The night after the first tournament at Shepherd’s on the Nueces in June, ’77, lingers as a pleasant memory.  Veiled in hazy retrospect, attempting to recall it is like inviting the return of childish dreams when one has reached the years of maturity.  If I danced that night with any other girl than poor Esther McLeod, the fact has certainly escaped me.  But somewhere in the archives of memory there is an indelible picture of a stroll through dimly lighted picnic grounds; of sitting on a rustic settee, built round the base of a patriarchal live-oak, and listening to a broken-hearted woman lay bare the sorrows which less than a year had brought her.  I distinctly recall that my eyes, though unused to weeping, filled with tears, when Esther in words of deepest sorrow and contrition begged me to forgive her heedless and reckless act.  Could I harbor resentment in the face of such entreaty?  The impulsiveness of youth refused to believe that true happiness had gone out of her life.  She was again to me as she had been before her unfortunate marriage, and must be released from the hateful bonds that bound her.  Firm in this resolve, dawn stole upon us, still sitting at the root of the old oak, oblivious and happy in each other’s presence, having pledged anew our troth for time and eternity.

With the breaking of day the revelers dispersed.  Quite a large contingent from those present rode several miles up the river with our party.  The remuda had been sent home the evening before with the returning vaqueros, while the impatience of the ambulance mules frequently carried them in advance of the cavalcade.  The mistress of Las Palomas had as her guest returning, Miss Jule Wilson, and the first time they passed us, some four or five miles above the ferry, I noticed Uncle Lance ride up, swaggering in his saddle, and poke Glenn Gallup in the ribs, with a wink and nod towards the conveyance as the mules dashed past.  The pace we were traveling would carry us home by the middle of the forenoon, and once we were reduced to the home crowd, the old matchmaker broke out enthusiastically:—­

“This tourney was what I call a success.  I don’t care a tinker’s darn for the prizes, but the way you boys built up to the girls last night warmed the sluggish blood in my old veins.  Even if Cotton did claim a dance or two with the oldest Vaux girl, if Theo and her don’t make the riffle now—­well, they simply can’t help it, having gone so far.  And did any of you notice Scales and old June and Dan cutting the pigeon wing like colts?  I reckon Quirk will have to make some new resolutions this morning.  Oh, I heard about your declaring that you never wanted to see Esther McLeod again.  That’s all right, son, but hereafter remember that a resolve about a woman is only good for the day it is made, or until you meet her.  And notice, will you, ahead yonder, that sister of mine playing second fiddle as a matchmaker.  Glenn, if I was you, the next time Miss Jule looks back this way, I’d play sick, and maybe they’d let you ride in the ambulance.  I can see at a glance that she’s being poorly entertained.”