WINTER AT LAS PALOMAS
The winter succeeding the drouth was an unusually mild one, frost and
sleet being unseen at Las Palomas. After the holidays several warm
rains fell, affording fine hunting and assuring enough moisture in the
soil to insure an early spring. The preceding winter had been gloomy,
but this proved to be the most social one since my advent, for within
fifty miles of the ranch no less than two weddings occurred during
Christmas week. As to little neighborhood happenings, we could hear of
half a dozen every time we went to Shepherd’s after the mail.
When the native help on the ranch was started at blocking out the stone
for the chapel, Uncle Lance took the hounds and with two of the boys
went down to Wilson’s ranch for a hunt. Gallup went, of course, but
just why he took Scales along, unless with the design of making a match
between one of the younger daughters of this neighboring ranchman and
the Marylander, was not entirely clear. When he wanted to, Scales could
make himself very agreeable, and had it not been for his profligate
disposition, his being taken along on the hunt would have been no
mystery. Every one on the ranch, including the master and mistress,
were cognizant of the fact that for the past year he had maintained a
correspondence with a girl in Florida—the one whose letter and
photograph had been found in the box of oranges. He hardly deserved the
confidence of the roguish girl, for he showed her letters to any one
who cared to read them. I had read every line of the whole
correspondence, and it was plain that Scales had deceived the girl into
believing that he was a prominent ranchman, when in reality the best
that could be said of him was that he was a lovable vagabond. From the
last letter, it was clear that he had promised to marry the girl during
the Christmas week just past, but he had asked for a postponement on
the ground that the drouth had prevented him from selling his beeves.
When Uncle Lance made the discovery, during a cow hunt the fall before,
of the correspondence between Scales and the Florida girl, he said to
us around the camp-fire that night: “Well, all I’ve got to say is that
that girl down in Florida is hard up. Why, it’s entirely contrary to a
girl’s nature to want to be wooed by letter. Until the leopard changes
his spots, the good old way, of putting your arm around the girl and
whispering that you love her, will continue to be popular. If I was to
hazard an opinion about that girl, Aaron, I’d say that she was
ambitious to rise above her surroundings. The chances are that she
wants to get away from home, and possibly she’s as much displeased with
the young men in the orange country as I sometimes get with you
dodrotted cow hands. Now, I’m not one of those people who’re always
harping about the youth of his day and generation being so much better
than the present. That’s all humbug. But what does get me is, that you
youngsters don’t profit more by the experience of an old man like me
who’s been married three times. Line upon line and precept upon
precept, I have preached this thing to my boys for the last ten years,
and what has it amounted to? Not a single white bride has ever been
brought to Las Palomas. They can call me a matchmaker if they want to,
but the evidence is to the contrary.” This was on the night after we
passed Shepherd’s, where Scales had received a letter from the Florida
girl. But why he should accompany the hunt now to Remirena, unless the
old ranchero proposed reforming him, was too deep a problem for me.
On leaving for Wilson’s, there was the usual bustle; hounds responding
to the horn and horses under saddle champing their bits. I had hoped
that permission to go over to the Frio and San Miguel would be given
John and myself, but my employer’s mind was too absorbed in something
else, and we were overlooked in the hurry to get away. Since the
quarrying of the rock had commenced, my work had been overseeing the
native help, of which we had some fifteen cutting and hauling. In
numerous places within a mile of headquarters, a soft porous rock
cropped out. By using a crowbar with a tempered chisel point, the
Mexicans easily channeled the rock into blocks, eighteen by thirty
inches, splitting each stone a foot in thickness, so that when hauled
to the place of use, each piece was ready to lay up in the wall. The
ranch house at headquarters was built out of this rock, and where
permanency was required, it was the best material available, whitening
and apparently becoming firmer with time and exposure.
I had not seen my sweetheart in nearly a month, but there I was,
chained to a rock quarry and mule teams. The very idea of Gallup and
the profligate Scales riding to hounds and basking in the society of
charming girls nettled me. The remainder of the ranch outfit was under
Deweese, building the new corrals, so that I never heard my own tongue
spoken except at meals and about the house. My orders included the
cutting of a few hundred rock extra above the needs of the chapel, and
when this got noised among the help, I had to explain that there was
some talk of building a stone cottage, and intimated that it was for
Juana and Fidel. But that lucky rascal was one of the crew cutting
rock, and from some source or other he had learned that I was liable to
need a cottage at Las Palomas in the near future. The fact that I was
acting _segundo_ over the quarrying outfit, was taken advantage of by
Fidel to clear his skirts and charge the extra rock to my matrimonial
expectations. He was a fast workman, and on every stone he split from
the mother ledge, he sang out, “Otro piedra por Don Tomas!” And within
a few minutes’ time some one else would cry out, “Otro cillar por Fidel
y Juana,” or “Otro piedra por padre Norquin.”
A week passed and there was no return of the hunters. We had so
systematized our work at the quarry that my presence was hardly needed,
so every evening I urged Cotton to sound the mistress for permission to
visit our sweethearts. John was a good-natured fellow who could be
easily led or pushed forward, and I had come to look upon Miss Jean as
a ready supporter of any of her brother’s projects. For that reason her
permission was as good as the master’s; but she parried all Cotton’s
hints, pleading the neglect of our work in the absence of her brother.
I was disgusted with the monotony of quarry work, and likewise was John
over building corrals, as no cow hand ever enthuses over manual labor,
when an incident occurred which afforded the opportunity desired. The
mistress needed some small article from the store at Shepherd’s, and a
Mexican boy had been sent down on this errand and also to get the mail
of the past two weeks. On the boy’s return, he brought a message from
the merchant, saying that Henry Annear had been accidentally killed by
a horse that day, and that the burial would take place at ten o’clock
the next morning.
The news threw the mistress of Las Palomas into a flutter. Her brother
was absent, and she felt a delicacy in consulting Deweese, and very
naturally turned to me for advice. Funerals in the Nueces valley were
so very rare that I advised going, even if the unfortunate man had
stood none too high in our estimation. Annear lived on the divide
between Shepherd’s and the Frio at a ranch called Las Norias. As this
ranch was not over ten miles from the mouth of the San Miguel, the
astute mind can readily see the gleam of my ax in attending. Funerals
were such events that I knew to a certainty that all the countryside
within reach would attend, and the Vaux ranch was not over fifteen
miles distant from Las Norias. Acting on my advice, the mistress
ordered the ambulance to be ready to start by three o’clock the next
morning, and gave every one on the ranch who cared, permission to go
along. All of us took advantage of the offer, except Deweese, who, when
out of hearing of the mistress, excused himself rather profanely.
The boy had returned late in the day, but we lost no time in acting on
Miss Jean’s orders. Fortunately the ambulance teams were in hand
hauling rock, but we rushed out several vaqueros to bring in the
_remuda_ which contained our best saddle horses. It was after dark when
they returned with the mounts wanted, and warning Tiburcio that we
would call him at an early hour, every one retired for a few hours’
rest. I would resent the charge that I am selfish or unsympathetic, yet
before falling asleep that night the deplorable accident was entirely
overlooked in the anticipated pleasure of seeing Esther.
As it was fully a thirty-five-mile drive we started at daybreak, and to
encourage the mules Quayle and Happersett rode in the lead until
sun-up, when they dropped to the rear with Cotton and myself. We did
not go by way of Shepherd’s, but crossed the river several miles above
the ferry, following an old cotton road made during the war, from the
interior of the state to Matamoras, Mexico. It was some time before the
hour named for the burial when we sighted Las Norias on the divide, and
spurred up the ambulance team, to reach the ranch in time for the
funeral. The services were conducted by a strange minister who happened
to be visiting in Oakville, but what impressed me in particular was the
solicitude of Miss Jean for the widow. She had been frequently
entertained at Las Palomas by its mistress, as the sweetheart of June
Deweese, though since her marriage to Annear a decided coolness had
existed between the two women. But in the present hour of trouble, the
past was forgotten and they mingled their tears like sisters.
On our return, which was to be by way of the Vauxes’, I joined those
from the McLeod ranch, while Happersett and Cotton accompanied the
ambulance to the Vaux home. Nearly every one going our way was on
horseback, and when the cavalcade was some distance from Las Norias, my
sweetheart dropped to the rear for a confidential chat and told me that
a lawyer from Corpus Christi, an old friend of the family, had come up
for the purpose of taking the preliminary steps for securing her
freedom, and that she expected to be relieved of the odious tie which
bound her to Oxenford at the May term of court. This was pleasant news
to me, for there would then be no reason for delaying our marriage.
Happersett rode down to the San Miguel the next morning to inform
Quayle and myself that the mistress was then on the way to spend the
night with the widow Annear, and that the rest of us were to report at
home the following evening. She had apparently inspected the lines on
the Frio, and, finding everything favorable, turned to other fields. I
was disappointed, for Esther and I had planned to go up to the Vaux
ranch during the visit. Dan suggested that we ride home together by way
of the Vauxes’. But Quayle bitterly refused even to go near the ranch.
He felt very sore and revengeful over being jilted by Frances after she
had let him crown her Queen of the ball at the tournament dance. So,
agreeing to meet on the divide the next day for the ride back to Las
Palomas, we parted.
The next afternoon, on reaching the divide between the Frio and the
home river, Theodore and I scanned the horizon in vain for any
horsemen. We dismounted, and after waiting nearly an hour, descried two
specks to the northward which we knew must be our men. On coming up
they also threw themselves on the ground, and we indulged in a
cigarette while we compared notes. I had nothing to conceal, and
frankly confessed that Esther and I expected to marry during the latter
part of May. Cotton, though, seemed reticent, and though Theodore
cross-questioned him rather severely, was non-committal and dumb as an
oyster; but before we recrossed the Nueces that evening, John and I
having fallen far to the rear of the other two, he admitted to me that
his wedding would occur within a month after Lent. It was to be a
confidence between us, but I advised him to take Uncle Lance into the
secret at once.
But on reaching the ranch we learned that the hunting party had not
returned, nor had the mistress. The next morning we resumed our work,
Quayle and Cotton at corral building and I at the rock quarry. The work
had progressed during my absence, and the number of pieces desired was
nearing completion, and with but one team hauling the work-shop was
already congested with cut building stone. By noon the quarry was so
cluttered with blocks that I ordered half the help to take axes and go
to the encinal to cut dry oak wood for burning the lime. With the
remainder of my outfit we cleaned out and sealed off the walls of an
old lime kiln, which had served ever since the first rock buildings
rose on Las Palomas. The oven was cut in the same porous formation, the
interior resembling an immense jug, possibly twelve feet in diameter
and fifteen feet in height to the surface of the ledge. By locating the
kiln near the abrupt wall of an abandoned quarry, ventilation was given
from below by a connecting tunnel some twenty feet in length. Layers of
wood and limestone were placed within until the interior was filled,
when it was fired, and after burning for a few hours the draft was cut
off below and above, and the heat retained until the limestone was
properly burned.
Near the middle of the afternoon, the drivers hauling the blocks drove
near the kiln and shouted that the hunters had returned. Scaling off
the burnt rock in the interior and removing the debris made it late
before our job was finished; then one of the vaqueros working on the
outside told us that the ambulance had crossed the river over an hour
before, and was then in the ranch. This was good news, and mounting our
horses we galloped into headquarters and found the corral outfit
already there. Miss Jean soon had our _segundo_ an unwilling prisoner
in a corner, and from his impatient manner and her low tones it was
plain to be seen that her two days’ visit with Mrs. Annear had resulted
in some word for Deweese. Not wishing to intrude, I avoided them in
search of my employer, finding him and Gallup at an outhouse holding a
hound while Scales was taking a few stitches in an ugly cut which the
dog had received from a _javeline_. Paying no attention to the two
boys, I gave him the news, and bluntly informed him that Esther and I
expected to marry in May.
“Bully for you, Tom,” said he. “Here, hold this fore foot, and look out
he don’t bite you. So she’ll get her divorce at the May term, and then
all outdoors can’t stand in your way the next time. Now, that means
that you’ll have to get out fully two hundred more of those building
rock, for your cottage will need three rooms. Take another stitch, knot
your thread well, and be quick about it. I tell you the _javeline_ were
pretty fierce; this is the fifth dog we’ve doctored since we returned.”
On freeing the poor hound, we both looked the pack over carefully, and
as no others needed attention, Aaron and Glenn were excused. No sooner
were they out of hearing than I suggested that the order be made for
five hundred stone, as no doubt John Cotton would also need a cottage
shortly after Lent. The old matchmaker beamed with smiles. “Is that
right, Tom?” he inquired. “Of course, you boys tell each other what you
would hardly tell me. And so they have made the riffle at last? Why, of
course they shall have a cottage, and have it so near that I can hear
the baby when it cries. Bully for tow-headed John. Oh, I reckon Las
Palomas is coming to the front this year. Three new cottages and three
new brides is not to be sneezed at! Does your mistress know all this
good news?”
I informed him that I had not seen Miss Jean to speak to since the
funeral, and that Cotton wished his intentions kept a secret. “Of
course,” he said; “that’s just like a sap-headed youth, as if getting
married was anything to be ashamed of. Why, when I was the age of you
boys I’d have felt proud over the fact. Wants it kept a secret, does
he? Well, I’ll tell everybody I meet, and I’ll send word to the ferry
and to every ranch within a hundred miles, that our John Cotton and
Frank Vaux are going to get married in the spring. There’s nothing
disgraceful in matrimony, and I’ll publish this so wide that neither of
them will dare back out. I’ve had my eye on that girl for years, and
now when there’s a prospect of her becoming the wife of one of my boys,
he wants it kept a secret? Well, I don’t think it’ll keep.”
After that I felt more comfortable over my own confession. Before we
were called to supper every one in the house, including the Mexicans
about headquarters, knew that Cotton and I were soon to be married. And
all during the evening the same subject was revived at every lull in
the conversation, though Deweese kept constantly intruding the corral
building and making inquiries after the hunt. “What difference does it
make if we hunted or not?” replied Uncle Lance to his foreman with some
little feeling. “Suppose we did only hunt every third or fourth day?
Those Wilson folks have a way of entertaining friends which makes
riding after hounds seem commonplace. Why, the girls had Glenn and
Aaron on the go until old man Nate and myself could hardly get them out
on a hunt at all. And when they did, provided the girls were along,
they managed to get separated, and along about dusk they’d come
slouching in by pairs, looking as innocent as turtle-doves. Not that
those Wilson girls can’t ride, for I never saw a better horsewoman than
Susie—the one who took such a shine to Scales.”
I noticed Miss Jean cast a reproving glance at her brother on his
connecting the name of Susie Wilson with that of his vagabond employee.
The mistress was a puritan in morals. That Scales fell far below her
ideal there was no doubt, and the brother knew too well not to differ
with her on this subject. When all the boys had retired except Cotton
and me, the brother and sister became frank with each other.
“Well, now, you must not blame me if Miss Susie was attentive to
Aaron,” said the old matchmaker, in conciliation, pacing the room. “He
was from Las Palomas and their guest, and I see no harm in the girls
being courteous and polite. Susie was just as nice as pie to me, and I
hope you don’t think I don’t entertain the highest regard for Nate
Wilson’s family. Suppose one of the girls did smile a little too much
on Aaron, was that my fault? Now, mind you, I never said a word one way
or the other, but I’ll bet every cow on Las Palomas that Aaron Scales,
vagabond that he is, can get Susie Wilson for the asking. I know your
standard of morals, but you must make allowance for others who look
upon things differently from you and me. You remember Katharine Vedder
who married Carey Troup at the close of the war. There’s a similar case
for you. Katharine married Troup just because he was so wicked, at
least that was the reason she gave, and she and you were old
run-togethers. And you remember too that getting married was the
turning-point in Carey Troup’s life. Who knows but Aaron might sober
down if he was to marry? Just because a man has sown a few wild oats in
his youth, does that condemn him for all time? You want to be more
liberal. Give me the man who has stood the fire tests of life in
preference to one who has never been tempted.”
“Now, Lance, you know you had a motive in taking Aaron down to
Wilson’s,” said the sister, reprovingly. “Don’t get the idea that I
can’t read you like an open book. Your argument is as good as an
admission of your object in going to Ramirena. Ever since Scales got up
that flirtation with Suzanne Vaux last summer, it was easy to see that
Aaron was a favorite with you. Why don’t you take Happersett around and
introduce him to some nice girls? Honest, Lance, I wouldn’t give poor
old Dan for the big beef corral full of rascals like Scales. Look how
he trifled with that silly girl in Florida.”
Instead of continuing the argument, the wily ranchero changed the
subject.
“The trouble with Dan is he’s too old. When a fellow begins to get a
little gray around the edges, he gets so foxy that you couldn’t bait
him into a matrimonial trap with sweet grapes. But, Sis, what’s the
matter with your keeping an eye open for a girl for Dan, if he’s such a
favorite with you? If I had half the interest in him that you profess,
I certainly wouldn’t ask any one to help. It wouldn’t surprise me if
the boys take to marrying freely after John and Tom bring their brides
to Las Palomas. Now that Mrs. Annear is a widow, there’s the same old
chance for June. If Glenn don’t make the riffle with Miss Jule, he
ought to be shot on general principles. And I don’t know, little
sister, if you and I were both to oppose it, that we could prevent that
rascal of an Aaron from marrying into the Wilson family. You have no
idea what a case Susie and Scales scared up during our ten days’ hunt.
That only leaves Dan and Theodore. But what’s the use of counting the
chickens so soon? You go to bed, for I’m going to send to the Mission
to-morrow after the masons. There’s no use in my turning in, for I
won’t sleep a wink to-night, thinking all this over.”