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.