AFTERMATH
My memory of what happened immediately after Mrs. Martin’s contemptuous
treatment of me is as vague and indefinite as the vaporings of a
fevered dream. I have a faint recollection of several friendly people
offering their sympathy. The old stableman, who looked after the
horses, cautioned me not to start out alone; but I have since learned
that I cursed him and all the rest, and rode away as one in a trance.
But I must have had some little caution left, for I remember giving
Shepherd’s a wide berth, passing several miles to the south.
The horses, taking their own way, were wandering home. Any exercise of
control or guidance over them on my part was inspired by an instinct to
avoid being seen. Of conscious direction there was none. Somewhere
between the ferry and the ranch I remember being awakened from my
torpor by the horse which I was leading showing an inclination to
graze. Then I noticed their gaunted condition, and in sympathy for the
poor brutes unsaddled and picketed them in a secluded spot. What
happened at this halt has slipped from my memory. But I must have slept
a long time; for I awoke to find the moon high overhead, and my watch,
through neglect, run down and stopped. I now realized the better my
predicament, and reasoned with myself whether I should return to Las
Palomas or not. But there was no place else to go, and the horses did
not belong to me. If I could only reach the ranch and secure my own
horse, I felt that no power on earth could chain me to the scenes of my
humiliation.
The horses decided me to return. Resaddling at an unknown hour, I rode
for the ranch. The animals were refreshed and made good time. As I rode
along I tried to convince myself that I could slip into the ranch,
secure my own saddle horse, and meet no one except the Mexicans. There
was a possibility that Deweese might still be in camp at the new
reservoir, and I was hopeful that my employer might not yet be returned
from the hunt on the Frio. After a number of hours’ riding, the horse
under saddle nickered. Halting him, I listened and heard the roosters
crowing in a chorus at the ranch. Clouds had obscured the moon, and so
by making a detour around the home buildings I was able to reach the
Mexican quarters unobserved. I rode up to the house of Enrique, and
quietly aroused him; told him my misfortune and asked him to hide me
until he could get up my horse. We turned the animals loose, and,
taking my saddle inside the _jacal_, held a whispered conversation.
Deweese was yet at the tank. If the hunting party had returned, they
had done so during the night. The distant range of my horse made it
impossible to get him before the middle of the forenoon, but Enrique
and Doña Anita assured me that my slightest wish was law to them.
Furnishing me with a blanket and pillow, they made me a couch on a dry
cowskin on the dirt floor at the foot of their bed, and before day
broke I had fallen asleep.
On awakening, I found the sun had already risen. Enrique and his wife
were missing from the room, but a peep through a crevice in the
palisade wall revealed Doña Anita in the kitchen adjoining. She had
detected my awakening, and soon brought me a cup of splendid coffee,
which I drank with relish. She urged on me also some dainty dishes,
which had always been favorites with me in Mexican cookery, but my
appetite was gone. Throwing myself back on the cowskin, I asked Doña
Anita how long Enrique had been gone in quest of my horse, and was
informed that he left before dawn, not even waiting for his customary
cup of coffee. With the kindness of a sister, the girl wife urged me to
take their bed; but I assured her that comfort was the least of my
concerns, complete effacement being my consuming thought.
Doña Anita withdrew, and as I lay pondering over the several possible
routes of escape, I heard a commotion in the ranch. I was in the act of
rising when Doña Anita burst into the _jacal_ to tell me that Don Lance
had been sighted returning. I was on my feet in an instant, heard the
long-drawn notes of the horn calling in the hounds, and, peering
through the largest crack, saw the cavalcade. As they approached,
driving their loose mounts in front of them, I felt that my ill luck
still hung over me; for among the unsaddled horses were the two which I
had turned free but a few hours before. The hunters had met the gaunted
animals between the ranch and the river, and were bringing them in to
return them to their own _remuda_. But at the same time the horses were
evidence that I was in the ranch. From the position of Uncle Lance, in
advance, I could see that he was riding direct to the house, and my
absence there would surely cause surprise. At best it was but a
question of time until I was discovered.
In the face of this new development, I gave up. There was no escaping
fate. Enrique might not return for two hours yet, and if he came,
driving in my horse, it would only prove my presence. I begged Doña
Anita to throw open the door and conceal nothing. But she was still
ready to aid in my concealment until night, offering to deny my
presence. But how could I conceal myself in a single room, and what was
so simple a device to a worldly man of sixty years’ experience? To me
the case looked hopeless. Even before we had concluded our discussion,
I saw Uncle Lance and the boys coming towards the Mexican quarters,
followed by Miss Jean and the household contingent. The fact that the
door of Enrique’s _jacal_ was closed, made it a shining mark for
investigation. Opening the inner door, I started to meet the visitors;
but Doña Anita planted herself at the outer entrance of the stoop, met
the visitors, and within my hearing and without being asked stoutly
denied my presence. “Hush up, you little liar,” said a voice, and I
heard a step and clanking spurs which I recognized. I had sat down on
the edge of the bed, and was rolling a cigarette as the crowd filed
into the _jacal_. A fortunate flush of anger came over me which served
to steady my voice; but I met their staring, after all, much as if I
had been a culprit and they a vigilance committee.
“Well, young fellow, explain your presence here,” demanded Uncle Lance.
Had it not been for the presence of Miss Jean, I had on my tongue’s end
a reply, relative to the eleventh commandment, emphasized with
sulphurous adjectives. But out of deference to the mistress of the
ranch, I controlled my anger, and, taking out of my pocket a flint, a
steel, and, a bit of _yesca,_ struck fire and leisurely lighted my
cigarette. Throwing myself back on the bed, as my employer repeated his
demand, I replied, “Ask Anita.” The girl understood, and, nothing
abashed, told the story in her native tongue, continually referring to
me as _pobre Tomas_. When her disconnected narrative was concluded,
Uncle Lance turned on me, saying:—
“And this is the result of all our plans. You went into Oakville, did
you? Tom, you haven’t, got as much sense as a candy frog. Walked right
into a trap with your head up and sassy. That’s right—don’t you listen
to any one. Didn’t I tell you that stage people would stick by each
other like thieves? And you forgot all my warnings and deliberately”—
“Hold on,” I interrupted. “You must recollect that the horses had had a
fifty-mile forced ride, were jaded, and on the point of collapse. With
the down stage refusing to carry us, and the girl on the point of
hysteria, where else could I go?”
“Go to jail if necessary. Go anywhere but the place you went. The
horses were jaded on a fifty-mile ride, were they? Either one of them
was good for a hundred without unsaddling, and you know it. Haven’t I
told you that this ranch would raise horses when we were all dead and
gone? Suppose you had killed a couple of horses? What would that have
been, compared to your sneaking into the ranch this way, like a whipped
cur with your tail between your legs? Now, the countryside will laugh
at us both.”
“The country may laugh,” I answered, “but I’ll not be here to hear it.
Enrique has gone after my horse, and as soon as he gets in I’m leaving
you for good.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind. You think you’re all shot to pieces,
don’t you? Well, you’ll stay right here until all your wounds heal.
I’ve taken all these degrees myself, and have lived to laugh at them
afterward. And I have had lessons that I hope you’ll never have to
learn. When I found out that my third wife had known a gambler before
she married me, I found out what the Bible means by rottenness of the
bones with which it says an evil woman uncrowns her husband. I’ll tell
you about it some day. But you’ve not been scarred in this little
side-play. You’re not even powder burnt. Why, in less than a month
you’ll be just as happy again as if you had good sense.”
Miss Jean now interrupted. “Clear right out of here,” she said to her
brother and the rest. “Yes, the whole pack of you. I want to talk with
Tom alone. Yes, you too—you’ve said too much already. Run along out.”
As they filed out, I noticed Uncle Lance pick up my saddle and throw it
across his shoulder, while Theodore gathered up the rancid blankets and
my fancy bridle, taking everything with them to the house. Waiting
until she saw that her orders were obeyed, Miss Jean came over and sat
down beside me on the bed. Anita stood like a fawn near the door,
likewise fearing banishment, but on a sign from her mistress she spread
a goatskin on the floor and sat down at our feet. Between two languages
and two women, I was as helpless as an ironed prisoner. Not that Anita
had any influence over me, but the mistress of the ranch had. In her
hands I was as helpless as a baby. I had come to the ranch a stranger
only a little over a year before, but had I been born there her
interest could have been no stronger. Jean Lovelace relinquished no
one, any more than a mother would one of her boys. I wanted to escape,
to get away from observation; I even plead for a month’s leave of
absence. But my reasons were of no avail, and after arguing pro and con
for over an hour, I went with her to the house. If the Almighty ever
made a good woman and placed her among men for their betterment, then
the presence of Jean Lovelace at Las Palomas savored of divine
appointment.
On reaching the yard, we rested a long time on a settee under a group
of china trees. The boys had dispersed, and after quite a friendly chat
together, we saw Uncle Lance sauntering out of the house, smiling as he
approached. “Tom’s going to stay,” said Miss Jean to her brother, as
the latter seated himself beside us; “but this abuse and blame you’re
heaping on him must stop. He did what he thought was best under the
circumstances, and you don’t know what they were. He has given me his
promise to stay, and I have given him mine that talk about this matter
will be dropped. Now that your anger has cooled, and I have you both
together, I want your word.”
“Tom,” said my employer, throwing his long bony arm around me, “I was
disappointed, terribly put out, and I showed it in freeing my mind. But
I feel better now—towards you, at least. I understand just how you felt
when your plans were thwarted by an unforeseen incident. If I don’t
know everything, then, since the milk is spilt, I’m not asking for
further particulars. If you did what you thought was best under the
circumstances, why, that’s all we ever ask of any one at Las Palomas. A
mistake is nothing; my whole life is a series of errors. I’ve been
trying, and expect to keep right on trying, to give you youngsters the
benefit of my years; but if you insist on learning it for yourselves,
well enough. When I was your age, I took no one’s advice; but look how
I’ve paid the fiddler. Possibly it was ordained otherwise, but it looks
to me like a shame that I can’t give you boys the benefit of my dearly
bought experience. But whether you take my advice or not, we’re going
to be just as good friends as ever. I need young fellows like you on
this ranch. I’ve sent Dan out after Deweese, and to-morrow we’re going
to commence gathering beeves. A few weeks’ good hard work will do you
worlds of good. In less than a year, you’ll look back at this as a
splendid lesson. Shucks! boy, a man is a narrow, calloused creature
until he has been shook up a few times by love affairs. They develop
him into the man he was intended to be. Come on into the house, Tom,
and Jean will make us a couple of mint juleps.”
What a blessed panacea for mental trouble is work! We were in the
saddle by daybreak the next morning, rounding up _remudas_. Every
available vaquero at the outlying ranchitas had been summoned. Dividing
the outfit and horses, Uncle Lance took twelve men and struck west for
the Ganso. With an equal number of men, Deweese pushed north for the
Frio, which he was to work down below Shepherd’s, thence back along the
home river. From the ranch books, we knew there were fully two thousand
beeves over five years old in our brand. These cattle had never known
an hour’s restraint since the day they were branded, and caution and
cool judgment would be required in handling them. Since the contract
only required twelve hundred, we expected to make an extra clean
gathering, using the oldest and naturally the largest beeves.
During the week spent in gathering, I got the full benefit of every
possible hour in the saddle. We reached the Ganso about an hour before
sundown. The weather had settled; water was plentiful, and every one
realized that the work in hand would require wider riding than under
dry conditions. By the time we had caught up fresh horses, the sun had
gone down. “Boys,” said Uncle Lance, “we want to make a big rodeo on
the head of this creek in the morning. Tom, you take two vaqueros and
lay off to the southwest about ten miles, and make a dry camp to-night.
Glenn may have the same help to the southeast; and every rascal of you
be in your saddles by daybreak. There are a lot of big _ladino_ beeves
in those brushy hills to the south and west. Be sure and be in your
saddles early enough to catch _all_ wild cattle out on the prairies. If
you want to, you can take a lunch in your pocket for breakfast. No; you
need no blankets—you’ll get up earlier if you sleep cold.”
Taking José Pena and Pasquale Arispe with me, I struck off on our
course in the gathering twilight. The first twitter of a bird in the
morning brought me to my feet; I roused the others, and we saddled and
were riding with the first sign of dawn in the east. Taking the outside
circle myself, I gave every bunch of cattle met on my course a good
start for the centre of the round-up. Pasquale and Jose followed
several miles to my rear on inner circles, drifting on the cattle which
I had started inward. As the sun arose, dispelling the morning mists, I
could see other cattle coming down in long strings out of the hills to
the eastward. Within an hour after starting, Gallup and I met. Our half
circle to the southward was perfect, and each turning back, we rode our
appointed divisions until the vaqueros from the wagon were sighted,
throwing in cattle and closing up the northern portion of the circle.
Before the sun was two hours high, the first rodeo of the day was
together, numbering about three thousand mixed cattle. In the few hours
since dawn, we had concentrated all animals in a territory at least
fifteen miles in diameter.
Uncle Lance was in his element. Detailing two vaqueros to hold the beef
cut within reach and a half dozen to keep the main herd compact, he
ordered the remainder of us to enter and begin the selecting of beeves.
There were a number of big wild steers in the round-up, but we left
those until the cut numbered over two hundred. When every hoof over
five years of age was separated, we had a nucleus for our beef herd
numbering about two hundred and forty steers. They were in fine
condition for grass cattle, and, turning the main herd free, we started
our cut for the wagon, being compelled to ride wide of them as we
drifted down stream towards camp, as there were a number of old beeves
which showed impatience at the restraint. But by letting them scatter
well, by the time they reached the wagon it required but two vaqueros
to hold them.
The afternoon was but a repetition of the morning. Everything on the
south side of the Nueces between the river and the wagon was thrown
together on the second round-up of the day, which yielded less than two
hundred cattle for our beef herd. But when we went into camp, dividing
into squads for night-herding, the day’s work was satisfactory to the
ranchero. Dan Happersett was given five vaqueros and stood the first
watch or until one A.M. Glenn Gallup and myself took the remainder of
the men and stood guard until morning. When Happersett called our guard
an hour after midnight, he said to Gallup and me as we were pulling on
our boots: “About a dozen big steers haven’t laid down. There’s only
one of them that has given any trouble. He’s a pinto that we cut in the
first round-up in the morning. He has made two breaks already to get
away, and if you don’t watch him close, he’ll surely give you the
slip.”
While riding to the relief, Glenn and I posted our vaqueros to be on
the lookout for the pinto beef. The cattle were intentionally bedded
loose; but even in the starlight and waning moon, every man easily
spotted the _ladino_ beef, uneasily stalking back and forth like a
caged tiger across the bed ground. A half hour before dawn, he made a
final effort to escape, charging out between Gallup and the vaquero
following up on the same side. From the other side of the bed ground, I
heard the commotion, but dare not leave the herd to assist. There was a
mile of open country surrounding our camp, and if two men could not
turn the beef on that space, it was useless for others to offer
assistance. In the stillness of the morning hour, we could hear the
running and see the flashes from six-shooters, marking the course of
the outlaw. After making a half circle, we heard them coming direct for
the herd. For fear of a stampede, we raised a great commotion around
the sleeping cattle; but in spite of our precaution, as the _ladino_
beef reëntered the herd, over half the beeves jumped to their feet and
began milling. But we held them until dawn, and after scattering them
over several hundred acres, left them grazing contentedly, when,
leaving two vaqueros with the feeding herd, we went back to the wagon.
The camp had been astir some time, and when Glenn reported the incident
of our watch, Uncle Lance said: “I thought I heard some shooting while
I was cat-napping at daylight. Well, we can use a little fresh beef in
this very camp. We’ll kill him at noon. The wagon will move down near
the river this morning, so we can make three rodeos from it without
moving camp, and to-night we’ll have a side of Pinto’s ribs barbecued.
My mouth is watering this very minute for a rib roast.”
That morning after a big rodeo on the Nueces, well above the Ganso, we
returned to camp. Throwing into our herd the cut of less than a hundred
secured on the morning round-up, Uncle Lance, who had preceded us, rode
out from the wagon with a carbine. Allowing the beeves to scatter, the
old ranchero met and rode zigzagging through them until he came face to
face with the pinto _ladino_. On noticing the intruding horseman, the
outlaw threw up his head. There was a carbine report and the big fellow
went down in his tracks. By the time the herd had grazed away,
Tiburcio, who was cooking with our wagon, brought out all the knives,
and the beef was bled, dressed, and quartered.
“You can afford to be extravagant with this beef,” said Uncle Lance to
the old cook, when the quarters had been carried in to the wagon. “I’ve
been ranching on this river nearly forty years, and I’ve always made it
a rule, where cattle cannot be safely handled, to beef them then and
there. I’ve sat up many a night barbecuing the ribs of a _ladino_. If
you have plenty of salt, Tiburcio, you can make a brine and jerk those
hind quarters. It will make fine chewing for the boys on night herd
when once we start for the coast.”
Following down the home river, we made ten other rodeos before we met
Deweese. We had something over a thousand beeves while he had less than
eight hundred. Throwing the two cuts together, we made a count, and cut
back all the younger and smaller cattle until the herd was reduced to
the required number. Before my advent at Las Palomas, about the only
outlet for beef cattle had been the canneries at Rockport and Fulton.
But these cattle were for shipment by boat to New Orleans and other
coast cities. The route to the coast was well known to my employer, and
detailing twelve men for the herd, a horse wrangler and cook extra, we
started for it, barely touching at the ranch on our course. It was a
nice ten days’ trip. After the first night, we used three guards of
four men each. Grazing contentedly, the cattle quieted down until on
our arrival half our numbers could have handled them. The herd was
counted and received on the outlying prairies, and as no steamer was
due for a few days, another outfit took charge of them.
Uncle Lance was never much of a man for towns, and soon after
settlement the next morning we were ready to start home. But the
payment, amounting to thirty thousand dollars, presented a problem, as
the bulk of it came to us in silver. There was scarcely a merchant in
the place who would assume the responsibility of receiving it even on
deposit, and in the absence of a bank, there was no alternative but to
take it home. The agent for the steamship company solicited the money
for transportation to New Orleans, mentioning the danger of robbery,
and referring to the recent attempt of bandits to hold up the San
Antonio and Corpus Christi stage. I had good cause to remember that
incident, and was wondering what my employer would do under the
circumstances, when he turned from the agent, saying:—
“Well, we’ll take it home just the same. I have no use for money in New
Orleans. Nor do I care if every bandit in Texas knows we’ve got the
money in the wagon. I want to buy a few new guns, anyhow. If robbers
tackle us, we’ll promise them a warm reception—and I never knew a thief
who didn’t think more of his own carcass than of another man’s money.”
The silver was loaded into the wagon in sacks, and we started on our
return. It was rather a risky trip, but we never concealed the fact
that we had every dollar of the money in the wagon. It would have been
dangerous to make an attempt on us, for we were all well armed. We
reached the ranch in safety, rested a day, and then took the ambulance
and went on to San Antonio. Three of us, besides Tiburcio, accompanied
our employer, each taking a saddle horse, and stopping by night at
ranches where we were known. On the third day we reached the city in
good time to bank the money, much to my relief.
As there was no work pressing at home, we spent a week in the city,
thoroughly enjoying ourselves. Uncle Lance was negotiating for the
purchase of a large Spanish land grant, which adjoined our range on the
west, taking in the Ganso and several miles’ frontage on both sides of
the home river. This required his attention for a few days, during
which time Deweese met two men on the lookout for stock cattle with
which to start a new ranch on the Devil’s River in Valverde County.
They were in the market for three thousand cows, to be delivered that
fall or the following spring. Our _segundo_ promptly invited them to
meet his employer that evening at our hotel. As the ranges in eastern
Texas became of value for agriculture, the cowman moved westward,
disposing of his cattle or taking them with him. It was men of this
class whom Deweese had met during the day, and on filling their
appointment in the evening, our employer and the buyers soon came to an
agreement. References were exchanged, and the next afternoon a contract
was entered into whereby we were to deliver, May first, at Las Palomas
ranch, three thousand cows between the ages of two and four years.
There was some delay in perfecting the title to the land grant. “We’ll
start home in the morning, boys,” said Uncle Lance, the evening after
the contract was drawn. “You simply can’t hurry a land deal. I’ll get
that tract in time, but there’s over a hundred heirs now of the
original Don. I’d just like to know what the grandee did for his king
to get that grant. Tickled his royal nibs, I reckon, with some cock and
bull story, and here I have to give up nearly forty thousand dollars of
good honest money. Twenty years ago I was offered this same grant for
ten cents an acre, and now I’m paying four bits. But I didn’t have the
money then, and I’m not sure I’d have bought it if I had. But I need it
now, and I need it bad, and that’s why I’m letting them hold me up for
such a figure.”
Stopping at the “last chance” road house on the outskirts of the city
the next morning, for a final drink as we were leaving, Uncle Lance
said to us over the cattle contract: “There’s money in it—good money,
too. But we’re not going to fill it out of our home brand. Not in this
year of our Lord. I think too much of my cows to part with a single
animal. Boys, cows made Las Palomas what she is, and as long as they
win for me, I intend—to swear by them through thick and thin, in good
and bad repute, fair weather or foul. So, June, just as soon as the
fall branding is over, you can take Tom with you for an interpreter and
start for Mexico to contract these cows. Las Palomas is going to branch
out and spread herself. As a ranchman, I can bring the cows across for
breeding purposes free of duty, and I know of no good reason why I
can’t change my mind and sell them. Dan, take Tiburcio out a cigar.”