I saw that I had a tartar to deal with, but if I could switch her invective on some one absent, it would assist me in controlling myself. So I said to the old lady: “Why, I’ve known Mr. Lovelace now almost a year, and over on the Nueces he is well liked, and considered a cowman whose word is as good as gold. What have you got against him?” “Ower much, ma young freend. I kent him afore ye were born. I’m sorry tae say that while ma gudeman was alive, he was a frequent visitor at oor place. But we dinna see him ony mair. He aye keeps awa’ frae here, and camps wi’ his wagons when he’s ower on the San Miguel to gather cattle. He was no content merely wi’ what kye drifted doon on the Nueces, but warked a big outfit the year around, e’en comin’ ower on the Frio an’ San Miguel maverick huntin’. That’s why he brands twice the calves that onybody else does, and owns a forty-mile front o’ land on both sides o’ the river. Ye see, I ken him weel.” “Well, isn’t that the way most cowmen got their start?” I innocently inquired, well knowing it was. “And do you blame him for running his brand on the unowned cattle that roamed the range? I expect if Mr. Lovelace was my father instead of my employer, you wouldn’t be talking in the same key,” and with that I led my horse out to mount. “Ye think a great deal o’ yersel’, because ye’re frae Las Palomas. Aweel, no vaquero of auld Lance Lovelace can come sparkin’ wi’ ma lass. I’ve heard o’ auld Lovelace’s matchmaking. I’m told he mak’s matches and then laughs at the silly gowks. I’ve twa worthless sons-in-law the noo, are here an’ anither a stage-driver. Aye, they’re capital husbands for Donald McLeod’s lassies, are they no? Afore I let Esther marry the first scamp that comes simperin’ aroond here, I’ll put her in a convent, an’ mak’ a nun o’ the bairn. I gave the ither lassies their way, an’ look at the reward. I tell ye I’m goin’ to bar the door on the last one, an’ the man that marries her will be worthy o’ her. He winna be a vaquero frae Las Palomas either!” I had mounted my horse to start, well knowing it was useless to argue with an angry woman. Esther had obediently retreated to the safety of the house, aware that her mother had a tongue and evidently willing to be spared its invective in my presence. My horse was fidgeting about, impatient to be off, but I gave him the rowel and rode up to the gate, determined, if possible, to pour oil on the troubled waters. “Mrs. McLeod,” said I, in humble tones, “possibly you take the correct view of this matter. Miss Esther and I have only been acquainted a few months, and will soon forget each other. Please take me in the house and let me tell her good-by.” “No, sir. Dinna set foot inside o’ this gate. I hope ye know ye’re no wanted here. There’s your road, the one leadin’ south, an’ ye’d better be goin’, I’m thinkin’.”