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.