I had caught out my night horse, and as I led him away to saddle up, Uncle Lance, not content with my evasive answer, followed me.  “Go to Enrique,” I whispered; “he’ll just bubble over at a good chance to tell you.  Yes; it was the Dona Anita who caused the delay.”  A smothered chuckling shook the old man’s frame, as he sauntered over to where Enrique was saddling.  As the two led off the horse to picket in the gathering dusk, the ranchero had his arm around the vaquero’s neck, and I felt that the old matchmaker would soon be in possession of the facts.  A hilarious guffaw that reached me as I was picketing my horse announced that the story was out, and as the two returned to the fire Uncle Lance was slapping Enrique on the back at every step and calling him a lucky dog.  The news spread through the camp like wild-fire, even to the vaqueros on night herd, who instantly began chanting an old love song.  While Enrique and I were eating our supper, our employer paced backward and forward in meditation like a sentinel on picket, and when we had finished our meal, he joined us around the fire, inquiring of Enrique how soon the demand should be made for the corporal’s daughter, and was assured that it could not be done too soon.  “The padre only came once a year,” he concluded, “and they must be ready.”

“Well, now, this is a pretty pickle,” said the old matchmaker, as he pulled his gray mustaches; “there isn’t pen or paper in the outfit.  And then we’ll be busy branding on the home range for a month, and I can’t spare a vaquero a day to carry a letter to Santa Maria.  And besides, I might not be at home when the reply came.  I think I’ll just take the bull by the horns; ride back in the morning and set these old precedents at defiance, by arranging the match verbally.  I can make the talk that this country is Texas now, and that under the new regime American customs are in order.  That’s what I’ll do—­and I’ll take Tom Quirk with me for fear I bog down in my Spanish.”

But several vaqueros, who understood some English, advised Enrique of what the old matchmaker proposed to do, when the vaquero threw his hands in the air and began sputtering Spanish in terrified disapproval.  Did not Don Lance know that the marriage usages among his people were their most cherished customs?  “Oh, yes, son,” languidly replied Uncle Lance.  “I’m some strong on the cherish myself, but not when it interferes with my plans.  It strikes me that less than a month ago I heard you condemning to perdition certain customs of your people.  Now, don’t get on too high a horse—­just leave it to Tom and me.  We may stay a week, but when we come back we’ll bring your betrothal with us in our vest pockets.  There was never a Mexican born who can outhold me on palaver; and we’ll eat every chicken on Santa Maria unless they surrender.”