IN COMMEMORATION
A heavy rainfall continued the greater portion of two days. None of us
ventured away from the house until the weather settled, and meantime I
played the fiddle almost continuously. Night work and coarse living in
camps had prepared us to enjoy the comforts of a house, as well as to
do justice to the well-laden table. Miss Jean prided herself, on
special occasions and when the ranch had company, on good dinners; but
in commemoration of the breaking of this drouth, with none but us boys
to share it, she spread a continual feast. The Mexican contingent were
not forgotten by master or mistress, and the ranch supplies in the
warehouse were drawn upon, delicacies as well as staples, not only for
the _jacals_ about headquarters but also for the outlying ranchitas.
The native element had worked faithfully during the two years in which
no rain to speak of had fallen, until the breaking hour, and were not
forgotten in the hour of deliverance. Even the stranger vaqueros were
compelled to share the hospitality of Las Palomas like invited guests.
While the rain continued falling, Uncle Lance paced the gallery almost
night and day. Fearful lest the downpour might stop, he stood guard,
noting every change in the rainfall, barely taking time to eat or catch
an hour’s sleep. But when the grateful rain had continued until the
evening of the second day, assuring a bountiful supply of water all
over our range, he joined us at supper, exultant as a youth of twenty.
“Boys,” said he, “this has been a grand rain. If our tanks hold, we
will be independent for the next eighteen months, and if not another
drop falls, the river ought to flow for a year. I have seen worse
drouths since I lived here, but what hurt us now was the amount of
cattle and the heavy drift which flooded down on us from up the river
and north on the Frio. The loss is nothing; we won’t notice it in
another year. I have kept a close tally of the hides taken, and our
brand will be short about two thousand, or less than ten per cent of
our total numbers. They were principally old cows and will not be
missed. The calf crop this fall will be short, but taking it up one
side and down the other, we got off lucky.”
The third day after the rain began the sun rose bright and clear. Not a
hoof of cattle or horses was in sight, and though it was midsummer, the
freshness of earth and air was like that of a spring morning. Every one
felt like riding. While awaiting the arrival of saddle horses, the
extra help hired during the drouth was called in and settled with. Two
brothers, Fidel and Carlos Trujillo, begged for permanent employment.
They were promising young fellows, born on the Aransas River, and after
consulting with Deweese Uncle Lance took both into permanent service on
the ranch. A room in an outbuilding was allotted them, and they were
instructed to get their meals in the kitchen. The _remudas_ had
wandered far, but one was finally brought in by a vaquero, and by pairs
we mounted and rode away. On starting, the tanks demanded our first
attention, and finding all four of them safe, we threw out of gear all
the windmills. Theodore Quayle and I were partners during the day’s
ride to the south, and on coming in at evening fell in with Uncle Lance
and our _segundo_, who had been as far west as the Ganso. Quayle and I
had discussed during the day the prospect of a hunt at the Vaux ranch,
and on meeting our employer, artfully interested the old ranchero
regarding the amount of cat sign seen that day along the Arroyo Sordo.
“It’s hard luck, boys,” said he, “to find ourselves afoot, and the
hunting so promising. But we haven’t a horse on the ranch that could
carry a man ten miles in a straightaway dash after the hounds. It will
be a month yet before the grass has substance enough in it to
strengthen our _remudas_. Oh, if it hadn’t been for the condition of
saddle stock, Don Pierre would have come right through the rain
yesterday. But when Las Palomas can’t follow the hounds for lack of
mounts, you can depend on it that other ranches can’t either. It just
makes me sick to think of this good hunting, but what can we do for a
month but fold our hands and sit down? But if you boys are itching for
an excuse to get over on the Frio, why, I’ll make you a good one. This
drouth has knocked all the sociability out of the country; but now the
ordeal is past, Theodore is in honor bound to go over to the Vaux
ranch. I don’t suppose you boys have seen the girls on the Frio and San
Miguel in six months. Time? That’s about all we have got right now.
Time?—we’ve got time to burn.”
Our feeler had borne fruit. An excuse or permission to go to the Frio
was what Quayle and I were after, though no doubt the old matchmaker
was equally anxious to have us go. In expressing our thanks for the
promised vacation, we included several provisos—in case there was
nothing to do, or if we concluded to go—when Uncle Lance turned in his
saddle and gave us a withering look. “I’ve often wondered,” said he,
“if the blood in you fellows is really red, or if it’s white like a
fish’s. Now, when I was your age, I had to steal chances to go to see
my girl. But I never gave her any show to forget me, and worried her to
a fare-ye-well. And if my observation and years go for anything, that’s
just the way girls like to have a fellow act. Of course they’ll bluff
and let on they must be wooed and all that, just like Frances did at
the tournament a year ago. I contend that with a clear field the only
way to make any progress in sparking a girl, is to get one arm around
her waist, and with the other hand keep her from scratching you. That’s
the very way they like to be courted.”
Theodore and I dropped behind after this lecture, and before we reached
the ranch had agreed to ride over to the Frio the next morning. During
our absence that day, there had arrived at Las Palomas from the
Mission, a _padrino_ in the person of Don Alejandro Travino. Juana
Leal, only daughter of Tiburcio, had been sought in marriage by a
nephew of Don Alejandro, and the latter, dignified as a Castilian
noble, was then at the house negotiating for the girl’s hand. Juana was
nearly eighteen, had been born at the ranch, and after reaching years
of usefulness had been adopted into Miss Jean’s household. To ask for
her hand required audacity, for to master and mistress of Las Palomas
it was like asking for a daughter of the house. Miss Jean was agitated
and all in a flutter; Tiburcio and his wife were struck dumb; for Juana
was the baby and only unmarried one of their children, and to take her
from Las Palomas—they could never consent to that. But Uncle Lance had
gone through such experiences before, and met the emergency with
promptness.
“That’s all right, little sister,” said the old matchmaker to Miss
Jean, who had come out to the gate where we were unsaddling. “Don’t you
borrow any trouble in this matter—leave things to me. I’ve handled
trifles like this among these natives for nearly forty years now, and I
don’t see any occasion to try and make out a funeral right after the
drouth’s been broken by a fine rain. Shucks, girl, this is a time for
rejoicing! You go back in the house and entertain Don Alejandro with
your best smiles till I come in. I want to have a talk with Tiburcio
and his wife before I meet the _padrino_. There’s several families of
those Travinos over around the Mission and I want to locate which tribe
this _oso_ comes from. Some of them are good people and some of them
need a rope around their necks, and in a case of keeps like getting
married, it’s always safe to know what’s what and who’s who. Now, Sis,
go on back in the house and entertain the Don. Come with me, Tom.”
I saw our plans for the morrow vanish into thin air. On arriving at the
jacal, we were admitted, but a gloom like the pall of death seemed to
envelop the old Mexican couple. When we had taken seats around a small
table, Tia Inez handed the ranchero the formal written request. As it
was penned in Spanish, it was passed to me to read, and after running
through it hastily, I read it aloud, several times stopping to
interpret to Uncle Lance certain extravagant phrases. The salutatory
was in the usual form; the esteem which each family had always
entertained for the other was dwelt upon at length, and choicer
language was never used than the _padrino_ penned in asking for the
hand of Doña Juana. This dainty missive was signed by the godfather of
the swain, Don Alejandro Travino, whose rubric riotously ran back and
forth entirely across the delicately tinted sheet. On the conclusion of
the reading, Uncle Lance brushed the letter aside as of no moment, and,
turning to the old couple, demanded to know to which branch of the
Travino family young Don Blas belonged.
The account of Tiburcio and his wife was definite and clear. The father
of the swain conducted a small country store at the Mission, and
besides had landed and cattle interests. He was a younger brother of
Don Alejandro, who was the owner of a large land grant, had cattle in
abundance, and was a representative man among the Spanish element. No
better credentials could have been asked. But when their patron rallied
them as to the cause of their gloom, Tia Inez burst into tears,
admitting the match was satisfactory, but her baby would be carried
away from Las Palomas and she might never see her again. Her two sons
who lived at the ranch, allowed no day to pass without coming to see
their mother, and the one who lived at a distant ranchita came at every
opportunity. But if her little girl was carried away to a distant
ranch—ah! that made it impossible! Let Don Lance, worthy patron of his
people, forbid the match, and win the gratitude of an anguished mother.
Invoking the saints to guide her aright, Doña Inez threw herself on the
bed in hysterical lamentation. Realizing it is useless to argue with a
woman in tears, the old matchmaker suggested to Tiburcio that we delay
the answer the customary fortnight.
Promising to do nothing further without consulting them, we withdrew
from the _jacal_. On returning to the house, we found Miss Jean
entertaining the Don to the best of her ability, and, commanding my
presence, the old matchmaker advanced to meet the _padrino_, with whom
he had a slight acquaintance. Bidding his guest welcome to the ranch,
he listened to the Don’s apology for being such a stranger to Las
Palomas until a matter of a delicate nature had brought him hither.
Don Alejandro was a distinguished-looking man, and spoke his native
tongue in a manner which put my efforts as an interpreter to shame. The
conversation was allowed to drift at will, from the damages of the
recent drouth to the prospect of a market for beeves that fall, until
supper was announced. After the evening repast was over we retired to
the gallery, and Uncle Lance reopened the matchmaking by inquiring of
Don Alejandro if his nephew proposed taking his bride to the Mission.
The Don was all attention. Fortunately, anticipating that the question
might arise, he had discussed that very feature with his nephew. At
present the young man was assisting his father at the Mission, and in
time, no doubt, would succeed to the business. However, realizing that
her living fifty miles distant might be an objection to the girl’s
parents, he was not for insisting on that point, as no doubt Las
Palomas offered equally good advantages for business. He simply
mentioned this by way of suggestion, and invited the opinion of his
host.
“Well, now, Don Alejandro,” said the old matchmaker, in flutelike
tones, “we are a very simple people here at Las Palomas. Breeding a few
horses and mules for home purposes, and the rearing of cattle has been
our occupation. As to merchandising here at the ranch, I could not
countenance it, as I refused that privilege to the stage company when
they offered to run past Las Palomas. At present our few wants are
supplied by a merchant at Shepherd’s Ferry. True, it’s thirty miles,
but I sometimes wish it was farther, as it is quite a temptation to my
boys to ride down there on various pretexts. We send down every week
for our mail and such little necessities as the ranch may need. If
there was a store here, it would attract loafers and destroy the peace
and contentment which we now enjoy. I would object to it; ‘one man to
his trade and another to his merchandise.’”
The _padrino_, with good diplomacy, heartily agreed that a store was a
disturbing feature on a ranch, and instantly went off on a tangent on
the splendid business possibilities of the Mission. The matchmaker in
return agreed as heartily with him, and grew reminiscent. “In the
spring of ’51,” said he, “I made the match between Tiburcio and Doña
Inez, father and mother of Juana. Tiburcio was a vaquero of mine at the
time, Inez being a Mission girl, and I have taken a great interest in
the couple ever since. All their children were born here and still live
on the ranch. Understand, Don Alejandro, I have no personal feeling in
the matter, beyond the wishes of the parents of the girl. My sister has
taken a great interest in Juana, having had the girl under her charge
for the past eight years. Of course, I feel a pride in Juana, and she
is a fine girl. If your nephew wins her, I shall tell the lucky rascal
when he comes to claim her that he has won the pride of Las Palomas. I
take it, Don Alejandro, that your visit and request was rather
unexpected here, though I am aware that Juana has visited among cousins
at the Mission several times the past few years. But that she had lost
her heart to some of your gallants comes as a surprise to me, and from
what I learn, to her parents also. Under the circumstances, if I were
you, I would not urge an immediate reply, but give them the customary
period to think it over. Our vaqueros will not be very busy for some
time to come, and it will not inconvenience us to send a reply by
messenger to the Mission. And tell Don Blas, even should the reply be
unfavorable, not to be discouraged. Women, you know, are peculiar. Ah,
Don Alejandro, when you and I were young and went courting, would we
have been discouraged by a first refusal?”
Señor Travino appreciated the compliment, and, with a genial smile,
slapped his host on the back, while the old matchmaker gave vent to a
vociferous guffaw. The conversation thereafter took several tacks, but
always reverted to the proposed match. As the hour grew late, the host
apologized to his guest, as no doubt he was tired by his long ride, and
offered to show him his room. The _padrino_ denied all weariness,
maintaining that the enjoyable evening had rested him, but reluctantly
allowed himself to be shown to his apartment. No sooner were the
good-nights spoken, than the old ranchero returned, and, snapping his
fingers for attention, motioned me to follow. By a circuitous route we
reached the _jacal_ of Tiburcio. The old couple had not yet retired,
and Juana blushingly admitted us. Uncle Lance jollied the old people
like a robust, healthy son amusing his elders. We took seats as before
around the small table, and Uncle Lance scattered the gloom of the
_jacal_ with his gayety.
“Las Palomas forever!” said he, striking the table with his bony fist.
“This _padrino_ from the Mission is a very fine gentleman but a poor
matchmaker. Just because young Don Blas is the son of a Travino, the
keeper of a picayune _tienda_ at the Mission, was that any reason to
presume for the hand of a daughter of Las Palomas? Was he any better
than a vaquero just because he doled out _frijoles_ by the quart, and
never saw a piece of money larger than a _media real_? Why, a Las
Palomas vaquero was a prince compared to a fawning attendant in a
Mission store. Let Tia Inez stop fretting herself about losing Juana—it
would not be yet awhile. Just leave matters to him, and he’d send Don
Alejandro home, pleased with his visit and hopeful over the match, even
if it never took place. And none of those frowns from the young lady!”
As we all arose at parting, the old matchmaker went over to Juana and,
shaking his finger at her, said: “Now, look here, my little girl, your
mistress, your parents, and myself are all interested in you, and don’t
think we won’t act for your best interests. You’ve seen this young
fellow ride by on a horse several times, haven’t you? Danced with him a
few times under the eyes of a chaperon at the last _fiesta_, haven’t
you? And that’s all you care to know, and are ready to marry him. Well,
well, it’s fortunate that the marriage customs of the Mexicans protect
such innocents as you. Now, if young Don Blas had worked under me for a
year as a vaquero, I might be as ready to the match as you are; for
then I’d know whether he was worthy of you. What does a girl of your
age know about a man? But when you have as many gray hairs in your head
as your mother has, you’ll thank me for cautioning every one to proceed
slowly in this match. Now dry those tears and go to your mother.”
The next morning Don Alejandro proposed returning to the Mission. But
the old ranchero hooted the idea, and informed his guest that he had
ordered the ambulance, as he intended showing him the recent
improvements made on Las Palomas. When the guest protested against a
longer absence from home, the host artfully intimated that by remaining
another day a favorable reply might possibly go with him. Don Alejandro
finally consented. I was pressed in as driver and interpreter, and our
team tore away from the ranch with a flourish. To put it mildly, I was
disgusted at having my plans for the day knocked in the head, yet knew
better than protest. As we drove along, myriads of grass-blades were
peeping up since the rain, giving every view a greenish cast. Nearly
every windmill on the ranch on our circuit was pointed out, and we
passed three of our four tanks, one of which was over half a mile in
length. After stopping at an outlying ranchita for refreshment, we
spent the afternoon in a similar manner. From a swell of the prairie
some ten miles to the westward of the ranch, we could distinctly see an
outline of the Ganso. Halting the ambulance, the old ranchero pointed
out to his guest the meanderings of that creek from its confluence with
the parent stream until it became lost in the hills to the southward.
“That tract of ground,” said he, “is my last landed addition to Las
Palomas. It lies north and south, giving me six miles’ frontage on the
Nueces. and extending north of the river about four miles, Don
Alejandro, when I note the great change which has come over this valley
since I settled here, it convinces me that if one wishes to follow
ranching he had better acquire title to what range he needs. Land has
advanced in price from a few cents an acre to four bits, and now they
say the next generation will see it worth a dollar. This Ganso grant
contains a hundred and fourteen sections, and I have my eye on one or
two other adjoining tracts. My generation will not need it, but the one
who succeeds me may. Now, as we drive home, I’ll try to show you the
northern boundary of our range; it’s fairly well outlined by the divide
between the Nueces and the Frio rivers.”
From the conversation which followed until we reached headquarters, I
readily understood that the old matchmaker was showing the rose and
concealing its thorn. His motive was not always clear to me, for one
would have supposed from his almost boastful claims regarding its
extent and carrying capacity for cattle, he was showing the ranch to a
prospective buyer. But as we neared home, the conversation innocently
drifted to the Mexican element and their love for the land to which
they were born. Then I understood why I was driving four mules instead
of basking in the smiles of my own sweetheart on the San Miguel. Nor
did this boasting cease during the evening, but alternated from lands
and cattle to the native people, and finally centred about a Mexican
girl who had been so fortunate as to have been born to the soil of Las
Palomas.
When Don Alejandro asked for his horse the following morning on
leaving, Uncle Lance, Quayle, and myself formed a guard of honor to
escort our guest a distance on his way. He took leave of the mistress
of Las Palomas in an obeisance worthy of an old-time cavalier. Once we
were off, Uncle Lance pretended to have had a final interview with the
parents, in which they had insisted on the customary time in which to
consider the proposal. The _padrino_ graciously accepted the situation,
thanking his host for his interest in behalf of his nephew. On reaching
the river, where our ways separated, all halted for a few minutes at
parting.
“Well, Don Alejandro,” said the old ranchero, “this is my limit of
escort to guests of the ranch. Now, the only hope I have in parting is,
in case the reply should he unfavorable, that Don Blas will not be
discouraged and that we may see you again at Las Palomas. Tender my
congratulations to your nephew, and tell him that a welcome always
awaits him in case he finds time and inclination to visit us. I take
some little interest in matches. These boys of mine are going north to
the Frio on a courting errand to-day. But our marriage customs are
inferior to yours, and our young people, left to themselves, don’t seem
to marry. Don Alejandro, if you and I had the making of the matches,
there’d be a cradle rocking in every _jacal_.” Both smiled, said their
“Adios, amigos,” and he was gone.
As our guest cantered away, down the river road, Quayle and I began
looking for a ford. The river had been on a rampage, and while we were
seeking out a crossing our employer had time for a few comments. “The
Don’s tickled with his prospects. He thinks he’s got a half inch rope
on Juana right now; but if I thought your prospects were no better than
I know his are, you wouldn’t tire any horse-flesh of mine by riding to
the Frio and the San Miguel. But go right on, and stay as long as you
want to, for I’m in no hurry to see your faces again. Tom, with the ice
broken as it is, as soon as Esther can remove her disabilities—well,
you won’t have to run off the next time. And Theodore, remember what I
told you the other day about sparking a girl. You’re too timid and
backward for a young fellow. I don’t care if you come home with one eye
scratched out, just so you and Frances have come to an understanding
and named the day.”