Throughout southern Texas and the country tributary to the Nueces River, we always looked for our heaviest rainfall during the month of June.  This year in particular, we were anxious to see a regular downpour to start the arroyo and test our new tank.  Besides, we had sold for delivery in July, twelve hundred beef steers for shipment at Rockport on the coast.  If only a soaking rain would fall, making water plentiful, we could make the drive in little over a hundred miles, while a dry season would compel; us to follow the river nearly double the distance.

We were riding our range thoroughly, locating our fattest beeves, when one evening as June Deweese and I were on the way back from the Ganso, a regular equinoctial struck us, accompanied by a downpour of rain and hail.  Our horses turned their backs to the storm, but we drew slickers over our heads, and defied the elements.  Instead of letting up as darkness set in, the storm seemed to increase in fury and we were forced to seek shelter.  We were at least fifteen miles from the ranch, and it was simply impossible to force a horse against that sheeting rain.  So turning to catch the storm in our backs, we rode for a ranchita belonging to Las Palomas.  By the aid of flashes of lightning and the course of the storm, we reached the little ranch and found a haven.  A steady rain fell all night, continuing the next day, but we saddled early and rode for our new reservoir on the arroyo.  Imagine our surprise on sighting the embankment to see two horsemen ride up from the opposite direction and halt at the dam.  Giving rein to our horses and galloping up, we found they were Uncle Lance and Theodore Quayle.  Above the dam the arroyo was running like a mill-tail.  The water in the reservoir covered several acres and had backed up stream nearly a quarter mile, the deepest point in the tank reaching my saddle skirts.  The embankment had settled solidly, holding the gathering water to our satisfaction, and after several hours’ inspection we rode for home.

With this splendid rain, Las Palomas ranch took on an air of activity.  The old ranchero paced the gallery for hours in great glee, watching the downpour.  It was too soon yet by a week to gather the beeves.  But under the glowing prospect, we could not remain inert.  The next morning the segunao took all the teams and returned to the tank to watch the dam and haul rock to rip-rap the flanks of the embankment.  Taking extra saddle horses with us, Uncle Lance, Dan Happersett, Quayle, and myself took the hounds and struck across for the Frio.  On reaching the Vaux ranch, as showers were still falling and the underbrush reeking with moisture, wetting any one to the skin who dared to invade it, we did not hunt that afternoon.  Pierre Vaux was enthusiastic over the rain, while his daughters were equally so over the prospects of riding to the hounds, there being now nearly forty dogs in the double pack.