due time Father
Norquin very good naturedly inquired why an unfavorable answer,
regarding the marriage of their daughter with young Blas Travino, had
been returned the previous summer. The old couple looked at each other
a moment, when the husband turned in his chair, and with a shrug of his
shoulders and a jerk of his head, referred the priest to his wife. Tia
Inez met the padre’s gaze, and in a clear, concise manner, and in her
native tongue, gave her reasons. Father Norquin explained the
prominence of the Travino family and their disappointment over the
refusal, and asked if the decision was final, to which he received an
affirmative reply. Instead of showing any displeasure, he rose to take
his departure, turning in the doorway to say to the old couple:—

“My children, peace and happiness in this life is a priceless blessing.
I should be untrue to my trust did I counsel a marriage that would give
a parent a moment of unhappiness. My blessing upon this house and its
dwellers, and upon its sons and daughters as they go forth to homes of
their own.” While he lifted his hand in benediction, the old couple and
myself bowed our heads for a moment, after which the padre and I passed
outside.

I was as solemn as an owl, yet inwardly delighted at the turn of
affairs. But Father Norquin had nothing to conceal, while delight was
wreathed all over his rosy countenance. Again and again he stopped me
to make inquiries about Fidel, the new vaquero. That lucky rascal was a
good-looking native, a much larger youth than the aspiring Don Blas,
and I pictured him to the padre as an Adonis. To the question if he was
in the ranch at present, fortune favored me, as Fidel and nearly all
the regular vaqueros were cutting timbers in the encinal that day with
which to build new corrals at one of the outlying tanks. As he would
not return before dark, and I knew the padre was due at Santa Maria
that evening, my description of him made Don Blas a mere pigmy in
comparison. But we finally reached the house, and on our reëntering the
sitting-room, young Travino very courteously arose and stood until
Father Norquin should be seated. But the latter faced his parishioner,
saying:—

“You young simpleton, what did you drag me up here for on a fool’s
errand? I was led to believe that our generous host was the instigator
of the unfavorable answer to your uncle’s negotiations last summer. Now
I have the same answer repeated from the lips of the girl’s parents.
Consider the predicament in which you have placed a servant of the
Church. Every law of hospitality has been outraged through your
imbecility. And to complete my humiliation, I have received only
kindness on every hand. The chapel which I have desired for years is
now a certainty, thanks to the master and mistress of Las Palomas. What
apology can I offer for your”—

“Hold on there, Father,” interrupted Uncle Lance. “If you owe this
ranch any apology, save your breath for a more important occasion. Don
Blas is all right; any suitor who would not be jealous over a girl like
Juana is not welcome at Las Palomas. Why, when I was his age I was
suspicious of my sweetheart’s own father, and you should make allowance
for this young man’s years and impetuosity. Sit down, Father, and let’s
have a talk about this chapel—that’s what interests me most right now.
You see, within a few days my boys will have all the palisades cut for
the new corrals, and then we can turn our attention to getting out the
rock for the chapel. We have a quarry of nice soft stone all opened up,
and I’ll put a dozen vaqueros to blocking out the rock in a few days.
We always have a big stock of _zacahuiste_ grass on hand for thatching
_jacals_, plenty of limestone to burn for the lime, sand in abundance,
and all we lack is the masons. You’ll have to send them out from the
Mission, but I’ll pay them. Oh, I reckon the good Lord loves Las
Palomas, for you see He’s placed everything convenient with which to
build the chapel.”

Father Norquin could not remain seated, but paced the room enumerating
the many little adornments which the mother church would be glad to
supply. Enthusiastic as a child over a promised toy, no other thought
entered the simple padre’s mind, until dinner was announced. And all
during the meal, the object of our guest’s mission was entirely lost
sight of, in contemplation of the coming chapel. The padre seemed as
anxious to avoid the subject of matchmaking as his host, while poor Don
Blas sat like a willing sacrifice, unable to say a word. I sympathized
with him, for I knew what it was to meet disappointment. At the
conclusion of the mid-day repast, Father Norquin flew into a great
bustle in preparing to start for Santa Maria, and I was dispatched for
the horses. Our guests and my employer were waiting at the stile when I
led up their mounts, and at final parting the old matchmaker said to
the priest:—

“Now, remember, I expect you to have this chapel completed by Easter
Sunday, when I want you to come out and spend at least two weeks with
us and see that it is finished to suit you, and arrange for the
dedication. Las Palomas will build the chapel, but when our work is
done yours commences. And I want to tell you right now, there’s liable
to be several weddings in it before the mortar gets good and dry. I
have it on pretty good authority that one of my boys and Pierre Vaux’s
eldest girl are just about ready to have you pronounce them man and
wife. No, he’s not of any faith, but she’s a good Catholic. Now, look
here, Father Norquin, if I have to proselyte you to my way of thinking,
it’ll never hurt you any. I was never afraid to do what was right, and
when at Las Palomas you needn’t be afraid either, even if we have to
start a new creed. Well, good-by to both of you.”

We had a windmill to repair that afternoon, some five miles from the
ranch, so that I did not return to the house until evening; but when
all gathered around the supper table that night, Uncle Lance was
throwing bouquets at himself for the crafty manner in which he had
switched the padre from his mission, and yet sent him away delighted.
He admitted that he was scared on the appearance of Father Norquin as a
_padrino_, on account of the fact that a priest was usually supreme
among his own people. That he had early come to the conclusion if there
was to be any coercion used in this case, he was determined to get in
his bluff first. But Miss Jean ridiculed the idea that there was any
serious danger.

“Goodness me, Lance,” said she, “I could have told you there was no
cause for alarm. In this case between Fidel and Juana, I’ve been a very
liberal chaperon. Oh, well, now, never mind about the particulars.
Once, to try his nerve, I gave him a chance, and I happen to know the
rascal kissed her the moment my back was turned. Oh, I think Juana will
stay at Las Palomas.”




CHAPTER XVII
WINTER AT LAS PALOMAS


The winter succeeding the drouth was an unusually mild one, frost and
sleet being unseen at Las Palomas. After the holidays several warm
rains fell, affording fine hunting and assuring enough moisture in the
soil to insure an early spring. The preceding winter had been gloomy,
but this proved to be the most social one since my advent, for within
fifty miles of the ranch no less than two weddings occurred during
Christmas week. As to little neighborhood happenings, we could hear of
half a dozen every time we went to Shepherd’s after the mail.

When the native help on the ranch was started at blocking out the stone
for the chapel, Uncle Lance took the hounds and with two of the boys
went down to Wilson’s ranch for a hunt. Gallup went, of course, but
just why he took Scales along, unless with the design of making a match
between one of the younger daughters of this neighboring ranchman and
the Marylander, was not entirely clear. When he wanted to, Scales could
make himself very agreeable, and had it not been for his profligate
disposition, his being taken along on the hunt would have been no
mystery. Every one on the ranch, including the master and mistress,
were cognizant of the fact that for the past year he had maintained a
correspondence with a girl in Florida—the one whose letter and
photograph had been found in the box of oranges. He hardly deserved the
confidence of the roguish girl, for he showed her letters to any one
who cared to read them. I had read every line of the whole
correspondence, and it was plain that Scales had deceived the girl into
believing that he was a prominent ranchman, when in reality the best
that could be said of him was that he was a lovable vagabond. From the
last letter, it was clear that he had promised to marry the girl during
the Christmas week just past, but he had asked for a postponement on
the ground that the drouth had prevented him from selling his beeves.

When Uncle Lance made the discovery, during a cow hunt the fall before,
of the correspondence between Scales and the Florida girl, he said to
us around the camp-fire that night: “Well, all I’ve got to say is that
that girl down in Florida is hard up. Why, it’s entirely contrary to a
girl’s nature to want to be wooed by letter. Until the leopard changes
his spots, the good old way, of putting your arm around the girl and
whispering that you love her, will continue to be popular. If I was to
hazard an opinion about that girl, Aaron, I’d say that she was
ambitious to rise above her surroundings. The chances are that she
wants to get away from home, and possibly she’s as much displeased with
the young men in the orange country as I sometimes get with you
dodrotted cow hands. Now, I’m not one of those people who’re always
harping about the youth of his day and generation being so much better
than the present. That’s all humbug. But what does get me is, that you
youngsters don’t profit more by the experience of an old man like me
who’s been married three times. Line upon line and precept upon
precept, I have preached this thing to my boys for the last ten years,
and what has it amounted to? Not a single white bride has ever been
brought to Las Palomas. They can call me a matchmaker if they want to,
but the evidence is to the contrary.” This was on the night after we
passed Shepherd’s, where Scales had received a letter from the Florida
girl. But why he should accompany the hunt now to Remirena, unless the
old ranchero proposed reforming him, was too deep a problem for me.

On leaving for Wilson’s, there was the usual bustle; hounds responding
to the horn and horses under saddle champing their bits. I had hoped
that permission to go over to the Frio and San Miguel would be given
John and myself, but my employer’s mind was too absorbed in something
else, and we were overlooked in the hurry to get away. Since the
quarrying of the rock had commenced, my work had been overseeing the
native help, of which we had some fifteen cutting and hauling. In
numerous places within a mile of headquarters, a soft porous rock
cropped out. By using a crowbar with a tempered chisel point, the
Mexicans easily channeled the rock into blocks, eighteen by thirty
inches, splitting each stone a foot in thickness, so that when hauled
to the place of use, each piece was ready to lay up in the wall. The
ranch house at headquarters was built out of this rock, and where
permanency was required, it was the best material available, whitening
and apparently becoming firmer with time and exposure.

I had not seen my sweetheart in nearly a month, but there I was,
chained to a rock quarry and mule teams. The very idea of Gallup and
the profligate Scales riding to hounds and basking in the society of
charming girls nettled me. The remainder of the ranch outfit was under
Deweese, building the new corrals, so that I never heard my own tongue
spoken except at meals and about the house. My orders included the
cutting of a few hundred rock extra above the needs of the chapel, and
when this got noised among the help, I had to explain that there was
some talk of building a stone cottage, and intimated that it was for
Juana and Fidel. But that lucky rascal was one of the crew cutting
rock, and from some source or other he had learned that I was liable to
need a cottage at Las Palomas in the near future. The fact that I was
acting _segundo_ over the quarrying outfit, was taken advantage of by
Fidel to clear his skirts and charge the extra rock to my matrimonial
expectations. He was a fast workman, and on every stone he split from
the mother ledge, he sang out, “Otro piedra por Don Tomas!” And within
a few minutes’ time some one else would cry out, “Otro cillar por Fidel
y Juana,” or “Otro piedra por padre Norquin.”

A week passed and there was no return of the hunters. We had so
systematized our work at the quarry that my presence was hardly needed,
so every evening I urged Cotton to sound the mistress for permission to
visit our sweethearts. John was a good-natured fellow who could be
easily led or pushed forward, and I had come to look upon Miss Jean as
a ready supporter of any of her brother’s projects. For that reason her
permission was as good as the master’s; but she parried all Cotton’s
hints, pleading the neglect of our work in the absence of her brother.
I was disgusted with the monotony of quarry work, and likewise was John
over building corrals, as no cow hand ever enthuses over manual labor,
when an incident occurred which afforded the opportunity desired. The
mistress needed some small article from the store at Shepherd’s, and a
Mexican boy had been sent down on this errand and also to get the mail
of the past two weeks. On the boy’s return, he brought a message from
the merchant, saying that Henry Annear had been accidentally killed by
a horse that day, and that the burial would take place at ten o’clock
the next morning.

The news threw the mistress of Las Palomas into a flutter. Her brother
was absent, and she felt a delicacy in consulting Deweese, and very
naturally turned to me for advice. Funerals in the Nueces valley were
so very rare that I advised going, even if the unfortunate man had
stood none too high in our estimation. Annear lived on the divide
between Shepherd’s and the Frio at a ranch called Las Norias. As this
ranch was not over ten miles from the mouth of the San Miguel, the
astute mind can readily see the gleam of my ax in attending. Funerals
were such events that I knew to a certainty that all the countryside
within reach would attend, and the Vaux ranch was not over fifteen
miles distant from Las Norias. Acting on my advice, the mistress
ordered the ambulance to be ready to start by three o’clock the next
morning, and gave every one on the ranch who cared, permission to go
along. All of us took advantage of the offer, except Deweese, who, when
out of hearing of the mistress, excused himself rather profanely.

The boy had returned late in the day, but we lost no time in acting on
Miss Jean’s orders. Fortunately the ambulance teams were in hand
hauling rock, but we rushed out several vaqueros to bring in the
_remuda_ which contained our best saddle horses. It was after dark when
they returned with the mounts wanted, and warning Tiburcio that we
would call him at an early hour, every one retired for a few hours’
rest. I would resent the charge that I am selfish or unsympathetic, yet
before falling asleep that night the deplorable accident was entirely
overlooked in the anticipated pleasure of seeing Esther.

As it was fully a thirty-five-mile drive we started at daybreak, and to
encourage the mules Quayle and Happersett rode in the lead until
sun-up, when they dropped to the rear with Cotton and myself. We did
not go by way of Shepherd’s, but crossed the river several miles above
the ferry, following an old cotton road made during the war, from the
interior of the state to Matamoras, Mexico. It was some time before the
hour named for the burial when we sighted Las Norias on the divide, and
spurred up the ambulance team, to reach the ranch in time for the
funeral. The services were conducted by a strange minister who happened
to be visiting in Oakville, but what impressed me in particular was the
solicitude of Miss Jean for the widow. She had been frequently
entertained at Las Palomas by its mistress, as the sweetheart of June
Deweese, though since her marriage to Annear a decided coolness had
existed between the two women. But in the present hour of trouble, the
past was forgotten and they mingled their tears like sisters.

On our return, which was to be by way of the Vauxes’, I joined those
from the McLeod ranch, while Happersett and Cotton accompanied the
ambulance to the Vaux home. Nearly every one going our way was on
horseback, and when the cavalcade was some distance from Las Norias, my
sweetheart dropped to the rear for a confidential chat and told me that
a lawyer from Corpus Christi, an old friend of the family, had come up
for the purpose of taking the preliminary steps for securing her
freedom, and that she expected to be relieved of the odious tie which
bound her to Oxenford at the May term of court. This was pleasant news
to me, for there would then be no reason for delaying our marriage.

Happersett rode down to the San Miguel the next morning to inform
Quayle and myself that the mistress was then on the way to spend the
night with the widow Annear, and that the rest of us were to report at
home the following evening. She had apparently inspected the lines on
the Frio, and, finding everything favorable, turned to other fields. I
was disappointed, for Esther and I had planned to go up to the Vaux
ranch during the visit. Dan suggested that we ride home together by way
of the Vauxes’. But Quayle bitterly refused even to go near the ranch.
He felt very sore and revengeful over being jilted by Frances after she
had let him crown her Queen of the ball at the tournament dance. So,
agreeing to meet on the divide the next day for the ride back to Las
Palomas, we parted.

The next afternoon, on reaching the divide between the Frio and the
home river, Theodore and I scanned the horizon in vain for any
horsemen. We dismounted, and after waiting nearly an hour, descried two
specks to the northward which we knew must be our men. On coming up
they also threw themselves on the ground, and we indulged in a
cigarette while we compared notes. I had nothing to conceal, and
frankly confessed that Esther and I expected to marry during the latter
part of May. Cotton, though, seemed reticent, and though Theodore
cross-questioned him rather severely, was non-committal and dumb as an
oyster; but before we recrossed the Nueces that evening, John and I
having fallen far to the rear of the other two, he admitted to me that
his wedding would occur within a month after Lent. It was to be a
confidence between us, but I advised him to take Uncle Lance into the
secret at once.

But on reaching the ranch we learned that the hunting party had not
returned, nor had the mistress. The next morning we resumed our work,
Quayle and Cotton at corral building and I at the rock quarry. The work
had progressed during my absence, and the number of pieces desired was
nearing completion, and with but one team hauling the work-shop was
already congested with cut building stone. By noon the quarry was so
cluttered with blocks that I ordered half the help to take axes and go
to the encinal to cut dry oak wood for burning the lime. With the
remainder of my outfit we cleaned out and sealed off the walls of an
old lime kiln, which had served ever since the first rock buildings
rose on Las Palomas. The oven was cut in the same porous formation, the
interior resembling an immense jug, possibly twelve feet in diameter
and fifteen feet in height to the surface of the ledge. By locating the
kiln near the abrupt wall of an abandoned quarry, ventilation was given
from below by a connecting tunnel some twenty feet in length. Layers of
wood and limestone were placed within until the interior was filled,
when it was fired, and after burning for a few hours the draft was cut
off below and above, and the heat retained until the limestone was
properly burned.

Near the middle of the afternoon, the drivers hauling the blocks drove
near the kiln and shouted that the hunters had returned. Scaling off
the burnt rock in the interior and removing the debris made it late
before our job was finished; then one of the vaqueros working on the
outside told us that the ambulance had crossed the river over an hour
before, and was then in the ranch. This was good news, and mounting our
horses we galloped into headquarters and found the corral outfit
already there. Miss Jean soon had our _segundo_ an unwilling prisoner
in a corner, and from his impatient manner and her low tones it was
plain to be seen that her two days’ visit with Mrs. Annear had resulted
in some word for Deweese. Not wishing to intrude, I avoided them in
search of my employer, finding him and Gallup at an outhouse holding a
hound while Scales was taking a few stitches in an ugly cut which the
dog had received from a _javeline_. Paying no attention to the two
boys, I gave him the news, and bluntly informed him that Esther and I
expected to marry in May.

“Bully for you, Tom,” said he. “Here, hold this fore foot, and look out
he don’t bite you. So she’ll get her divorce at the May term, and then
all outdoors can’t stand in your way the next time. Now, that means
that you’ll have to get out fully two hundred more of those building
rock, for your cottage will need three rooms. Take another stitch, knot
your thread well, and be quick about it. I tell you the _javeline_ were
pretty fierce; this is the fifth dog we’ve doctored since we returned.”

On freeing the poor hound, we both looked the pack over carefully, and
as no others needed attention, Aaron and Glenn were excused. No sooner
were they out of hearing than I suggested that the order be made for
five hundred stone, as no doubt John Cotton would also need a cottage
shortly after Lent. The old matchmaker beamed with smiles. “Is that
right, Tom?” he inquired. “Of course, you boys tell each other what you
would hardly tell me. And so they have made the riffle at last? Why, of
course they shall have a cottage, and have it so near that I can hear
the baby when it cries. Bully for tow-headed John. Oh, I reckon Las
Palomas is coming to the front this year. Three new cottages and three
new brides is not to be sneezed at! Does your mistress know all this
good news?”

I informed him that I had not seen Miss Jean to speak to since the
funeral, and that Cotton wished his intentions kept a secret. “Of
course,” he said; “that’s just like a sap-headed youth, as if getting
married was anything to be ashamed of. Why, when I was the age of you
boys I’d have felt proud over the fact. Wants it kept a secret, does
he? Well, I’ll tell everybody I meet, and I’ll send word to the ferry
and to every ranch within a hundred miles, that our John Cotton and
Frank Vaux are going to get married in the spring. There’s nothing
disgraceful in matrimony, and I’ll publish this so wide that neither of
them will dare back out. I’ve had my eye on that girl for years, and
now when there’s a prospect of her becoming the wife of one of my boys,
he wants it kept a secret? Well, I don’t think it’ll keep.”

After that I felt more comfortable over my own confession. Before we
were called to supper every one in the house, including the Mexicans
about headquarters, knew that Cotton and I were soon to be married. And
all during the evening the same subject was revived at every lull in
the conversation, though Deweese kept constantly intruding the corral
building and making inquiries after the hunt. “What difference does it
make if we hunted or not?” replied Uncle Lance to his foreman with some
little feeling. “Suppose we did only hunt every third or fourth day?
Those Wilson folks have a way of entertaining friends which makes
riding after hounds seem commonplace. Why, the girls had Glenn and
Aaron on the go until old man Nate and myself could hardly get them out
on a hunt at all. And when they did, provided the girls were along,
they managed to get separated, and along about dusk they’d come
slouching in by pairs, looking as innocent as turtle-doves. Not that
those Wilson girls can’t ride, for I never saw a better horsewoman than
Susie—the one who took such a shine to Scales.”

I noticed Miss Jean cast a reproving glance at her brother on his
connecting the name of Susie Wilson with that of his vagabond employee.
The mistress was a puritan in morals. That Scales fell far below her
ideal there was no doubt, and the brother knew too well not to differ
with her on this subject. When all the boys had retired except Cotton
and me, the brother and sister became frank with each other.

“Well, now, you must not blame me if Miss Susie was attentive to
Aaron,” said the old matchmaker, in conciliation, pacing the room. “He
was from Las Palomas and their guest, and I see no harm in the girls
being courteous and polite. Susie was just as nice as pie to me, and I
hope you don’t think I don’t entertain the highest regard for Nate
Wilson’s family. Suppose one of the girls did smile a little too much
on Aaron, was that my fault? Now, mind you, I never said a word one way
or the other, but I’ll bet every cow on Las Palomas that Aaron Scales,
vagabond that he is, can get Susie Wilson for the asking. I know your
standard of morals, but you must make allowance for others who look
upon things differently from you and me. You remember Katharine Vedder
who married Carey Troup at the close of the war. There’s a similar case
for you. Katharine married Troup just because he was so wicked, at
least that was the reason she gave, and she and you were old
run-togethers. And you remember too that getting married was the
turning-point in Carey Troup’s life. Who knows but Aaron might sober
down if he was to marry? Just because a man has sown a few wild oats in
his youth, does that condemn him for all time? You want to be more
liberal. Give me the man who has stood the fire tests of life in
preference to one who has never been tempted.”

“Now, Lance, you know you had a motive in taking Aaron down to
Wilson’s,” said the sister, reprovingly. “Don’t get the idea that I
can’t read you like an open book. Your argument is as good as an
admission of your object in going to Ramirena. Ever since Scales got up
that flirtation with Suzanne Vaux last summer, it was easy to see that
Aaron was a favorite with you. Why don’t you take Happersett around and
introduce him to some nice girls? Honest, Lance, I wouldn’t give poor
old Dan for the big beef corral full of rascals like Scales. Look how
he trifled with that silly girl in Florida.”

Instead of continuing the argument, the wily ranchero changed the
subject.

“The trouble with Dan is he’s too old. When a fellow begins to get a
little gray around the edges, he gets so foxy that you couldn’t bait
him into a matrimonial trap with sweet grapes. But, Sis, what’s the
matter with your keeping an eye open for a girl for Dan, if he’s such a
favorite with you? If I had half the interest in him that you profess,
I certainly wouldn’t ask any one to help. It wouldn’t surprise me if
the boys take to marrying freely after John and Tom bring their brides
to Las Palomas. Now that Mrs. Annear is a widow, there’s the same old
chance for June. If Glenn don’t make the riffle with Miss Jule, he
ought to be shot on general principles. And I don’t know, little
sister, if you and I were both to oppose it, that we could prevent that
rascal of an Aaron from marrying into the Wilson family. You have no
idea what a case Susie and Scales scared up during our ten days’ hunt.
That only leaves Dan and Theodore. But what’s the use of counting the
chickens so soon? You go to bed, for I’m going to send to the Mission
to-morrow after the masons. There’s no use in my turning in, for I
won’t sleep a wink to-night, thinking all this over.”




CHAPTER XVIII
AN INDIAN SCARE


Near the close of January, ’79, the Nueces valley was stirred by an
Indian scare. I had a distinct recollection of two similar scares in my
boyhood on the San Antonio River, in which I never caught a glimpse of
the noble red man. But whether the rumors were groundless or not, Las
Palomas set her house in order. The worst thing we had to fear was the
loss of our saddle stock, as they were gentle and could be easily run
off and corralled on the range by stretching lariats. At this time the
ranch had some ten _remudas_ including nearly five hundred saddle
horses, some of them ranging ten or fifteen miles from the ranch, and
on receipt of the first rumor, every _remuda_ was brought in home and
put under a general herd, night and day.

“These Indian scares,” said Uncle Lance, “are just about as regular as
drouths. When I first settled here, the Indians hunted up and down this
valley every few years, but they never molested anything. Why, I got
well acquainted with several bucks, and used to swap rawhide with them
for buckskin. Game was so abundant then that there was no temptation to
kill cattle or steal horses. But the rascals seem to be getting worse
ever since. The last scare was just ten years ago next month, and kept
us all guessing. The renegades were Kickapoos and came down the Frio
from out west. One Sunday morning they surprised two of Waugh’s
vaqueros while the latter were dressing a wild hog which they had
killed. The Mexicans had only one horse and one gun between them. One
of them took the horse and the other took the carbine. Not daring to
follow the one with the gun for fear of ambuscade, the Indians gave
chase to the vaquero on horseback, whom they easily captured. After
stripping him of all his clothing, they tied his hands with thongs, and
pinned the poor devil to a tree with spear thrusts through the back.

“The other Mexican made his escape in the chaparral, and got back to
the ranch. As it happened, there was only a man or two at Waugh’s place
at the time, and no attempt was made to follow the Indians, who, after
killing the vaquero, went on west to Altita Creek—the one which puts
into the Nueces from the north, just about twenty miles above the
Ganso. Waugh had a sheep camp on the head of Altito, and there the
Kickapoos killed two of his _pastors_ and robbed the camp. From that
creek on westward, their course was marked with murders and horse
stealing, but the country was so sparsely settled that little or no
resistance could be offered, and the redskins escaped without
punishment. At that time they were armed with bow and arrow and spears,
but I have it on good authority that all these western tribes now have
firearms. The very name of Indians scares women and children, and if
they should come down this river, we must keep in the open and avoid
ambush, as that is an Indian’s forte.”

All the women and children at the outlying ranchitas were brought into
headquarters, the men being left to look after the houses and their
stock and flocks. In the interim, Father Norquin and the masons had
arrived and the chapel was daily taking shape. But the rumors of the
Indian raid thickened. Reports came in of shepherds shot with their
flocks over near Espontos Lake and along the Leona River, and Las
Palomas took on the air of an armed camp. Though we never ceased to
ride the range wherever duty called, we went always in squads of four
or five.

The first abatement of the scare took place when one evening a
cavalcade of Texas Rangers reached our ranch from DeWitt County. They
consisted of fifteen mounted men under Lieutenant Frank Barr, with a
commissary of four pack mules. The detachment was from one of the crack
companies of the state, and had with them several half-blood trailers,
though every man in the squad was more or less of an expert in that
line. They were traveling light, and had covered over a hundred miles
during the day and a half preceding their arrival at headquarters. The
hospitality of Las Palomas was theirs to command, and as their most
urgent need was mounts, they were made welcome to the pick of every
horse under herd. Sunrise saw our ranger guests on their way, leaving
the high tension relaxed and every one on the ranch breathing easier.
But the Indian scare did not prove an ill wind to the plans of Father
Norquin. With the concentration of people from the ranchitas and those
belonging at the home ranch, the chapel building went on by leaps and
bounds. A native carpenter had been secured from Santa Maria, and the
enthusiastic padre, laying aside his vestments, worked with his hands
as a common laborer. The energy with which he inspired the natives made
him a valuable overseer. From assisting the carpenter in hewing the
rafters, to advising the masons in laying a keystone, or with his own
hands mixing the mortar and tamping the earth to give firm foundation
to the cement floor, he was the directing spirit. Very little lumber
was used in the construction of buildings at Las Palomas. The houses
were thatched with a coarse salt grass, called by the natives
_zacahuiste_. Every year in the overflowed portions of the valley,
great quantities of this material were cut by the native help and
stored against its need. The grass sometimes grew two feet in height,
and at cutting was wrapped tightly and tied in “hands” about two inches
in diameter. For fastening to the roofing lath, green blades of the
Spanish dagger were used, which, after being roasted over a fire to
toughen the fibre, were split into thongs and bound the hands securely
in a solid mass, layer upon layer like shingles. Crude as it may
appear, this was a most serviceable roof, being both rain proof and
impervious to heat, while, owing to its compactness, a live coal of
fire laid upon it would smoulder but not ignite.

No sooner had the masons finished the plastering of the inner walls and
cementing the floor, than they began on a two-roomed cottage. As its
white walls arose conjecture was rife as to who was to occupy it. I
made no bones of the fact that I expected to occupy a _jacal_ in the
near future, but denied that this was to be mine, as I had been
promised one with three rooms. Out of hearing of our employer, John
Cotton also religiously denied that the tiny house was for his use.
Fidel, however, took the chaffing without a denial, the padre and Uncle
Lance being his two worst tormentors.

During the previous visit of the padre, when the chapel was decided on,
the order for the finishing material for the building had been placed
with the merchant at Shepherd’s, and was brought up from Corpus Christi
through his freighters. We now had notice from the merchant that his
teamsters had returned, and two four-mule teams went down to the ferry
for the lumber, glassware, sash and doors. Miss Jean had been
importuning the padre daily to know when the dedication would take
place, as she was planning to invite the countryside.

“Ah, my daughter,” replied the priest, “we must learn to cultivate
patience. All things that abide are of slow but steady growth, and my
work is for eternity. Therefore I must be an earnest servant, so that
when my life’s duty ends, it can be said in truth, ‘Well done, thou
good and faithful servant.’ But I am as anxious to consecrate this
building to the Master’s service as any one. My good woman, if I only
had a few parishioners like you, we would work wonders among these
natives.”

On the return of the mule teams, the completion of the building could
be determined, and the padre announced the twenty-first of February as
the date of dedication. On reaching this decision, the ranch was set in
order for an occasion of more than ordinary moment. Fidel and Juana
were impatient to be married, and the master and mistress had decided
that the ceremony should be performed the day after the dedication, and
all the guests of the ranch should remain for the festivities. The
padre, still in command, dispatched a vaquero to the Mission,
announcing the completion of the chapel, and asking for a brother
priest to bring out certain vestments and assist in the dedicatory
exercises. The Indian scare was subsiding, and as no word had come from
the rangers confidence grew that the worst was over, so we scattered in
every direction inviting guests. From the Booths on the Frio to the
Wilsons of Ramirena, and along the home river as far as Lagarto, our
friends were bidden in the name of the master and mistress of Las
Palomas.

On my return from taking the invitations to the ranches north, the
chapel was just receiving the finishing touches. The cross crowning the
front glistened in fresh paint, while on the interior walls shone cheap
lithographs of the Madonna and Christ. The old padre, proud and jealous
as a bridegroom over his bride, directed the young friar here and
there, himself standing aloof and studying with an artist’s eye every
effect in color and drapery. The only discordant note in the interior
was the rough benches, in the building of which Father Norquin himself
had worked, thus following, as he repeatedly admonished us, in the
footsteps of his Master, the carpenter of Galilee.

The ceremony of dedication was to be followed by mass at high noon. Don
Mateo Gonzales of Santa Maria sent his regrets, as did likewise Don
Alejandro Travino of the Mission, but the other invited guests came
early and stayed late. The women and children of the outlying ranchitas
had not yet returned to their homes, and with our invited guests made
an assembly of nearly a hundred and fifty persons. Unexpectedly, and
within two hours of the appointed time for the service to commence, a
cavalcade was sighted approaching the ranch from the west. As they
turned in towards headquarters, some one recognized the horses, and a
shout of welcome greeted our ranger guests of over two weeks before.
Uncle Lance met them as if they had been expected, and invited the
lieutenant and his men to dismount and remain a few days as guests of
Las Palomas. When they urged the importance of continuing on their
journey to report to the governor, the host replied:—

“Lieutenant Barr, that don’t go here. Fall out of your saddles and
borrow all the razors and white shirts on the ranch, for we need you
for the dedication of a chapel to-day, and for a wedding and infare for
to-morrow. We don’t see you along this river as often as we’d like to,
and when you do happen along in time for a peaceful duty, you can’t get
away so easily. If you have any special report to make to your
superiors, why, write her out, and I’ll send a vaquero with it to
Oakville this afternoon, and it’ll go north on the stage to-morrow.
But, lieutenant, you mustn’t think you can ride right past Las Palomas
when you’re not under emergency orders. Now, fall off those horses and
spruce up a little, for I intend to introduce you to some as nice girls
as you ever met. You may want to quit rangering some day, and I may
need a man about your size, and I’m getting tired of single ones.”

Lieutenant Barr surrendered. Saddles were stripped from horses, packs
were unlashed from mules, and every animal was sent to our _remudas_
under herd. The accoutrements were stacked inside the gate like
haycocks, with slickers thrown over them; the carbines were thrown on
the gallery, and from every nail, peg, or hook on the wall belts and
six-shooters hung in groups. These rangers were just ordinary looking
men, and might have been mistaken for an outfit of cow hands. In age
they ranged from a smiling youth of twenty to grizzled men of forty,
yet in every countenance was written a resolute determination. All the
razors on the ranch were brought into immediate use, while every
presentable shirt, collar, and tie in the house was unearthed and
placed at their disposal. While arranging hasty toilets, the men
informed us that when they reached Espontos Lake the redskins had left,
and that they had trailed them south until the Indians had crossed the
Rio Grande into Mexico several days in advance of their arrival. The
usual number of isolated sheepherders killed, and of horses stolen,
were the features of the raid.

The guests had been arriving all morning. The Booths had reached the
ranch the night before, and the last to put in an appearance was the
contingent from the Frio and San Miguel. Before the appearance of the
rangers, they had been sighted across the river, and they rode up with
Pierre Vaux, like a captain of the Old Guard, in the lead.

“Ah, Don Lance,” he cried, “vat you tink? Dey say Don Pierre no ride
fas’ goin’ to church. Dese youngsters laff all time and say I never get
here unless de dogs is ’long. Sacré! Act all time lak I vas von ol’
man. _Humbre_, keep away from dis horse; he allow nobody but me to lay
von han’ on him—keep away, I tol’ you!”

I helped the girls to dismount, Miss Jean kissing them right and left,
and bustling them off into the house to tidy up as fast as possible;
for the hour was almost at hand. On catching sight of Mrs. Annear,
fresh and charming in her widow’s weeds, Uncle Lance brushed Don Pierre
aside and cordially greeted her. Vaqueros took the horses, and as I
strolled up the pathway with Esther, I noticed an upper window full of
ranger faces peering down on the girls. Before this last contingent had
had time to spruce up, Pasquale’s eldest boy rode around all the
_jacals_, ringing a small handbell to summon the population to the
dedication. Outside of our home crowd, we had forty white guests, not
including the two Booth children and the priests. As fast as the
rangers were made presentable, the master and mistress introduced them
to all the girls present. Of course, there were a few who could not be
enticed near a woman, but Quayle and Happersett, like kindred spirits,
took the backward ones under their wing, and the procession started for
the chapel.

The audience was typical of the Texas frontier at the close of the
’70’s. Two priests of European birth conducted the services. Pioneer
cowmen of various nationalities and their families intermingled and
occupied central seats. By the side of his host, a veteran of ’36, when
Mexican rule was driven from the land, sat Lieutenant Barr, then
engaged in accomplishing a second redemption of the state from crime
and lawlessless. Lovable and esteemed men were present, who had
followed the fortunes of war until the Southern flag, to which they had
rallied, went down in defeat. The younger generation of men were
stalwart in physique, while the girls were modest in their rustic
beauty. Sitting on the cement floor on three sides of us were the
natives of the ranch, civilized but with little improvement over their
Aztec ancestors.

The dedicatory exercises were brief and simple. Every one was invited
to remain for the celebration of the first mass in the newly
consecrated building. Many who were not communicants accepted, but
noticing the mistress and my sweetheart taking their leave, I joined
them and assisted in arranging the tables so that all our guests could
be seated at two sittings. At the conclusion of the services, dinner
was waiting, and Father Norquin and Mr. Nate Wilson were asked to carve
at one table, while the young friar and Lieutenant Barr, in a similar
capacity, officiated at the other. There was so much volunteer help in
the kitchen that I was soon excused, and joined the younger people on
the gallery. As to whom Cotton and Gallup were monopolizing there was
no doubt, but I had a curiosity to notice what Scales would do when
placed between two fires. But not for nothing had he cultivated the
acquaintance of a sandy-mustached young ranger, who was at that moment
entertaining Suzanne Vaux in an alcove at the farther end of the
veranda. Aaron, when returning from the chapel with Susie Wilson, had
succeeded in getting no nearer the house than a clump of oak trees
which sheltered an old rustic settee. And when the young folks were
called in to dinner, the vagabond Scales and Miss Wilson of Ramirena
had to be called the second time.

In seating the younger generation, Miss Jean showed her finesse. Nearly
all the rangers had dined at the first tables, but the widow Annear
waited for the second one—why, only a privileged few of us could guess.
Artfully and with seeming unconsciousness on the part of every one,
Deweese was placed beside the charming widow, though I had a suspicion
that June was the only innocent party in the company. Captain Byler and
I were carving at the same table at which our foreman and the widow
were seated, and, being in the secret, I noted step by step the
progress of the widow, and the signs of gradual surrender of the
corporal _segundo_. I had a distinct recollection of having once
smashed some earnest resolves, and of having capitulated under similar
circumstances, and now being happily in love, I secretly wished success
to the little god Cupid in the case in hand. And all during the
afternoon and evening, it was clearly apparent to any one who cared to
notice that success was very likely.

The evening was a memorable one at Las Palomas. Never before in my
knowledge had the ranch had so many and such amiable guests. The
rangers took kindly to our hospitality, and Father Norquin waddled
about, God-blessing every one, old and young, frivolous and sedate.
Owing to the nature of the services of the day, the evening was spent
in conversation among the elders, while the younger element promenaded
the spacious gallery, or occupied alcoves, nooks, and corners about the
grounds. On retiring for the night, the men yielded the house to the
women guests, sleeping on the upper and lower verandas, while the
ranger contingent, scorning beds or shelter, unrolled their blankets
under the spreading live-oaks in the yard.

But the real interest centred in the marriage of Fidel and Juana, which
took place at six o’clock the following evening. Every one, including
the native element, repaired to the new chapel to attend the wedding.
Uncle Lance and his sister had rivaled each other as to whether man or
maid should have the better outfit. Fidel was physically far above the
average of the natives, slightly bow-legged, stolid, and the coolest
person in the church. The bride was in quite a flutter, but having been
coached and rehearsed daily by her mistress, managed to get through the
ordeal. The young priest performed the ceremony, using his own native
tongue, the rich, silvery accents of Spanish. At the conclusion of the
service, every one congratulated the happy couple, the women and girls
in tears, the sterner sex without demonstration of feeling. When we
were outside the chapel, and waiting for our sweethearts to dry their
tears and join us, Uncle Lance came swaggering’ over to John Cotton and
me, and, slapping us both on the back, said:—

“Boys, that rascal of a Fidel has a splendid nerve. Did you notice how
he faced the guns without a tremor; never batted an eye but took his
medicine like a little man. I hope both of you boys will show equally
good nerve when your turn comes. Why, I doubt if there was a ranger in
the whole squad, unless it was that red-headed rascal who kissed the
bride, who would have stood the test like that vaquero—without a
shiver. And it’s something you can’t get used to. Now, as you all know,
I’ve been married three times. The first two times I was as cool as
most, but the third whirl I trembled all over. Quavers ran through me,
my tongue was palsied, my teeth chattered, my knees knocked together,
and I felt like a man that was sent for and couldn’t go. Now, mind you,
it was the third time and I was only forty-five.”

What a night that was! The contents of the warehouse had been shifted,
native musicians had come up from Santa Maria, and every one about the
home ranch who could strum a guitar was pressed into service. The
storeroom was given over to the natives, and after honoring the
occasion with their presence as patrons, the master and mistress, after
the opening dance, withdrew in company with their guests. The night had
then barely commenced. Claiming two guitarists, we soon had our guests
waltzing on veranda, hall, and spacious dining-room to the music of my
fiddle. Several of the rangers could play, and by taking turns every
one had a joyous time, including the two priests. Among the Mexicans
the dancing continued until daybreak. Shortly after midnight our guests
retired, and the next morning found all, including the priests,
preparing to take their departure. As was customary, we rode a short
distance with our guests, bidding them again to Las Palomas and
receiving similar invitations in return. With the exception of Captain
Byler, the rangers were the last to take their leave. When the mules
were packed and their mounts saddled, the old ranchero extended them a
welcome whenever they came that way again.

“Well, now, Mr. Lovelace,” said Lieutenant Barr, “you had better not
press that invitation too far. The good time we have had with you
discounts rangering for the State of Texas. Rest assured, sir, that we
will not soon forget the hospitality of Las Palomas, nor its ability to
entertain. Push on with the packs, boys, and I’ll take leave of the
mistress in behalf of you all, and overtake the squad before it reaches
the river.”




CHAPTER XIX
HORSE BRANDS


Before gathering the fillies and mares that spring, and while riding
the range, locating our horse stock, Pasquale brought in word late one
evening that a _ladino_ stallion had killed the regular one, and was
then in possession of the _manada_. The fight between the outlaw and
the ranch stallion had evidently occurred above the mouth of the Ganso
and several miles to the north of the home river, for he had
accidentally found the carcass of the dead horse at a small lake and,
recognizing the animal by his color, had immediately scoured the
country in search of the band. He had finally located the _manada_,
many miles off their range; but at sight of the vaquero the _ladino_
usurper had deserted the mares, halting, however, out of gunshot, yet
following at a safe distance as Pasquale drifted them back. Leaving the
_manada_ on their former range, Pasquale had ridden into the ranch and
reported. It was then too late in the day to start against the
interloper, as the range was fully twenty-five miles away, and we were
delayed the next morning in getting up speedy saddle horses from
distant and various _remudas_, and did not get away from the ranch
until after dinner. But then we started, taking the usual pack mules,
and provisioned for a week’s outing.

Included in the party was Captain Frank Byler, the regular home crowd,
and three Mexicans. With an extra saddle horse for each, we rode away
merrily to declare war on the _ladino_ stallion. “This is the third
time since I’ve been ranching here,” said Uncle Lance to Captain Frank,
as we rode along, “that I’ve had stallions killed. There always have
been bands of wild horses, west here between the Leona and Nueces
rivers and around Espontos Lake. Now that country is settling up, the
people walk down the bands and the stallions escape, and in drifting
about find our range. They’re wiry rascals, and our old stallions don’t
stand any more show with them than a fat hog would with a _javaline_.
That’s why I take as much pride in killing one as I do a rattlesnake.”

We made camp early that evening on the home river, opposite the range
of the _manada_. Sending out Pasquale to locate the band and watch them
until dark, Uncle Lance outlined his idea of circling the band and
bagging the outlaw in the uncertain light of dawn. Pasquale reported on
his return after dark that the _manada_ were contentedly feeding on
their accustomed range within three miles of camp. Pasquale had watched
the band for an hour, and described the _ladino_ stallion as a
cinnamon-colored coyote, splendidly proportioned and unusually large
for a mustang.

Naturally, in expectation of the coming sport, the horses became the
topic around the camp-fire that night. Every man present was a born
horseman, and there was a generous rivalry for the honor in telling
horse stories. Aaron Scales joined the group at a fortunate time to
introduce an incident from his own experience, and, raking out a coal
of fire for his pipe, began:—

“The first ranch I ever worked on,” said he, “was located on the
Navidad in Lavaca County. It was quite a new country then, rather
broken and timbered in places and full of bear and wolves. Our outfit
was working some cattle before the general round-up in the spring. We
wanted to move one brand to another range as soon as the grass would
permit, and we were gathering them for that purpose. We had some ninety
saddle horses with us to do the work,—sufficient to mount fifteen men.
One night we camped in a favorite spot, and as we had no cattle to hold
that night, all the horses were thrown loose, with the usual precaution
of hobbling, except two or three on picket. All but about ten head wore
the bracelets, and those ten were pals, their pardners wearing the
hemp. Early in the evening, probably nine o’clock, with a bright fire
burning, and the boys spreading down their beds for the night, suddenly
the horses were heard running, and the next moment they hobbled into
camp like a school of porpoise, trampling over the beds and crowding up
to the fire and the wagon. They almost knocked down some of the boys,
so sudden was their entrance. Then they set up a terrible nickering for
mates. The boys went amongst them, and horses that were timid and shy
almost caressed their riders, trembling in limb and muscle the while
through fear, like a leaf. We concluded a bear had scented the camp,
and in approaching it had circled round, and run amuck our saddle
horses. Every horse by instinct is afraid of a bear, but more
particularly a range-raised one. It’s the same instinct that makes it
impossible to ride or drive a range-raised horse over a rattlesnake.
Well, after the boys had petted their mounts and quieted their fears,
they were still reluctant to leave camp, but stood around for several
hours, evidently feeling more secure in our presence. Now and then one
of the free ones would graze out a little distance, cautiously sniff
the air, then trot back to the others. We built up a big fire to scare
away any bear or wolves that might he in the vicinity, but the horses
stayed like invited guests, perfectly contented as long as we would pet
them and talk to them. Some of the boys crawled under the wagon, hoping
to get a little sleep, rather than spread their bed where a horse could
stampede over it. Near midnight we took ropes and saddle blankets and
drove them several hundred yards from camp. The rest of the night we
slept with one eye open, expecting every moment to hear them take
fright and return. They didn’t, but at daylight every horse was within
five hundred yards of the wagon, and when we unhobbled them and broke
camp that morning, we had to throw riders in the lead to hold them
back.”

On the conclusion of Scales’s experience, there was no lack of
volunteers to take up the thread, though an unwritten law forbade
interruptions. Our employer was among the group, and out of deference
to our guest, the boys remained silent. Uncle Lance finally regaled us
with an account of a fight between range stallions which he had once
witnessed, and on its conclusion Theodore Quayle took his turn.

“The man I was working for once moved nearly a thousand head of mixed
range stock, of which about three hundred were young mules, from the
San Saba to the Concho River. It was a dry country and we were
compelled to follow the McKavett and Fort Chadbourne trail. We had
timed our drives so that we reached creeks once a day at least,
sometimes oftener. It was the latter part of summer, and was unusually
hot and drouthy. There was one drive of twenty-five miles ahead that
the owner knew of without water, and we had planned this drive so as to
reach it at noon, drive halfway, make a dry camp over night, and reach
the pools by noon the next day. Imagine our chagrin on reaching the
watering place to find the stream dry. We lost several hours riding up
and down the _arroyo_ in the hope of finding relief for the men, if not
for the stock. It had been dusty for weeks. The cook had a little water
in his keg, but only enough for drinking purposes. It was twenty miles
yet to the Concho, and make it before night we must. Turning back was
farther than going ahead, and the afternoon was fearfully hot. The heat
waves looked like a sea of fire. The first part of the afternoon drive
was a gradual ascent for fifteen miles, and then came a narrow plateau
of a divide. As we reached this mesa, a sorrier-looking lot of men,
horses, and mules can hardly be imagined. We had already traveled over
forty miles without water for the stock, and five more lay between us
and the coveted river.

“The heat was oppressive to the men, but the herd suffered most from
the fine alkali dust which enveloped them. Their eyebrows and nostrils
were whitened with this fine powder, while all colors merged into one.
On reaching this divide, we could see the cotton-woods that outlined
the stream ahead. Before we had fully crossed this watershed and begun
the descent, the mules would trot along beside the riders in the lead,
even permitting us to lay our hands on their backs. It was getting late
in the day before the first friendly breeze of the afternoon blew
softly in our faces. Then, Great Scott! what a change came over man and
herd. The mules in front threw up their heads and broke into a grand
chorus. Those that were strung out took up the refrain and trotted
forward. The horses set up a rival concert in a higher key. They had
scented the water five miles off.

“All hands except one man on each side now rode in the lead. Every once
in a while, some enthusiastic mule would break through the line of
horsemen, and would have to be brought back. Every time we came to an
elevation where we could catch the breeze, the grand horse and mule
concert would break out anew. At the last elevation between us and the
water, several mules broke through, and before they could be brought
back the whole herd had broken into a run which was impossible to
check. We opened out then and let them go.

“The Concho was barely running, but had long, deep pools here and
there, into which horses and mules plunged, dropped down, rolled over,
and then got up to nicker and bray. The young mules did everything but
drink, while the horses were crazy with delight. When the wagon came up
we went into camp and left them to play out their hands. There was no
herding to do that night, as the water would hold them as readily as a
hundred men.”

“Well, I’m going to hunt my blankets,” said Uncle Lance, rising. “You
understand, Captain, that you are to sleep with me to-night. Davy
Crockett once said that the politest man he ever met in Washington
simply set out the decanter and glasses, and then walked over and
looked out of the window while he took a drink. Now I want to be
equally polite and don’t want to hurry you to sleep, but whenever you
get tired of yarning, you’ll find the bed with me in it to the windward
of that live-oak tree top over yonder.”

Captain Frank showed no inclination to accept the invitation just then,
but assured his host that he would join him later. An hour or two
passed by.

“Haven’t you fellows gone to bed yet?” came an inquiry from out of a
fallen tree top beyond the fire in a voice which we all recognized.
“All right, boys, sit up all night and tell fool stories if you want
to. But remember, I’ll have the last rascal of you in the saddle an
hour before daybreak. I have little sympathy for a man who won’t sleep
when he has a good chance. So if you don’t turn in at all it will be
all right, but you’ll be routed out at three in the morning, and the
man who requires a second calling will get a bucket of water in his
face.”

Captain Frank and several of us rose expecting to take the hint of our
employer, when our good intentions were arrested by a query from Dan
Happersett, “Did any of you ever walk down a wild horse?” None of us
had, and we turned back and reseated ourselves in the group.

“I had a little whirl of it once when I was a youngster,” said Dan,
“except we didn’t walk. It was well known that there were several bands
of wild horses ranging in the southwest corner of Tom Green County.
Those who had seen them described one band as numbering forty to fifty
head with a fine chestnut stallion as a leader. Their range was well
located when water was plentiful, but during certain months of the year
the shallow lagoons where they watered dried up, and they were
compelled to leave. It was when they were forced to go to other waters
that glimpses of them were to be had, and then only at a distance of
one or two miles. There was an outfit made up one spring to go out to
their range and walk these horses down. This season of the year was
selected, as the lagoons would be full of water and the horses would be
naturally reduced in flesh and strength after the winter, as well as
weak and thin blooded from their first taste of grass. We took along
two wagons, one loaded with grain for our mounts. These saddle horses
had been eating grain for months before we started and their flesh was
firm and solid.

“We headed for the lagoons, which were known to a few of our party, and
when we came within ten miles of the water holes, we saw fresh signs of
a band—places where they had apparently grazed within a week. But it
was the second day before we caught sight of the wild horses, and too
late in the day to give them chase. They were watering at a large lake
south of our camp, and we did not disturb them. We watched them until
nightfall, and that night we planned to give them chase at daybreak.
Four of us were to do the riding by turns, and imaginary stations were
allotted to the four quarters of our camp. If they refused to leave
their range and circled, we could send them at least a hundred and
fifty miles the first day, ourselves riding possibly a hundred, and
this riding would be divided among four horses, with plenty of fresh
ones at camp for a change.

“Being the lightest rider in the party, it was decided that I was to
give them the first chase. We had a crafty plainsman for our captain,
and long before daylight he and I rode out and waited for the first
peep of day. Before the sun had risen, we sighted the wild herd within
a mile of the place where darkness had settled over them the night
previous. With a few parting instructions from our captain, I rode
leisurely between them and the lake where they had watered the evening
before. At first sight of me they took fright and ran to a slight
elevation. There they halted a moment, craning their necks and sniffing
the air. This was my first fair view of the chestnut stallion. He
refused to break into a gallop, and even stopped before the rest,
turning defiantly on this intruder of his domain. From the course I was
riding, every moment I was expecting them to catch the wind of me.
Suddenly they scented me, knew me for an enemy, and with the stallion
in the lead they were off to the south.

“It was an exciting ride that morning. Without a halt they ran twenty
miles to the south, then turned to the left and there halted on an
elevation; but a shot in the air told them that all was not well and
they moved on. For an hour and a half they kept their course to the
east, and at last turned to the north. This was, as we had calculated,
about their range. In another hour at the farthest, a new rider with a
fresh horse would take up the running. My horse was still fresh and
enjoying the chase, when on a swell of the plain I made out the rider
who was to relieve me; and though it was early yet in the day the
mustangs had covered sixty miles to my forty. When I saw my relief
locate the band, I turned and rode leisurely to camp. When the last two
riders came into camp that night, they reported having left the herd at
a new lake, to which the mustang had led them, some fifteen miles from
our camp to the westward.

“Each day for the following week was a repetition of the first with
varying incident. But each day it was plain to be seen that they were
fagging fast. Toward the evening of the eighth day, the rider dared not
crowd them for fear of their splitting into small bands, a thing to be
avoided. On the ninth day two riders took them at a time, pushing them
unmercifully but preventing them from splitting, and in the evening of
this day they could be turned at the will of the riders. It was then
agreed that after a half day’s chase on the morrow, they could be
handled with ease. By noon next day, we had driven them within a mile
of our camp.

“They were tired out and we turned them into an impromptu corral made
of wagons and ropes. All but the chestnut stallion. At the last he
escaped us; he stopped on a little knoll and took a farewell look at
his band.

“There were four old United States cavalry horses among our captive
band of mustangs, gray with age and worthless—no telling where they
came from. We clamped a mule shoe over the pasterns of the younger
horses, tied toggles to the others, and the next morning set out on our
return to the settlements.”

Under his promise the old ranchero had the camp astir over an hour
before dawn. Horses were brought in from picket ropes, and divided into
two squads, Pasquale leading off to the windward of where the band was
located at dusk previous. The rest of the men followed Uncle Lance to
complete the leeward side of the circle. The location of the _manada_,
had been described as between a small hill covered with Spanish bayonet
on one hand, and a _zacahuiste_ flat nearly a mile distant on the
other, both well-known landmarks. As we rode out and approached the
location, we dropped a man every half mile until the hill and adjoining
salt flat had been surrounded. We had divided what rifles the ranch
owned between the two squads, so that each side of the circle was armed
with four guns. I had a carbine, and had been stationed about midway of
the leeward half-circle. At the first sign of dawn, the signal agreed
upon, a turkey call, sounded back down the line, and we advanced. The
circle was fully two miles in diameter, and on receiving the signal I
rode slowly forward, halting at every sound. It was a cloudy morning
and dawn came late for clear vision. Several times I dismounted and in
approaching objects at a distance drove my horse before me, only to
find that, as light increased, I was mistaken.


[Illustration: UTTERING A SINGLE PIERCING SNORT]


When both the flat and the dagger crowned hill came into view, not a
living object was in sight. I had made the calculation that, had the
_manada_ grazed during the night, we should be far to the leeward of
the band, for it was reasonable to expect that they would feed against
the wind. But there was also the possibility that the outlaw might have
herded the band several miles distant during the night, and while I was
meditating on this theory, a shot rang out about a mile distant and
behind the hill. Giving my horse the rowel, I rode in the direction of
the report; but before I reached the hill the _manada_ tore around it,
almost running into me. The coyote mustang was leading the band; but as
I halted for a shot, he turned inward, and, the mares intervening, cut
off my opportunity. But the warning shot had reached every rider on the
circle, and as I plied rowel and quirt to turn the band, Tio Tiburcio
cut in before me and headed them backward. As the band whirled away
from us the stallion forged to the front and, by biting and a free use
of his heels, attempted to turn the _manada_ on their former course.
But it mattered little which way they turned now, for our cordon was
closing round them, the windward line then being less than a mile
distant.

As the band struck the eastward or windward line of horsemen, the
mares, except for the control of the stallion, would have yielded, but
now, under his leadership, they recoiled like a band of _ladinos_. But
every time they approached the line of the closing circle they were
checked, and as the cordon closed to less than half a mile in diameter,
in spite of the outlaw’s lashings, the _manada_ quieted down and
halted. Then we unslung our carbines and rifles and slowly closed in
upon the quarry. Several times the mustang stallion came to the
outskirts of the band, uttering a single piercing snort, but never
exposed himself for a shot. Little by little as we edged in he grew
impatient, and finally trotted out boldly as if determined to forsake
his harem and rush the line. But the moment he cleared the band Uncle
Lance dismounted, and as he knelt the stallion stopped like a statue,
gave a single challenging snort, which was answered by a rifle report,
and he fell in his tracks.




CHAPTER XX
SHADOWS


Spring was now at hand after an unusually mild winter. With the
breaking of the drouth of the summer before there had sprung up all
through the encinal and sandy lands an immense crop of weeds, called by
the natives _margoso_, fallow-weed. This plant had thriven all winter,
and the cattle had forsaken the best mesquite grazing in the river
bottoms to forage on it. The results showed that their instinct was
true; for with very rare exceptions every beef on the ranch was fit for
the butcher’s block. Truly it was a year of fatness succeeding a lean
one. Never during my acquaintance with Las Palomas had I seen the
cattle come through a winter in such splendid condition. But now there
was no market. Faint rumors reached us of trail herds being put up in
near-by counties, and it was known that several large ranches in Nueces
County were going to try the experiment of sending their own cattle up
the trail. Lack of demand was discouraging to most ranchmen, and our
range was glutted with heavy steer cattle.

The first spring work of any importance was gathering the horses to
fill a contract we had with Captain Byler. Previous to the herd which
Deweese had sold and delivered at Fort Worth the year before, our horse
stock had amounted to about four thousand head. With the present sale
the ranch holdings would be much reduced, and it was our intention to
retain all _manadas_ used in the breeding of mules. When we commenced
gathering we worked over every one of our sixty odd bands, cutting out
all the fillies and barren mares. In disposing of whole _manadas_ we
kept only the geldings and yearlings, throwing in the old stallions for
good measure, as they would be worthless to us when separated from
their harems. In less than a week’s time we had made up the herd, and
as they were all in the straight ‘horse hoof’ we did not road-brand
them. While gathering them we put them under day and night herd,
throwing in five _remudas_ as we had agreed, but keeping back the bell
mares, as they were gentle and would be useful in forming new bands of
saddle horses. The day before the appointed time for the delivery, the
drover brought up saddle horses and enough picked mares to make his
herd number fifteen hundred.

The only unpleasant episode of the sale was a difference between
Theodore Quayle and my employer. Quayle had cultivated the friendship
of the drover until the latter had partially promised him a job with
the herd, in case there was no objection. But when Uncle Lance learned
that Theodore expected to accompany the horses, he took Captain Frank
to task for attempting to entice away his men. The drover entered a
strong disclaimer, maintaining that he had promised Quayle a place only
in case it was satisfactory to all concerned; further, that in trail
work with horses he preferred Mexican vaqueros, and had only made the
conditional promise as a favor to the young man. Uncle Lance accepted
the explanation and apologized to the drover, but fell on Theodore
Quayle and cruelly upbraided him for forsaking the ranch without cause
or reason. Theodore was speechless with humiliation, but no sooner were
the hasty words spoken than my employer saw that he had grievously hurt
another’s feelings, and humbly craved Quayle’s pardon.

The incident passed and was apparently forgotten. The herd started
north on the trail on the twenty-fifth of March, Quayle stayed on at
Las Palomas, and we resumed our regular spring work on the ranch. While
gathering the mares and fillies, we had cut out all the geldings four
years old and upward to the number of nearly two hundred, and now our
usual routine of horse breaking commenced. The masons had completed
their work on all three of the cottages and returned to the Mission,
but the carpenter yet remained to finish up the woodwork. Fidel and
Juana had begun housekeeping in their little home, and the cosy warmth
which radiated from it made me impatient to see my cottage finished.
Through the mistress, arrangements had been made for the front rooms in
both John’s cottage and mine to be floored instead of cemented.

Some two weeks before Easter Sunday, Cotton returned from the Frio,
where he had been making a call on his intended. Uncle Lance at once
questioned him to know if they had set the day, and was informed that
the marriage would occur within ten days after Lent, and that he
expected first to make a hurried trip to San Antonio for a wedding
outfit.

“That’s all right, John,” said the old ranchero approvingly, “and I
expect Quirk might as well go with you. You can both draw every cent
due you, and take your time, as wages will go right on the same as if
you were working. There will not be much to do except the usual horse
breaking and a little repairing about the ranch. It’s quite likely I
shan’t be able to spare Tom in the early summer, for if no cattle
buyers come along soon, I’m going to send June to the coast and let him
sniff around for one. I’d like the best in the world to sell about
three thousand beeves, and we never had fatter ones than we have
to-day. If we can make a sale, it’ll keep us busy all the fore part of
the summer. So both you fellows knock off any day you want to and go up
to the city. And go horseback, for this ranch don’t give Bethel &
Oxenford’s stages any more of its money.”

With this encouragement, we decided to start for the city the next
morning. But that evening I concluded to give a certain roan gelding a
final ride before turning him over to the vaqueros. He was a vicious
rascal, and after trying a hundred manoeuvres to unhorse me, reared and
fell backward, and before I could free my foot from the stirrup, caught
my left ankle, fracturing several of the small bones in the joint. That
settled my going anywhere on horseback for a month, as the next morning
I could not touch my foot to the ground. John did not like to go alone,
and the mistress insisted that Theodore was well entitled to a
vacation. The master consented, each was paid the wages due him, and
catching up their own private horses, the old cronies started off to
San Antonio. They expected to make Mr. Booth’s ranch in a little over
half a day, and from there a sixty-mile ride would put them in the
city.

After the departure of the boys the dull routine of ranch work went
heavily forward. The horse breaking continued, vaqueros rode the range
looking after the calf crop, while I had to content myself with nursing
a crippled foot and hobbling about on crutches. Had I been able to ride
a horse, it is quite possible that a ranch on the San Miguel would have
had me as its guest; but I must needs content myself with lying around
the house, visiting with Juana, or watching the carpenter finishing the
cottages. I tried several times to interest my mistress in a scheme to
invite my sweetheart over for a week or two, but she put me off on one
pretext and another until I was vexed at her lack of enthusiasm. But
truth compels me to do that good woman justice, and I am now satisfied
that my vexation was due to my own peevishness over my condition and
not to neglect on her part. And just then she was taking such an
absorbing interest in June and the widow, and likewise so sisterly a
concern for Dan Happersett, that it was little wonder she could give me
no special attention when I was soon to be married. It was the bird in
the bush that charmed Miss Jean.

Towards the close of March a number of showers fell, and we had a week
of damp, cloudy weather. This was unfortunate, as it called nearly
every man from the horse breaking to ride the range and look after the
young calves. One of the worst enemies of a newly born calf is screw
worms, which flourish in wet weather, and prove fatal unless removed;
for no young calf withstands the pest over a few days. Clear dry
weather was the best preventive against screw worms, but until the
present damp spell abated every man in the ranch was in the saddle from
sunrise to sunset.

In the midst of this emergency work a beef buyer by the name of Wayne
Orahood reached the ranch. He was representing the lessees of a
steamship company plying between New Orleans and Texas coast points.
The merchant at the ferry had advised Orahood to visit Las Palomas, but
on his arrival about noon there was not a white man on the ranch to
show him the cattle. I knew the anxiety of my employer to dispose of
his matured beeves, and as the buyer was impatient there was nothing to
do but get up horses and ride the range with him. Miss Jean was anxious
to have the stock shown, and in spite of my lameness I ordered saddle
horses for both of us. Unable to wear a boot and still hobbling on
crutches, I managed to Indian mount an old horse, my left foot still
too inflamed to rest in the stirrup. From the ranch we rode for the
encinal ridges and sandy lands to the southeast, where the fallow-weed
still throve in rank profusion, and where our heaviest steers were
liable to range. By riding far from the watering points we encountered
the older cattle, and within an hour after leaving the ranch I was
showing some of the largest beeves on Las Palomas.

How that beef buyer did ride! Scarcely giving the cattle a passing
look, he kept me leading the way from place to place where our salable
stock was to be encountered. Avoiding the ranchitos and wells, where
the cows and younger cattle were to be found, we circled the extreme
outskirts of our range, only occasionally halting, and then but for a
single glance over some prime beeves. We turned westward from the
encinal at a gallop, passing about midway between Santa Maria and the
home ranch. Thence we pushed on for the hills around the head of the
Ganso. Not once in the entire ride did we encounter any one but a
Mexican vaquero, and there was no relief for my foot in meeting him!
Several times I had an inclination to ask Mr. Orahood to remember my
sore ankle, and on striking the broken country I suggested we ride
slower, as many of our oldest beeves ranged through these hills. This
suggestion enabled me to ease up and to show our best cattle to
advantage until the sun set. We were then twenty-five miles from the
ranch. But neither distance nor approaching darkness checked Wayne
Orahood’s enthusiasm. A dozen times he remarked, “We’ll look at a few
more cattle, son, and then ride in home.” We did finally turn homeward,
and at a leisurely gait, but not until it was too dark to see cattle,
and it was several hours after darkness when we sighted the lamps at
headquarters, and finished the last lap in our afternoon’s sixty-mile
ride.

My employer and Mr. Orahood had met before, and greeted each other with
a rugged cordiality common among cowmen. The others had eaten their
supper; but while the buyer and I satisfied the inner man, Uncle Lance
sat with us at the table and sparred with Orahood in repartee, or asked
regarding mutual friends, artfully avoiding any mention of cattle. But
after we had finished Mr. Orahood spoke of his mission, admitted
deprecatingly that he had taken a little ride south and west that
afternoon, and if it was not too much trouble he would like to look
over our beeves on the north of the Nueces in the morning. He showed no
enthusiasm, but acknowledged that he was buying for shipment, and
thought that another month’s good grass ought to put our steers in fair
condition. I noticed Uncle Lance clouding up over the buyer’s lack of
appreciation, but he controlled himself, and when Mr. Orahood expressed
a wish to retire, my employer said to his guest, as with candle in hand
the two stood in parting:—

“Well, now, Wayne, that’s too bad about the cattle being so thin. I’ve
been working my horse stock lately, and didn’t get any chance to ride
the range until this wet spell. But since the screw worms got so bad,
being short-handed, I had to get out and rustle myself or we’d lost a
lot of calves. Of course, I have noticed a steer now and then, and have
been sorry to find them so spring-poor. Actually, Wayne, if we were
expecting company, we’d have to send to the ferry and get a piece of
bacon, as I haven’t seen a hoof fit to kill. That roast beef which you
had for supper—well, that was sent us by a neighbor who has fat cows.
About a year ago now, water was awful scarce with us, and a few old
cows died up and down this valley. I suppose you didn’t hear of it,
living so far away. Heretofore, every time we had a drouth there was
such a volunteer growth of fallow-weed that the cattle got mud fat
following every dry spell. Still I’ll show you a few cattle among the
guajio brush and sand hills on the divide in the morning and see what
you think of them. But of course, if they lack flesh, in case you are
buying for shipment I shan’t expect you to bid on them.”

The old ranchero and the buyer rode away early the next morning, and
did not return until near the middle of the afternoon, having already
agreed on a sale. I was asked to write in duplicate the terms and
conditions. In substance, Las Palomas ranch agreed to deliver at
Rockport on the coast, on the twentieth of May, and for each of the
following three months, twelve hundred and fifty beeves, four years old
and upward. The consideration was $27.50 per head, payable on delivery.
I knew my employer had oversold his holdings, but there would be no
trouble in making up the five thousand head, as all our neighbors would
gladly turn in cattle to fill the contract. The buyer was working on
commission, and the larger the quantity he could contract for, the
better he was suited. After the agreement had been signed in duplicate,
Mr. Orahood smilingly admitted that ours were the best beeves he had
bought that spring. “I knew it,” said Uncle Lance; “you don’t suppose
I’ve been ranching in this valley over forty years without knowing a
fat steer when I see one. Tom, send a _muchacho_ after a bundle of
mint. Wayne, you haven’t got a lick of sense in riding—I’m as tired as
a dog.”

The buyer returned to Shepherd’s the next morning. The horse breaking
was almost completed, except allotting them into _remudas_, assigning
bell mares, and putting each band under herd for a week or ten days.
The weather was fairing off, relieving the strain of riding the range,
and the ranch once more relaxed into its languid existence. By a
peculiar coincidence, Easter Sunday occurred on April the 13th that
year, it being also the sixty-sixth birthday of the ranchero. Miss Jean
usually gave a little home dinner on her brother’s birthday, and had
planned one for this occasion, which was but a few days distant. In the
mail which had been sent for on Saturday before Easter, a letter had
come from John Cotton to his employer, saying he would start home in a
few days, and wanted Father Norquin sent for, as the wedding would take
place on the nineteenth of the month. He also mentioned the fact that
Theodore expected to spend a day or two with the Booths returning, but
he would ride directly down to the Vaux ranch, and possibly the two
would reach home about the same time.

I doubt if Uncle Lance ever enjoyed a happier birthday than this one.
There was every reason why he should enjoy it. For a man of his age,
his years rested lightly. The ranch had never been more prosperous.
Even the drouth of the year before had not proved an ill wind; for the
damage then sustained had been made up by conditions resulting in one
of the largest sales of cattle in the history of the ranch. A chapel
and three new cottages had been built without loss of time and at very
little expense. A number of children had been born to the soil, while
the natives were as loyal to their master as subjects in the days of
feudalism. There was but one thing lacking to fill the cup to
overflowing—the ranchero was childless. Possessed with a love of the
land so deep as to be almost his religion, he felt the need of an heir.

“Birthdays to a man of my years,” said Uncle Lance, over Easter dinner,
“are food for reflection. When one nears the limit of his allotted
days, and looks back over his career, there is little that satisfies.
Financial success is a poor equivalent for other things. But here I am
preaching when I ought to be rejoicing. Some one get John’s letter and
read it again. Let’s see, the nineteenth falls on Saturday. Lucky day
for Las Palomas! Well, we’ll have the padre here, and if he says
barbecue a beef, down goes the fattest one on the ranch. This is the
year in which we expect to press our luck. I begin to feel it in my old
bones that the turning-point has come. When Father Norquin arrives, I
think I’ll have him preach us a sermon on the evils of single life. But
then it’s hardly necessary, for most of you boys have got your eye on
some girl right now. Well, hasten the day, every rascal of you, and
you’ll find a cottage ready at a month’s notice.”

The morning following Easter opened bright and clear, while on every
hand were the signs of spring. A vaquero was dispatched to the Mission
to summon the padre, carrying both a letter and the compliments of the
ranch. Among the jobs outlined for the week was the repairing of a
well, the walls of which had caved in, choking a valuable water supply
with débris. This morning Deweese took a few men and went to the well,
to raise the piping and make the necessary repairs, curbing being the
most important. But while the foreman and Santiago Ortez were standing
on a temporary platform some thirty feet down, a sudden and unexpected
cave-in occurred above them. Deweese saw the danger, called to his
companion, and, in a flash laid hold of a rope with which materials
were being lowered. The foreman’s warning to his companion reached the
helpers above, and Deweese was hastily windlassed to the surface, but
the unfortunate vaquero was caught by the falling debris, he and the
platform being carried down into the water beneath. The body of Ortez
was recovered late that evening, a coffin was made during the night,
and the next morning the unfortunate man was laid in his narrow home.

The accident threw a gloom over the ranch. Yet no one dreamt that a
second disaster was at hand. But the middle of the week passed without
the return of either of the absent boys. Foul play began to be
suspected, and meanwhile Father Norquin arrived, fully expecting to
solemnize within a few days the marriage of one of the missing men.
Aaron Scales was dispatched to the Vaux ranch, and returned the next
morning by daybreak with the information that neither Quayle nor Cotton
had been seen on the Frio recently. A vaquero was sent to the Booth
ranch, who brought back the intelligence that neither of the missing
boys had been seen since they passed northward some two weeks before.
Father Norquin, as deeply affected as any one, returned to the Mission,
unable to offer a word of consolation. Several days passed without
tidings. As the days lengthened into a week, the master, as deeply
mortified over the incident as if the two had been his own sons, let
his suspicion fall on Quayle. And at last when light was thrown on the
mystery, the old ranchero’s intuition proved correct.

My injured foot improved slowly, and before I was able to resume my
duties on the ranch, I rode over one day to the San Miguel for a short
visit. Tony Hunter had been down to Oakville a few days before my
arrival, and while there had met Clint Dansdale, who was well
acquainted with Quayle and Cotton. Clint, it appeared, had been in San
Antonio and met our missing men, and the three had spent a week in the
city chumming together. As Dansdale was also on horseback, the trio
agreed to start home the same time, traveling in company until their
ways separated. Cotton had told Dansdale what business had brought him
to the city, and received the latter’s congratulations. The boys had
decided to leave for home on the ninth, and on the morning of the day
set forth, moneyless but rich in trinkets and toggery. But some where
about forty miles south of San Antonio they met a trail herd of cattle
from the Aransas River. Some trouble had occurred between the foreman
and his men the day before, and that morning several of the latter had
taken French leave. On meeting the travelers, the trail boss, being
short-handed, had offered all three of them a berth. Quayle had
accepted without a question. The other two had stayed all night with
the herd, Dansdale attempting to dissuade Cotton, and Quayle, on the
other hand, persuading him to go with the cattle. In the end Quayle’s
persuasions won. Dansdale admitted that the opportunity appealed
strongly to him, but he refused the trail foreman’s blandishments and
returned to his ranch, while the two Las Palomas lads accompanied the
herd, neither one knowing or caring where they were going.

When I returned home and reported this to my employer, he was visibly
affected. “So that explains all,” said he, “and my surmises regarding
Theodore were correct. I have no particular right to charge him with
ingratitude, and yet this ranch was as much his home as mine. He had
the same to eat, drink, and wear as I had, with none of the concern,
and yet he deserted me. I never spoke harshly to him but once, and now
I wish I had let him go with Captain Byler. That would have saved me
Cotton and the present disgrace to Las Palomas. I ought to have known
that a good honest boy like John would be putty in the hands of a
fellow like Theodore. But it’s just like a fool boy to throw away his
chances in life. They still sell their birthright for a mess of
pottage. And there stands the empty cottage to remind me that I have
something to learn. Old as I am, my temper will sometimes get away from
me. Tom, you are my next hope, and I am almost afraid some unseen
obstacle will arise as this one did. Does Frances know the facts?” I
answered that Hunter had kept the facts to himself, not even
acquainting his own people with them, so that aside from myself he was
the first to know the particulars. After pacing the room for a time in
meditation, Uncle Lance finally halted and asked me if Scales would be
a capable messenger to carry the news to the Vaux family. I admitted
that he was the most tactful man on the ranch. Aaron was summoned,
given the particulars, and commanded to use the best diplomacy at his
command in transmitting the facts, and to withhold nothing; to express
to the ranchman and his family the deep humiliation every one at Las
Palomas felt over the actions of John Cotton.

Years afterward I met Quayle at a trail town in the north. In the
limited time at our command, the old days we spent together in the
Nueces valley occupied most of our conversation. Unmentioned by me, his
desertion of Las Palomas was introduced by himself, and in attempting
to apologize for his actions, he said:—

“Quirk, that was the only dirty act I was ever guilty of. I never want
to meet the people the trick was practiced on. Leaving Las Palomas was
as much my privilege as going there was. But I was unfortunate enough
to incur a few debts while living there that nothing but personal
revenge could ever repay. Had it been any other man than Lance
Lovelace, he or I would have died the morning Captain Byler’s horse
herd started from the Nueces River. But he was an old man, and my hand
was held and my tongue was silent. You know the tricks of a certain
girl who, with her foot on my neck, stretched forth a welcoming hand to
a rival. Tom, I have lived to pay her my last obligation in a revenge
so sweet that if I die an outcast on the roadside, all accounts are
square.”




CHAPTER XXI
INTERLOCUTORY PROCEEDINGS


A big summer’s work lay before us. When Uncle Lance realized the
permanent loss of three men from the working force of Las Palomas, he
rallied to the situation. The ranch would have to run a double outfit
the greater portion of the summer, and men would have to be secured to
fill our ranks. White men who were willing to isolate themselves on a
frontier ranch were scarce; but the natives, when properly treated,
were serviceable and, where bred to the occupation and inclined to
domesticity, made ideal vaqueros. My injured foot improved slowly, and
as soon as I was able to ride, it fell to me to secure the extra help
needed. The desertion of Quayle and Cotton had shaken my employer’s
confidence to a noticeable degree, and in giving me my orders to secure
vaqueros, he said:—

“Tom, you take a good horse and go down the Tarancalous and engage five
vaqueros. Satisfy yourself that the men are fit for the work, and hire
every one by the year. If any of them are in debt, a hundred dollars is
my limit of advance money to free them. And hire no man who has not a
family, for I’m losing confidence every minute in single ones,
especially if they are white. We have a few empty _jacals_, and the
more children that I see running naked about the ranch, the better it
suits me. I’ll never get my money back in building that Cotton cottage
until I see a mother, even though she is a Mexican, standing in the
door with a baby in her arms. The older I get, the more I see my
mistake in depending on the white element.”

I was gone some three days in securing the needed help. It was a
delicate errand, for no ranchero liked to see people leave his lands,
and it was only where I found men unemployed that I applied for and
secured them. We sent wagons from Las Palomas after their few effects,
and had all the families contentedly housed, either about headquarters
or at the outlying ranchitas, before the first contingent of beeves was
gathered. But the attempt to induce any of the new families to occupy
the stone cottage proved futile, as they were superstitious. There was
a belief among the natives, which no persuasion could remove, regarding
houses that were built for others and never occupied. The new building
was tendered to Tio Tiburcio and his wife, instead of their own
palisaded _jacal_, but it remained tenantless—an eyesore to its
builder.

Near the latter end of April, a contract was let for two new tanks on
the Ganso grant of land. Had it not been for the sale of beef, which
would require our time the greater portion of the summer, it was my
employer’s intention to have built these reservoirs with the ranch
help. But with the amount of work we had in sight, it was decided to
let the contract to parties who made it their business and were
outfitted for the purpose. Accordingly in company with the contractor,
Uncle Lance and myself spent the last few days of the month laying off
and planning the reservoir sites on two small tributaries which formed
the Ganso. We were planning to locate these tanks several miles above
the juncture of the small rivulets, and as far apart as possible. Then
the first rainfall which would make running water, would assure us a
year’s supply on the extreme southwestern portion of our range. The
contractor had a big outfit of oxen and mules, and the conditions
called for one of the reservoirs to be completed before June 15th.
Thus, if rains fell when they were expected, one receptacle at least
would be in readiness.

When returning one evening from starting the work, we found Tony Hunter
a guest of the ranch. He had come over for the special purpose of
seeing me, but as the matter was not entirely under my control, my
employer was brought into the consultation. In the docket for the May
term of court, the divorce proceedings between Esther and Jack Oxenford
would come up for a hearing at Oakville on the seventh of the month.
Hunter was anxious, if possible, to have all his friends present at the
trial. But dates were getting a little close, for our first contingent
of beeves was due on the coast on the twentieth, and to gather and
drive them would require not less than ten days. A cross-bill had been
filed by Oxenford’s attorney at the last hour, and a fight was going to
be made to prevent the decree from issuing. The judge was a hold-over
from the reconstruction régime, having secured his appointment through
the influence of congressional friends, one of whom was the uncle of
the junior stage man. Unless the statutory grounds were clear, there
was a doubt expressed by Esther’s attorney whether the court would
grant the decree. But that was the least of Hunter’s fears, for in his
eyes the man who would willfully abuse a woman had no rights, in court
or out. Tony, however, had enemies; for he and Oxenford had had a
personal altercation, and since the separation the Martin family had
taken the side of Jack’s employer and severed all connections with the
ranch. That the mail contractors had the village of Oakville under
their control, all agreed, as we had tested that on our return from
Fort Worth the spring before. In all the circumstances, though Hunter
had no misgivings as to the ultimate result, yet being a witness and
accused of being the main instigator in the case, he felt that he
ought, as a matter of precaution, to have a friend or two with him.

“Well, now, Tony,” said my employer, “this is crowding the mourners
just a trifle, but Las Palomas was never called on in a good cause but
she could lend a man or two, even if they had to get up from the dinner
table and go hungry. I don’t suppose the trial will last over a day or
two at the furthest, and even if it did, the boys could ride home in
the night. In our first bunch and in half a day, we’ll gather every
beef in two rodeos and start that evening. Steamships won’t wait, and
if we were a day behind time, they might want to hold out demurrage on
us. If it wasn’t for that, the boys could stay a week and you would be
welcome to them. Of course, Tom will want to go, and about the next
best man I could suggest would be June. I’d like the best in the world
to go myself, but you see how I’m situated, getting these cattle off
and a new tank building at the same time. Now, you boys make your own
arrangements among yourselves, and this ranch stands ready to back up
anything you say or do.”

Tony remained overnight, and we made arrangements to meet him, either
at Shepherd’s the evening before or in Oakville on the morning of the
trial. Owing to the behavior of Quayle and Cotton, none of us had
attended the celebration of San Jacinto Day at the ferry. Nor had any
one from the Vaux or McLeod ranches, for while they did not understand
the situation, it was obvious that something was wrong, and they had
remained away as did Las Palomas. But several of Hunter’s friends from
the San Miguel had been present, as likewise had Oxenford, and reports
came back to the ranch of the latter’s conduct and of certain threats
he had made when he found there was no one present to resent them. The
next morning, before starting home, Tony said to our _segundo_ and
myself;—

“Then I’ll depend on you two, and I may have a few other friends who
will want to attend. I don’t need very many for a coward like Jack
Oxenford. He is perfectly capable of abusing an unprotected woman, or
an old man if he had a crowd of friends behind to sick him on. Oh, he’s
a cur all right; for when I told him that he was whelped under a house,
he never resented it. He loves me all right, or has good cause to. Why,
I bent the cylinder pin of a new six-shooter over his head when he had
a gun on him, and he forgot to use it. I don’t expect any trouble, but
if you don’t look a sneaking cur right in the eye, he may slip up
behind and bite you.”

After making arrangements to turn in two hundred beeves on our second
contingent, and send a man with them to the coast, Hunter returned
home. There was no special programme for the interim until gathering
the beeves commenced, yet on a big ranch like Las Palomas there is
always work. While Deweese finished curbing the well in which Ortez
lost his life, I sawed off and cut new threads on all the rods and
piping belonging to that particular windmill. With a tireless energy
for one of his years, Uncle Lance rode the range, until he could have
told at a distance one half his holdings of cattle by flesh marks
alone. A few days before the date set for the trial, Enrique brought in
word one evening that an outfit of strange men were encamped north of
the river on the Ganso Tract. The vaquero was unable to make out their
business, but was satisfied they were not there for pleasure, so my
employer and I made an early start the next morning to see who the
campers were. On the extreme northwestern corner of our range, fully
twenty-five miles from headquarters, we met them and found they were a
corps of engineers, running a preliminary survey for a railroad. They
were in the employ of the International and Great Northern Company,
which was then contemplating extending their line to some point on the
Rio Grande. While there was nothing definite in this prior survey, it
sounded a note of warning; for the course they were running would carry
the line up the Ganso on the south side of the river, passing between
the new tanks, and leaving our range through a sag in the hills on the
south end of the grant. The engineer in charge very courteously
informed my employer that he was under instructions to run, from San
Antonio to different points on the river, three separate lines during
the present summer. He also informed us that the other two preliminary
surveys would be run farther west, and there was a possibility that the
Las Palomas lands would be missed entirely, a prospect that was very
gratifying to Uncle Lance.

“Tom,” said he, as we rode away, “I’ve been dreading this very thing
for years. It was my wish that I would never live to see the necessity
of fencing our lands, and to-day a railroad survey is being run across
Las Palomas. I had hoped that when I died, this valley would be an open
range and as primitive as the day of my coming to it. Here a railroad
threatens our peace, and the signs are on every hand that we’ll have to
fence to protect ourselves. But let it come, for we can’t stop it. If
I’m spared, within the next year, I’ll secure every tract of land for
sale adjoining the ranch if it costs me a dollar an acre. Then if it
comes to the pinch, Las Palomas will have, for all time, land and to
spare. You haven’t noticed the changes in the country, but nearly all
this chaparral has grown up, and the timber is twice as heavy along the
river as when I first settled here. I hate the sight even of a
necessity like a windmill, and God knows we have no need of a railroad.
To a ranch that doesn’t sell fat beeves over once in ten years,
transportation is the least of its troubles.”

About dusk on the evening of the day preceding the trial, June Deweese
and I rode into Shepherd’s, expecting to remain overnight. Shortly
after our arrival, Tony Hunter hastily came in and informed us that he
had been unable to get hotel accommodations for his wife and Esther in
Oakville, and had it not been that they had old friends in the village,
all of them would have had to return to the ferry for the night. These
friends of the McLeod family told Hunter that the stage people had
coerced the two hotels into refusing them, and had otherwise prejudiced
the community in Oxenford’s favor. Hunter had learned also that the
junior member of the stage firm had collected a crowd of hangers-on,
and being liberal in the use of money, had convinced the rabble of the
village that he was an innocent and injured party. The attorney for
Esther had arrived, and had cautioned every one interested on their
side of the case to be reserved and careful under every circumstance,
as they had a bitter fight on their hands.

The next morning all three of us rode into the village. Court had been
in session over a week, and the sheriff had sworn in several deputies
to preserve the peace, as there was considerable bitterness between
litigants outside the divorce case. These under-sheriffs made it a
point to see that every one put aside his arms on reaching the town,
and tried as far as lay in their power to maintain the peace. During
the early days of the reconstruction regime, before opening the term
the presiding judge had frequently called on the state for a company of
Texas Rangers to preserve order and enforce the mandates of the court.
But in ’79 there seemed little occasion for such a display of force,
and a few fearless officers were considered sufficient. On reaching the
village, we rode to the house where the women were awaiting us.
Fortunately there was ample corral room at the stable, so we were
independent of hostelries and liveries. Mrs. Hunter was the very
reverse of her husband, being a timid woman, while poor Esther was very
nervous under the dread of the coming trial. But we cheered them with
our presence, and by the time court opened, they had recovered their
composure.

Our party numbered four women and five men. Esther lacked several
summers of being as old as her sister, while I was by five years the
youngest of the men, and naturally looked to my elders for leadership.
Having left our arms at the house, we entered the court-room in as
decorous and well-behaved a manner as if it had been a house of worship
and this a Sabbath morning. A peculiar stillness pervaded the room,
which could have been mistaken as an omen of peace, or the tension
similar to the lull before a battle. Personally I was composed, but as
I allowed my eyes from time to time to rest upon Esther, she had never
seemed so near and dear to me as in that opening hour of court. She
looked very pale, and moved by the subtle power of love, I vowed that
should any harm come to or any insulting word be spoken of her, my
vengeance would be sure and swift.

Court convened, and the case was called. As might have been expected,
the judge held that under the pleadings it was not a jury case. The
panel was accordingly excused for the day, and joined those curiously
inclined in the main body of the room. The complaining witnesses were
called, and under direct examination the essential facts were brought
forth, laying the foundation for a legal separation. The plaintiff was
the last witness to testify. As she told her simple story, a hushed
silence fell over the room, every spectator, from the judge on the
bench to the sheriff, being eager to catch every syllable of the
recital. But as in duty bound to a client, the attorney for the
defendant, a young man who had come from San Antonio to conduct the
case, opened a sharp cross-questioning. As the examination proceeded,
an altercation between the attorneys was prevented only by the presence
of the sheriff and deputies. Before the inquiry progressed, the
attorney for the plaintiff apologized to the court, pleading
extenuating circumstances in the offense offered to his client. Under
his teachings, he informed the court, the purity of womanhood was above
suspicion, and no man who wished to be acknowledged as a gentleman
among his equals would impugn or question the statement of a lady. The
witness on the stand was more to him than an ordinary client, as her
father and himself had been young men together, had volunteered under
the same flag, his friend offering up his life in its defense, and he
spared to carry home the news of an unmarked grave on a Southern
battle-field. It was a privilege to him to offer his assistance and
counsel to-day to a daughter of an old comrade, and any one who had the
temerity to offer an affront to this witness would be held to a
personal account for his conduct.

The first day was consumed in taking testimony. The defense introduced
much evidence in rebuttal. Without regard to the truth or their oaths,
a line of witnesses were introduced who contradicted every essential
point of the plaintiff’s case. When the credibility of their testimony
was attacked, they sought refuge in the technicalities of the law, and
were supported by rulings of the presiding judge. When Oxenford took
the stand in his own behalf, there were not a dozen persons present who
believed the perjured statements which fell from his lips. Yet when his
testimony was subjected to a rigid cross-questioning, every attempt to
reach the truth precipitated a controversy between attorneys as bitter
as it was personal. That the defendant at the bar had escaped
prosecution for swindling the government out of large sums of money for
a mail service never performed was well known to every one present,
including the judge, yet he was allowed to testify against the
character of a woman pure as a child, while his own past was protected
from exposure by rulings from the bench.

When the evidence was all in, court adjourned until the following day.
That evening our trio, after escorting the women to the home of their
friend, visited every drinking resort, hotel, and public house in the
village, meeting groups of Oxenford’s witnesses, even himself as he
dispensed good cheer to his henchmen. But no one dared to say a
discourteous word, and after amusing ourselves by a few games of
billiards, we mounted our horses and returned to Shepherd’s for the
night. As we rode along leisurely, all three of us admitted misgivings
as to the result, for it was clear that the court had favored the
defense. Yet we had a belief that the statutory grounds were
sufficient, and on that our hopes hung.

The next morning found our party in court at the opening hour. The
entire forenoon was occupied by the attorney for the plaintiff in
reviewing the evidence, analyzing and weighing every particle, showing
an insight into human motives which proved him a master in his
profession. After the noon recess, the young lawyer from the city
addressed the court for two hours, his remarks running from bombast to
flights of oratory, and from eulogies upon his client to praise of the
unimpeachable credibility of the witnesses for the defense. In
concluding, the older lawyer prefaced his remarks by alluding to the
divine intent in the institution of marriage, and contending that of
the two, women were morally the better. In showing the influence of the
stronger upon the weaker sex, he asserted that it was in the power of
the man to lift the woman or to sink her into despair. In his
peroration he rose to the occasion, and amid breathless silence, facing
the court, who quailed before him, demanded whether this was a temple
of justice. Replying to his own interrogatory, he dipped his brush in
the sunshine of life, and sketched a throne with womanhood enshrined
upon it. While chivalry existed among men, it mattered little, he said,
as to the decrees of courts, for in that higher tribunal, human hearts,
woman would remain forever in control. At his conclusion, women were
hysterical, and men were aroused from their usual languor by the
eloquence of the speaker. Had the judge rendered an adverse decision at
that moment, he would have needed protection; for to the men of the
South it was innate to be chivalrous to womanhood. But the court was
cautious, and after announcing that he would take the case under
advisement until morning, adjourned for the day.

All during the evening men stood about in small groups and discussed
the trial. The consensus of opinion was favorable to the plaintiff. But
in order to offset public opinion, Oxenford and a squad of followers
made the rounds of the public places, offering to wager any sum of
money that the decree would not be granted. Since feeling was running
rather high, our little party avoided the other faction, and as we were
under the necessity of riding out to the ferry for accommodation,
concluded to start earlier than the evening before. After saddling, we
rode around the square, and at the invitation of Deweese dismounted
before a public house for a drink and a cigar before starting. We were
aware that the town was against us, and to maintain a bold front was a
matter of necessity. Unbuckling our belts in compliance with the
sheriff’s orders, we hung our six-shooters on the pommels of our
saddles and entered the bar-room. Other customers were being waited on,
and several minutes passed before we were served. The place was rather
crowded, and as we were being waited on, a rabble of roughs surged
through a rear door, led by Jack Oxenford. He walked up to within two
feet of me where I stood at the counter, and apparently addressing the
barkeeper, as we were charging our glasses, said in a defiant tone:—

“I’ll bet a thousand dollars Judge Thornton refuses to grant a
separation between my wife and me.”

The words flashed through me like an electric shock, and understanding
the motive, I turned on the speaker and with the palm of my hand dealt
him a slap in the face that sent him staggering back into the arms of
his friends. Never before or since have I felt the desire to take human
life which possessed me at that instant. With no means of defense in my
possession but a penknife, I backed away from him, he doing the like,
and both keeping close to the bar, which was about twenty feet long. In
one hand I gripped the open-bladed pocket knife, and, with the other
behind my back, retreated to my end of the counter as did Oxenford to
his, never taking our eyes off each other. On reaching his end of the
bar, I noticed the barkeeper going through motions that looked like
passing him a gun, and in the same instant some friend behind me laid
the butt of a pistol in my hand behind my back. Dropping the knife, I
shifted the six-shooter to my right hand, and, advancing on the object
of my hate, fired in such rapid succession that I was unable to tell
even whether my fire was being returned. When my gun was empty, the
intervening clouds of smoke prevented any view of my adversary; but my
lust for his life was only intensified when, on turning to my friends,
I saw Deweese supporting Hunter in his arms. Knowing that one or the
other had given me the pistol, I begged them for another to finish my
work. But at that moment the smoke arose sufficiently to reveal my
enemy crippling down at the farther end of the bar, a smoking pistol in
his hand. As Oxenford sank to the floor, several of his friends ran to
his side, and Deweese, noticing the movement, rallied the wounded man
in his arms. Shaking him until his eyes opened, June, exultingly as a
savage, cried, “Tony, for God’s sake stand up just a moment longer.
Yonder he lies. Let me carry you over so you can watch the cur die.”
Turning to me he continued: “Tom, you’ve got your man. Run for your
life; don’t let them get you.”

Passing out of the house during the excitement, I was in my saddle in
an instant, riding like a fiend for Shepherd’s. The sun was nearly an
hour high, and with a good horse under me, I covered the ten miles to
the ferry in less than an hour. Portions of the route were sheltered by
timber along the river, but once as I crossed a rise opposite a large
bend, I sighted a posse in pursuit several miles to the rear. On
reaching Shepherd’s, fortunately for me a single horse stood at the
hitch-rack. The merchant and owner of the horse came to the door as I
dashed up, and never offering a word of explanation, I changed horses.
Luckily the owner of the horse was Red Earnest, a friend of mine, and
feeling that they would not have long to wait for explanations, I shook
out the reins and gave him the rowel. I knew the country, and soon left
the river road, taking an air-line course for Las Palomas, which I
reached within two hours after nightfall. In few and profane words, I
explained the situation to my employer, and asked for a horse that
would put the Rio Grande behind me before morning. A number were on
picket near by, and several of the boys ran for the best mounts
available. A purse was forced into my pocket, well filled with gold.
Meanwhile I had in my possession an extra six-shooter, and now that I
had a moment’s time to notice it, recognized the gun as belonging to
Tony Hunter. Filling the empty chambers, and waving a farewell to my
friends, I passed out by the rear and reached the saddle shed, where a
well-known horse was being saddled by dexterous hands. Once on his
back, I soon passed the eighty miles between me and the Rio Grande,
which I swam on my horse the next morning within an hour after sunrise.




CHAPTER XXII
SUNSET


Of my exile of over two years in Mexico, little need be said. By easy
stages, I reached the haciendas on the Rio San Juan where we had
received the cows in the summer of ’77. The reception extended me was
all one could ask, but cooled when it appeared that my errand was one
of refuge and not of business. I concealed my offense, and was given
employment as corporal _segundo_ over a squad of vaqueros. But while
the hacienda to which I was attached was larger than Las Palomas, with
greater holdings in live-stock, yet my life there was one of penal
servitude. I strove to blot out past memories in the innocent pleasures
of my associates, mingling in all the social festivities, dancing with
the dark-eyed señoritas and gambling at every _fiesta_. Yet in the
midst of the dissipation, there was ever present to my mind the thought
of a girl, likewise living a life of loneliness at the mouth of the San
Miguel.

During my banishment, but twice did any word or message reach me from
the Nueces valley. Within a few months after my locating on the Rio San
Juan, Enrique Lopez, a trusted vaquero from Las Palomas, came to the
hacienda, apparently seeking employment. Recognizing me at a glance, at
the first opportunity he slipped me a letter unsigned and in an unknown
hand. After reading it I breathed easier, for both Hunter and Oxenford
had recovered, the former having been shot through the upper lobe of a
lung, while the latter had sustained three wounds, one of which
resulted in the loss of an arm. The judge had reserved his decision
until the recovery of both men was assured, but before the final
adjournment of court, refused the decree. I had had misgivings that
this would be the result, and the message warned me to remain away, as
the stage company was still offering a reward for my arrest. Enrique
loitered around the camp several days, and on being refused employment,
made inquiry for a ranch in the south and rode away in the darkness of
evening. But we had had several little chats together, in which the
rascal delivered many oral messages, one of which he swore by all the
saints had been intrusted to him by my own sweetheart while visiting at
the ranch. But Enrique was capable of enriching any oral message, and I
was compelled to read between the lines; yet I hope the saints, to whom
he daily prayed, will blot out any untruthful embellishments.

The second message was given me by Frank Nancrede, early in January,
’81. As was his custom, he was buying saddle horses at Las Palomas
during the winter for trail purposes, when he learned of my whereabouts
in Mexico. Deweese had given him directions where I could be found, and
as the Rio San Juan country was noted for good horses, Nancrede and a
companion rode directly from the Nueces valley to the hacienda where I
was employed. They were on the lookout for a thousand saddle horses,
and after buying two hundred from the ranch where I was employed,
secured my services as interpreter in buying the remainder. We were
less than a month in securing the number wanted, and I accompanied the
herd to the Rio Grande on its way to Texas. Nancrede offered me every
encouragement to leave Mexico, assuring me that Bethel & Oxenford had
lost their mail contract between San Antonio and Brownsville, and were
now operating in other sections of the state. He was unable to give me
the particulars, but frauds had been discovered in Star Route lines,
and the government had revoked nearly all the mail contracts in
southern Texas. The trail boss promised me a job with any of their
herds, and assured me that a cow hand of my abilities would never want
a situation in the north. I was anxious to go with him, and would have
done so, but felt a compunction which I did not care to broach to him,
for I was satisfied he would not understand.

The summer passed, during which I made it a point to meet other drovers
from Texas who were buying horses and cattle. From several sources the
report of Nancrede, that the stage line south from San Antonio was now
in new hands, was confirmed. One drover assured me that a national
scandal had grown out of the Star Route contracts, and several
officials in high authority had been arraigned for conspiracy to
defraud. He further asserted that the new contractor was now carrying
the mail for ten per cent, of what was formerly allowed to Bethel &
Oxenford, and making money at the reduced rate. This news was
encouraging, and after an exile of over two years and a half, I
recrossed the Rio Grande on the same horse on which I had entered.
Carefully avoiding ranches where I was known, two short rides put me in
Las Palomas, reaching headquarters after nightfall, where, in
seclusion, I spent a restless day and night.

A few new faces were about the ranch, but the old friends bade me a
welcome and assured me that my fears were groundless. During the brief
time at my disposal, Miss Jean entertained me with numerous disclosures
regarding my old sweetheart. The one that both pleased and interested
me was that she was contented and happy, and that her resignation was
due to religious faith. According to my hostess’s story, a camp meeting
had been held at Shepherd’s during the fall after my banishment, by a
sect calling themselves Predestinarians. I have since learned that a
belief in a predetermined state is entertained by a great many good
people, and I admit it seems as if fate had ordained that Esther McLeod
and I should never wed. But it was a great satisfaction to know that
she felt resigned and could draw solace from a spiritual source, even
though the same was denied to me. During the last meeting between
Esther and Miss Jean, but a few weeks before, the former had confessed
that there was now no hope of our ever marrying.

As I had not seen my parents for several years, I continued my journey
to my old home on the San Antonio River. Leaving Las Palomas after
nightfall, I passed the McLeod ranch after midnight. Halting my horse
to rest, I reviewed the past, and the best reasoning at my command
showed nothing encouraging on the horizon. That Esther had sought
consolation from a spiritual source did not discourage me; for, under
my observation, where it had been put to the test, the love of man and
wife overrode it. But to expect this contented girl to renounce her
faith and become my wife, was expecting her to share with me nothing,
unless it was the chance of a felon’s cell, and I remounted my horse
and rode away under a starry sky, somewhat of a fatalist myself. But I
derived contentment from my decision, and on reaching home no one could
have told that I had loved and lost. My parents were delighted to see
me after my extended absence, my sisters were growing fast into
womanhood, and I was bidden the welcome of a prodigal son. During this
visit a new avenue in life opened before me, and through the influence
of my eldest brother I secured a situation with a drover and followed
the cattle trail until the occupation became a lost one. My last visit
to Las Palomas was during the winter of 1894-95. It lacked but a few
months of twenty years since my advent in the Nueces valley. After the
death of Oxenford by small-pox, I had been a frequent visitor at the
ranch, business of one nature and another calling me there. But in this
last visit, the wonderful changes which two decades had wrought in the
country visibly impressed me, and I detected a note of decay in the old
ranch. A railroad had been built, passing within ten miles of the
western boundary line of the Ganso grant. The Las Palomas range had
been fenced, several large tracts of land being added after my severing
active connections with the ranch. Even the cattle, in spite of all the
efforts made for their improvement, were not so good as in the old days
of the open range, or before there was a strand of wire between the
Nueces and Rio Grande rivers. But the alterations in the country were
nothing compared to the changes in my old master and mistress. Uncle
Lance was nearing his eighty-second birthday, physically feeble, but
mentally as active as the first morning of our long acquaintance. Miss
Jean, over twenty years the junior of the ranchero, had mellowed into a
ripeness consistent with her days, and in all my aimless wanderings I
never saw a brother and sister of their ages more devoted to, or
dependent on each other.

On the occasion of this past visit, I was in the employ of a live-stock
commission firm. A member of our house expected to attend the cattle
convention at Forth Worth in the near future, and I had been sent into
the range sections to note the conditions of stock and solicit for my
employers. The spring before, our firm had placed sixty thousand cattle
for customers. Demand continued, and the house had inquiry sufficient
to justify them in sending me out to secure, of all ages, not less than
a hundred thousand steer cattle. And thus once more I found myself a
guest of Las Palomos.

“Don’t talk cattle to me,” said Uncle Lance, when I mentioned my
business; “go to June—he’ll give you the ages and numbers. And whatever
you do, Tom, don’t oversell us, for wire fences have cut us off, until
it seems like old friends don’t want to neighbor any more. In the days
of the open range, I used to sell every hoof I had a chance to, but
since then things have changed. Why, only last year a jury indicted a
young man below here on the river for mavericking a yearling, and sent
him to Huntsville for five years. That’s a fair sample of these modern
days. There isn’t a cowman in Texas to-day who amounts to a pinch of
snuff, but got his start the same way, but if a poor fellow looks out
of the corner of his eye now at a critter, they imagine he wants to
steal it. Oh, I know them; and the bigger rustlers they were themselves
on the open range, the bitterer their persecution of the man who
follows their example.”

June Deweese was then the active manager of the ranch, and after
securing a classification of their salable stock, I made out a
memorandum and secured authority in writing, to sell their holdings at
prevailing prices for Nueces river cattle. The remainder of the day was
spent with my old friends in a social visit, and as we delved into the
musty past, the old man’s love of the land and his matchmaking
instincts constantly cropped out.

“Tom,” said he, in answer to a remark of mine, “I was an awful fool to
think my experience could be of any use to you boys. Every last rascal
of you went off on the trail and left me here with a big ranch to
handle. Gallup was no better than the rest, for he kept Jule Wilson
waiting until now she’s an old maid. Sis, here, always called Scales a
vagabond, but I still believe something could have been made of him
with a little encouragement. But when the exodus of the cattle to the
north was at its height, he went off with a trail herd just like the
rest of you. Then he followed the trail towns as a gambler, saved
money, and after the cattle driving ended, married an adventuress, and
that’s the end of him. The lack of a market was one of the great
drawbacks to ranching, but when the trail took every hoof we could
breed and every horse we could spare, it also took my boys. Tom, when
you get old, you’ll understand that all is vanity and vexation of
spirit. But I am perfectly resigned now. In my will, Las Palomas and
everything I have goes to Jean. She can dispose of it as she sees fit,
and if I knew she was going to leave it to Father Norquin or his
successor, my finger wouldn’t be raised to stop it. I spent a lifetime
of hard work acquiring this land, and now that there is no one to care
for the old ranch, I wash my hands of it.”

Knowing the lifetime of self-sacrifice in securing the land of Las
Palomas, I sympathized with the old ranchero in his despondency.

“I never blamed you much, Tom,” he resumed after a silence; “but
there’s something about cattle life which I can’t explain. It seems to
disqualify a man for ever making a good citizen afterward. He roams and
runs around, wasting his youth, and gets so foxy he never marries.”

“But June and the widow made the riffle finally,” I protested.

“Yes, they did, and that’s something to the good, but they never had
any children. Waited ten years after Annear was killed, and then got
married. That was one of Jean’s matches. Tom, you must go over and see
Juana before you go. There was a match that I made. Just think of it,
they have eight children, and Fidel is prouder over them than I ever
was of this ranch. The natives have never disappointed me, but the
Caucasian seems to be played out.”

I remained overnight at the ranch. After supper, sitting in his chair
before a cheerful fire, Uncle Lance dozed off to sleep, leaving his
sister and myself to entertain each other. I had little to say of my
past, and the future was not encouraging, except there was always work
to do. But Miss Jean unfolded like the pages of an absorbing chronicle,
and gave me the history of my old acquaintances in the valley. Only a
few of the girls had married. Frances Vaux, after flirting away her
youth, had taken the veil in one of the orders in her church. My old
sweetheart was contentedly living a life of seclusion on the ranch on
which she was born, apparently happy, but still interested in any word
of me in my wanderings. The young men of my acquaintance, except where
married, were scattered wide, the whereabouts of nearly all of them
unknown. Tony Hunter had held the McLeod estate together, and it had
prospered exceedingly under his management. My old friend, Red Earnest,
who outrode me in the relay race at the tournament in June, ’77, was
married and serving in the Customs Service on the Rio Grande as a
mounted river guard.

The next morning, I made the round of the Mexican quarters, greeting my
old friends, before taking my leave and starting for the railroad. The
cottage which had been built for Esther and me stood vacant and
windowless, being used only for a storehouse for _zacahuiste_. As I
rode away, the sight oppressed me; it brought back the June time of my
youth, even the hour and instant in which our paths separated. On
reaching the last swell of ground, several miles from the ranch, which
would give me a glimpse of headquarters, I halted my horse in a
farewell view. The sleepy old ranch cosily nestled among the encinal
oaks revived a hundred memories, some sad, some happy, many of which
have returned in retrospect during lonely hours since.