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