← catalogue

A Texas Matchmaker

by Andy Adams · English · Gutenberg #12919 · 512,914 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Texas Matchmaker
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: A Texas Matchmaker

Author: Andy Adams


        
Release date: July 16, 2004 [eBook #12919]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/12919

Credits: Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TEXAS MATCHMAKER ***

[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

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/12919