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.