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.”