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!”