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diff --git a/1095-0.txt b/1095-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..54a5373 --- /dev/null +++ b/1095-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13527 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1095 *** +THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS + + +by Zane Grey + + + + +Contents + + + I. A Gentleman of the Range + II. A Secret Kept + III. Sister and Brother + IV. A Ride From Sunrise to Sunset + V. The Round-up + VI. A Gift and a Purchase + VII. Her Majesty’s Rancho + VIII. El Capitan + IX. The New Foreman + X. Don Carlo’s Vaqueros + XI. A Band of Guerrillas + XII. Friends from the East + XIII. Cowboy Golf + XIV. Bandits + XV. The Mountain Trail + XVI. The Crags + XVII. The Lost Mine of the Padres + XVIII.Bonita + XIX. Don Carlos + XX. The Sheriff of El Cajon + XXI. Unbridled + XXII. The Secret Told + XXIII.The Light of Western Stars + XXIV. The Ride + XXV. At the End of the Road + + + + +THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS + + + + +I. A Gentleman of the Range + + +When Madeline Hammond stepped from the train at El Cajon, New Mexico, it +was nearly midnight, and her first impression was of a huge dark space +of cool, windy emptiness, strange and silent, stretching away under +great blinking white stars. + +“Miss, there’s no one to meet you,” said the conductor, rather +anxiously. + +“I wired my brother,” she replied. “The train being so late—perhaps he +grew tired of waiting. He will be here presently. But, if he should not +come—surely I can find a hotel?” + +“There’s lodgings to be had. Get the station agent to show you. If +you’ll excuse me—this is no place for a lady like you to be alone at +night. It’s a rough little town—mostly Mexicans, miners, cowboys. +And they carouse a lot. Besides, the revolution across the border has +stirred up some excitement along the line. Miss, I guess it’s safe +enough, if you—” + +“Thank you. I am not in the least afraid.” + +As the train started to glide away Miss Hammond walked towards the dimly +lighted station. As she was about to enter she encountered a Mexican +with sombrero hiding his features and a blanket mantling his shoulders. + +“Is there any one here to meet Miss Hammond?” she asked. + +“No sabe, Senora,” he replied from under the muffling blanket, and he +shuffled away into the shadow. + +She entered the empty waiting-room. An oil-lamp gave out a thick yellow +light. The ticket window was open, and through it she saw there was +neither agent nor operator in the little compartment. A telegraph +instrument clicked faintly. + +Madeline Hammond stood tapping a shapely foot on the floor, and with +some amusement contrasted her reception in El Cajon with what it was +when she left a train at the Grand Central. The only time she could +remember ever having been alone like this was once when she had missed +her maid and her train at a place outside of Versailles—an adventure +that had been a novel and delightful break in the prescribed routine of +her much-chaperoned life. She crossed the waiting-room to a window and, +holding aside her veil, looked out. At first she could descry only a few +dim lights, and these blurred in her sight. As her eyes grew accustomed +to the darkness she saw a superbly built horse standing near the window. +Beyond was a bare square. Or, if it was a street, it was the widest one +Madeline had ever seen. The dim lights shone from low, flat buildings. +She made out the dark shapes of many horses, all standing motionless +with drooping heads. Through a hole in the window-glass came a cool +breeze, and on it breathed a sound that struck coarsely upon her ear—a +discordant mingling of laughter and shout, and the tramp of boots to the +hard music of a phonograph. + +“Western revelry,” mused Miss Hammond, as she left the window. “Now, +what to do? I’ll wait here. Perhaps the station agent will return soon, +or Alfred will come for me.” + +As she sat down to wait she reviewed the causes which accounted for the +remarkable situation in which she found herself. That Madeline Hammond +should be alone, at a late hour, in a dingy little Western railroad +station, was indeed extraordinary. + +The close of her debutante year had been marred by the only unhappy +experience of her life—the disgrace of her brother and his leaving +home. She dated the beginning of a certain thoughtful habit of mind from +that time, and a dissatisfaction with the brilliant life society offered +her. The change had been so gradual that it was permanent before +she realized it. For a while an active outdoor life—golf, tennis, +yachting—kept this realization from becoming morbid introspection. +There came a time when even these lost charm for her, and then she +believed she was indeed ill in mind. Travel did not help her. + +There had been months of unrest, of curiously painful wonderment +that her position, her wealth, her popularity no longer sufficed. She +believed she had lived through the dreams and fancies of a girl to +become a woman of the world. And she had gone on as before, a part of +the glittering show, but no longer blind to the truth—that there was +nothing in her luxurious life to make it significant. + +Sometimes from the depths of her there flashed up at odd moments +intimations of a future revolt. She remembered one evening at the opera +when the curtain had risen upon a particularly well-done piece of stage +scenery—a broad space of deep desolateness, reaching away under an +infinitude of night sky, illumined by stars. The suggestion it brought +of vast wastes of lonely, rugged earth, of a great, blue-arched vault of +starry sky, pervaded her soul with a strange, sweet peace. + +When the scene was changed she lost this vague new sense of peace, and +she turned away from the stage in irritation. She looked at the long, +curved tier of glittering boxes that represented her world. It was a +distinguished and splendid world—the wealth, fashion, culture, beauty, +and blood of a nation. She, Madeline Hammond, was a part of it. She +smiled, she listened, she talked to the men who from time to time +strolled into the Hammond box, and she felt that there was not a moment +when she was natural, true to herself. She wondered why these people +could not somehow, some way be different; but she could not tell what +she wanted them to be. If they had been different they would not have +fitted the place; indeed, they would not have been there at all. Yet she +thought wistfully that they lacked something for her. + +And suddenly realizing she would marry one of these men if she did not +revolt, she had been assailed by a great weariness, an icy-sickening +sense that life had palled upon her. She was tired of fashionable +society. She was tired of polished, imperturbable men who sought only to +please her. She was tired of being feted, admired, loved, followed, +and importuned; tired of people; tired of houses, noise, ostentation, +luxury. She was so tired of herself! + +In the lonely distances and the passionless stars of boldly painted +stage scenery she had caught a glimpse of something that stirred her +soul. The feeling did not last. She could not call it back. She imagined +that the very boldness of the scene had appealed to her; she divined +that the man who painted it had found inspiration, joy, strength, +serenity in rugged nature. And at last she knew what she needed—to be +alone, to brood for long hours, to gaze out on lonely, silent, darkening +stretches, to watch the stars, to face her soul, to find her real self. + +Then it was she had first thought of visiting the brother who had gone +West to cast his fortune with the cattlemen. As it happened, she had +friends who were on the eve of starting for California, and she made +a quick decision to travel with them. When she calmly announced her +intention of going out West her mother had exclaimed in consternation; +and her father, surprised into pathetic memory of the black sheep of the +family, had stared at her with glistening eyes. “Why, Madeline! You want +to see that wild boy!” Then he had reverted to the anger he still felt +for his wayward son, and he had forbidden Madeline to go. Her mother +forgot her haughty poise and dignity. Madeline, however, had exhibited +a will she had never before been known to possess. She stood her ground +even to reminding them that she was twenty-four and her own mistress. In +the end she had prevailed, and that without betraying the real state of +her mind. + +Her decision to visit her brother had been too hurriedly made and acted +upon for her to write him about it, and so she had telegraphed him +from New York, and also, a day later, from Chicago, where her traveling +friends had been delayed by illness. Nothing could have turned her back +then. Madeline had planned to arrive in El Cajon on October 3d, her +brother’s birthday, and she had succeeded, though her arrival occurred +at the twenty-fourth hour. Her train had been several hours late. +Whether or not the message had reached Alfred’s hands she had no means +of telling, and the thing which concerned her now was the fact that she +had arrived and he was not there to meet her. + +It did not take long for thought of the past to give way wholly to the +reality of the present. + +“I hope nothing has happened to Alfred,” she said to herself. “He was +well, doing splendidly, the last time he wrote. To be sure, that was a +good while ago; but, then, he never wrote often. He’s all right. Pretty +soon he’ll come, and how glad I’ll be! I wonder if he has changed.” + +As Madeline sat waiting in the yellow gloom she heard the faint, +intermittent click of the telegraph instrument, the low hum of wires, +the occasional stamp of an iron-shod hoof, and a distant vacant laugh +rising above the sounds of the dance. These commonplace things were +new to her. She became conscious of a slight quickening of her pulse. +Madeline had only a limited knowledge of the West. Like all of her +class, she had traveled Europe and had neglected America. A few letters +from her brother had confused her already vague ideas of plains and +mountains, as well as of cowboys and cattle. She had been astounded +at the interminable distance she had traveled, and if there had been +anything attractive to look at in all that journey she had passed it in +the night. And here she sat in a dingy little station, with telegraph +wires moaning a lonely song in the wind. + +A faint sound like the rattling of thin chains diverted Madeline’s +attention. At first she imagined it was made by the telegraph wires. +Then she heard a step. The door swung wide; a tall man entered, and with +him came the clinking rattle. She realized then that the sound came from +his spurs. The man was a cowboy, and his entrance recalled vividly to +her that of Dustin Farnum in the first act of “The Virginian.” + +“Will you please direct me to a hotel?” asked Madeline, rising. + +The cowboy removed his sombrero, and the sweep he made with it and the +accompanying bow, despite their exaggeration, had a kind of rude grace. +He took two long strides toward her. + +“Lady, are you married?” + +In the past Miss Hammond’s sense of humor had often helped her to +overlook critical exactions natural to her breeding. She kept silence, +and she imagined it was just as well that her veil hid her face at the +moment. She had been prepared to find cowboys rather striking, and she +had been warned not to laugh at them. + +This gentleman of the range deliberately reached down and took up her +left hand. Before she recovered from her start of amaze he had stripped +off her glove. + +“Fine spark, but no wedding-ring,” he drawled. “Lady, I’m glad to see +you’re not married.” + +He released her hand and returned the glove. + +“You see, the only ho-tel in this here town is against boarding married +women.” + +“Indeed?” said Madeline, trying to adjust her wits to the situation. + +“It sure is,” he went on. “Bad business for ho-tels to have married +women. Keeps the boys away. You see, this isn’t Reno.” + +Then he laughed rather boyishly, and from that, and the way he +slouched on his sombrero, Madeline realized he was half drunk. As +she instinctively recoiled she not only gave him a keener glance, but +stepped into a position where a better light shone on his face. It +was like red bronze, bold, raw, sharp. He laughed again, as if +good-naturedly amused with himself, and the laugh scarcely changed the +hard set of his features. Like that of all women whose beauty and charm +had brought them much before the world, Miss Hammond’s intuition had +been developed until she had a delicate and exquisitely sensitive +perception of the nature of men and of her effect upon them. This crude +cowboy, under the influence of drink, had affronted her; nevertheless, +whatever was in his mind, he meant no insult. + +“I shall be greatly obliged if you will show me to the hotel,” she said. + +“Lady, you wait here,” he replied, slowly, as if his thought did not +come swiftly. “I’ll go fetch the porter.” + +She thanked him, and as he went out, closing the door, she sat down in +considerable relief. It occurred to her that she should have mentioned +her brother’s name. Then she fell to wondering what living with such +uncouth cowboys had done to Alfred. He had been wild enough in college, +and she doubted that any cowboy could have taught him much. She alone of +her family had ever believed in any latent good in Alfred Hammond, and +her faith had scarcely survived the two years of silence. + +Waiting there, she again found herself listening to the moan of the wind +through the wires. The horse outside began to pound with heavy hoofs, +and once he whinnied. Then Madeline heard a rapid pattering, low +at first and growing louder, which presently she recognized as the +galloping of horses. She went to the window, thinking, hoping her +brother had arrived. But as the clatter increased to a roar, shadows +sped by—lean horses, flying manes and tails, sombreroed riders, all +strange and wild in her sight. Recalling what the conductor had said, +she was at some pains to quell her uneasiness. Dust-clouds shrouded the +dim lights in the windows. Then out of the gloom two figures appeared, +one tall, the other slight. The cowboy was returning with a porter. + +Heavy footsteps sounded without, and lighter ones dragging along, and +then suddenly the door rasped open, jarring the whole room. The cowboy +entered, pulling a disheveled figure—that of a priest, a padre, whose +mantle had manifestly been disarranged by the rude grasp of his captor. +Plain it was that the padre was extremely terrified. + +Madeline Hammond gazed in bewilderment at the little man, so pale and +shaken, and a protest trembled upon her lips; but it was never uttered, +for this half-drunken cowboy now appeared to be a cool, grim-smiling +devil; and stretching out a long arm, he grasped her and swung her back +to the bench. + +“You stay there!” he ordered. + +His voice, though neither brutal nor harsh nor cruel, had the +unaccountable effect of making her feel powerless to move. No man had +ever before addressed her in such a tone. It was the woman in her that +obeyed—not the personality of proud Madeline Hammond. + +The padre lifted his clasped hands as if supplicating for his life, and +began to speak hurriedly in Spanish. Madeline did not understand the +language. The cowboy pulled out a huge gun and brandished it in the +priest’s face. Then he lowered it, apparently to point it at the +priest’s feet. There was a red flash, and then a thundering report that +stunned Madeline. The room filled with smoke and the smell of powder. +Madeline did not faint or even shut her eyes, but she felt as if she +were fast in a cold vise. When she could see distinctly through the +smoke she experienced a sensation of immeasurable relief that the +cowboy had not shot the padre. But he was still waving the gun, and now +appeared to be dragging his victim toward her. What possibly could be +the drunken fool’s intention? This must be, this surely was a cowboy +trick. She had a vague, swiftly flashing recollection of Alfred’s first +letters descriptive of the extravagant fun of cowboys. Then she vividly +remembered a moving picture she had seen—cowboys playing a monstrous +joke on a lone school-teacher. Madeline no sooner thought of it than +she made certain her brother was introducing her to a little wild West +amusement. She could scarcely believe it, yet it must be true. Alfred’s +old love of teasing her might have extended even to this outrage. +Probably he stood just outside the door or window laughing at her +embarrassment. + +Anger checked her panic. She straightened up with what composure this +surprise had left her and started for the door. But the cowboy barred +her passage—grasped her arms. Then Madeline divined that her brother +could not have any knowledge of this indignity. It was no trick. It was +something that was happening, that was real, that threatened she knew +not what. She tried to wrench free, feeling hot all over at being +handled by this drunken brute. Poise, dignity, culture—all the +acquired habits of character—fled before the instinct to fight. She was +athletic. She fought. She struggled desperately. But he forced her back +with hands of iron. She had never known a man could be so strong. And +then it was the man’s coolly smiling face, the paralyzing strangeness +of his manner, more than his strength, that weakened Madeline until she +sank trembling against the bench. + +“What—do you—mean?” she panted. + +“Dearie, ease up a little on the bridle,” he replied, gaily. + +Madeline thought she must be dreaming. She could not think clearly. It +had all been too swift, too terrible for her to grasp. Yet she not +only saw this man, but also felt his powerful presence. And the shaking +priest, the haze of blue smoke, the smell of powder—these were not +unreal. + +Then close before her eyes burst another blinding red flash, and close +at her ears bellowed another report. Unable to stand, Madeline slipped +down onto the bench. Her drifting faculties refused clearly to record +what transpired during the next few moments; presently, however, as her +mind steadied somewhat, she heard, though as in a dream, the voice of +the padre hurrying over strange words. It ceased, and then the cowboy’s +voice stirred her. + +“Lady, say Si—Si. Say it—quick! Say it—Si!” + +From sheer suggestion, a force irresistible at this moment when her will +was clamped by panic, she spoke the word. + +“And now, lady—so we can finish this properly—what’s your name?” + +Still obeying mechanically, she told him. + +He stared for a while, as if the name had awakened associations in a +mind somewhat befogged. He leaned back unsteadily. Madeline heard the +expulsion of his breath, a kind of hard puff, not unusual in drunken +men. + +“What name?” he demanded. + +“Madeline Hammond. I am Alfred Hammond’s sister.” + +He put his hand up and brushed at an imaginary something before his +eyes. Then he loomed over her, and that hand, now shaking a little, +reached out for her veil. Before he could touch it, however, she swept +it back, revealing her face. + +“You’re—not—Majesty Hammond?” + +How strange—stranger than anything that had ever happened to her +before—was it to hear that name on the lips of this cowboy! It was a +name by which she was familiarly known, though only those nearest and +dearest to her had the privilege of using it. And now it revived her +dulled faculties, and by an effort she regained control of herself. + +“You are Majesty Hammond,” he replied; and this time he affirmed +wonderingly rather than questioned. + +Madeline rose and faced him. + +“Yes, I am.” + +He slammed his gun back into its holster. + +“Well, I reckon we won’t go on with it, then.” + +“With what, sir? And why did you force me to say Si to this priest?” + +“I reckon that was a way I took to show him you’d be willing to get +married.” + +“Oh!... You—you!...” Words failed her. + +This appeared to galvanize the cowboy into action. He grasped the padre +and led him toward the door, cursing and threatening, no doubt enjoining +secrecy. Then he pushed him across the threshold and stood there +breathing hard and wrestling with himself. + +“Here—wait—wait a minute, Miss—Miss Hammond,” he said, huskily. “You +could fall into worse company than mine—though I reckon you sure +think not. I’m pretty drunk, but I’m—all right otherwise. Just wait—a +minute.” + +She stood quivering and blazing with wrath, and watched this savage +fight his drunkenness. He acted like a man who had been suddenly shocked +into a rational state of mind, and he was now battling with himself to +hold on to it. Madeline saw the dark, damp hair lift from his brows as +he held it up to the cool wind. Above him she saw the white stars in the +deep-blue sky, and they seemed as unreal to her as any other thing +in this strange night. They were cold, brilliant, aloof, distant; and +looking at them, she felt her wrath lessen and die and leave her calm. + +The cowboy turned and began to talk. + +“You see—I was pretty drunk,” he labored. “There was a fiesta—and a +wedding. I do fool things when I’m drunk. I made a fool bet I’d marry +the first girl who came to town.... If you hadn’t worn that veil—the +fellows were joshing me—and Ed Linton was getting married—and +everybody always wants to gamble.... I must have been pretty drunk.” + +After the one look at her when she had first put aside her veil he had +not raised his eyes to her face. The cool audacity had vanished in what +was either excessive emotion or the maudlin condition peculiar to some +men when drunk. He could not stand still; perspiration collected in +beads upon his forehead; he kept wiping his face with his scarf, and he +breathed like a man after violent exertions. + +“You see—I was pretty—” he began. + +“Explanations are not necessary,” she interrupted. “I am very +tired—distressed. The hour is late. Have you the slightest idea what it +means to be a gentleman?” + +His bronzed face burned to a flaming crimson. + +“Is my brother here—in town to-night?” Madeline went on. + +“No. He’s at his ranch.” + +“But I wired him.” + +“Like as not the message is over in his box at the P.O. He’ll be in town +to-morrow. He’s shipping cattle for Stillwell.” + +“Meanwhile I must go to a hotel. Will you please—” + +If he heard her last words he showed no evidence of it. A noise outside +had attracted his attention. Madeline listened. Low voices of men, the +softer liquid tones of a woman, drifted in through the open door. They +spoke in Spanish, and the voices grew louder. Evidently the speakers +were approaching the station. Footsteps crunching on gravel attested to +this, and quicker steps, coming with deep tones of men in anger, told +of a quarrel. Then the woman’s voice, hurried and broken, rising higher, +was eloquent of vain appeal. + +The cowboy’s demeanor startled Madeline into anticipation of something +dreadful. She was not deceived. From outside came the sound of a +scuffle—a muffled shot, a groan, the thud of a falling body, a woman’s +low cry, and footsteps padding away in rapid retreat. + +Madeline Hammond leaned weakly back in her seat, cold and sick, and for +a moment her ears throbbed to the tramp of the dancers across the way +and the rhythm of the cheap music. Then into the open door-place flashed +a girl’s tragic face, lighted by dark eyes and framed by dusky hair. The +girl reached a slim brown hand round the side of the door and held on as +if to support herself. A long black scarf accentuated her gaudy attire. + +“Senor—Gene!” she exclaimed; and breathless glad recognition made a +sudden break in her terror. + +“Bonita!” The cowboy leaped to her. “Girl! Are you hurt?” + +“No, Senor.” + +He took hold of her. “I heard—somebody got shot. Was it Danny?” + +“No, Senor.” + +“Did Danny do the shooting? Tell me, girl.” + +“No, Senor.” + +“I’m sure glad. I thought Danny was mixed up in that. He had Stillwell’s +money for the boys—I was afraid.... Say, Bonita, but you’ll get in +trouble. Who was with you? What did you do?” + +“Senor Gene—they Don Carlos vaqueros—they quarrel over me. I only +dance a leetle, smile a leetle, and they quarrel. I beg they be +good—watch out for Sheriff Hawe... and now Sheriff Hawe put me in jail. +I so frighten; he try make leetle love to Bonita once, and now he hate +me like he hate Senor Gene.” + +“Pat Hawe won’t put you in jail. Take my horse and hit the Peloncillo +trail. Bonita, promise to stay away from El Cajon.” + +“Si, Senor.” + +He led her outside. Madeline heard the horse snort and champ his bit. +The cowboy spoke low; only a few words were intelligible—“stirrups... +wait... out of town... mountain... trail ... now ride!” + +A moment’s silence ensued, and was broken by a pounding of hoofs, a +pattering of gravel. Then Madeline saw a big, dark horse run into the +wide space. She caught a glimpse of wind-swept scarf and hair, a little +form low down in the saddle. The horse was outlined in black against the +line of dim lights. There was something wild and splendid in his flight. + +Directly the cowboy appeared again in the doorway. + +“Miss Hammond, I reckon we want to rustle out of here. Been bad +goings-on. And there’s a train due.” + +She hurried into the open air, not daring to look back or to either +side. Her guide strode swiftly. She had almost to run to keep up with +him. Many conflicting emotions confused her. She had a strange sense of +this stalking giant beside her, silent except for his jangling spurs. +She had a strange feeling of the cool, sweet wind and the white stars. +Was it only her disordered fancy, or did these wonderful stars open and +shut? She had a queer, disembodied thought that somewhere in ages back, +in another life, she had seen these stars. The night seemed dark, +yet there was a pale, luminous light—a light from the stars—and she +fancied it would always haunt her. + +Suddenly aware that she had been led beyond the line of houses, she +spoke: + +“Where are you taking me?” + +“To Florence Kingsley,” he replied. + +“Who is she?” + +“I reckon she’s your brother’s best friend out here.” Madeline kept pace +with the cowboy for a few moments longer, and then she stopped. It was +as much from necessity to catch her breath as it was from recurring +fear. All at once she realized what little use her training had been for +such an experience as this. The cowboy, missing her, came back the few +intervening steps. Then he waited, still silent, looming beside her. + +“It’s so dark, so lonely,” she faltered. “How do I know... what warrant +can you give me that you—that no harm will befall me if I go farther?” + +“None, Miss Hammond, except that I’ve seen your face.” + + + + +II. A Secret Kept + + +Because of that singular reply Madeline found faith to go farther with +the cowboy. But at the moment she really did not think about what he +had said. Any answer to her would have served if it had been kind. His +silence had augmented her nervousness, compelling her to voice her fear. +Still, even if he had not replied at all she would have gone on with +him. She shuddered at the idea of returning to the station, where she +believed there had been murder; she could hardly have forced herself to +go back to those dim lights in the street; she did not want to wander +around alone in the dark. + +And as she walked on into the windy darkness, much relieved that he had +answered as he had, reflecting that he had yet to prove his words true, +she began to grasp the deeper significance of them. There was a revival +of pride that made her feel that she ought to scorn to think at all +about such a man. But Madeline Hammond discovered that thought was +involuntary, that there were feelings in her never dreamed of before +this night. + +Presently Madeline’s guide turned off the walk and rapped at a door of a +low-roofed house. + +“Hullo—who’s there?” a deep voice answered. + +“Gene Stewart,” said the cowboy. “Call Florence—quick!” + +Thump of footsteps followed, a tap on a door, and voices. Madeline heard +a woman exclaim: “Gene! here when there’s a dance in town! Something +wrong out on the range.” A light flared up and shone bright through a +window. In another moment there came a patter of soft steps, and the +door opened to disclose a woman holding a lamp. + +“Gene! Al’s not—” + +“Al is all right,” interrupted the cowboy. + +Madeline had two sensations then—one of wonder at the note of alarm +and love in the woman’s voice, and the other of unutterable relief to be +safe with a friend of her brother’s. + +“It’s Al’s sister—came on to-night’s train,” the cowboy was saying. “I +happened to be at the station, and I’ve fetched her up to you.” + +Madeline came forward out of the shadow. + +“Not—not really Majesty Hammond!” exclaimed Florence Kingsley. She +nearly dropped the lamp, and she looked and looked, astounded beyond +belief. + +“Yes, I am really she,” replied Madeline. “My train was late, and for +some reason Alfred did not meet me. Mr.—Mr. Stewart saw fit to bring me +to you instead of taking me to a hotel.” + +“Oh, I’m so glad to meet you,” replied Florence, warmly. “Do come in. +I’m so surprised, I forget my manners. Why, Al never mentioned your +coming.” + +“He surely could not have received my messages,” said Madeline, as she +entered. + +The cowboy, who came in with her satchel, had to stoop to enter the +door, and, once in, he seemed to fill the room. Florence set the lamp +down upon the table. Madeline saw a young woman with a smiling, friendly +face, and a profusion of fair hair hanging down over her dressing-gown. + +“Oh, but Al will be glad!” cried Florence. “Why, you are white as a +sheet. You must be tired. What a long wait you had at the station! I +heard the train come in hours ago as I was going to bed. That station +is lonely at night. If I had known you were coming! Indeed, you are very +pale. Are you ill?” + +“No. Only I am very tired. Traveling so far by rail is harder than I +imagined. I did have rather a long wait after arriving at the station, +but I can’t say that it was lonely.” + +Florence Kingsley searched Madeline’s face with keen eyes, and then +took a long, significant look at the silent Stewart. With that she +deliberately and quietly closed a door leading into another room. + +“Miss Hammond, what has happened?” She had lowered her voice. + +“I do not wish to recall all that has happened,” replied Madeline. +“I shall tell Alfred, however, that I would rather have met a hostile +Apache than a cowboy.” + +“Please don’t tell Al that!” cried Florence. Then she grasped Stewart +and pulled him close to the light. “Gene, you’re drunk!” + +“I was pretty drunk,” he replied, hanging his head. + +“Oh, what have you done?” + +“Now, see here, Flo, I only—” + +“I don’t want to know. I’d tell it. Gene, aren’t you ever going to learn +decency? Aren’t you ever going to stop drinking? You’ll lose all your +friends. Stillwell has stuck to you. Al’s been your best friend. Molly +and I have pleaded with you, and now you’ve gone and done—God knows +what!” + +“What do women want to wear veils for?” he growled. “I’d have known her +but for that veil.” + +“And you wouldn’t have insulted her. But you would the next girl who +came along. Gene, you are hopeless. Now, you get out of here and don’t +ever come back.” + +“Flo!” he entreated. + +“I mean it.” + +“I reckon then I’ll come back to-morrow and take my medicine,” he +replied. + +“Don’t you dare!” she cried. + +Stewart went out and closed the door. + +“Miss Hammond, you—you don’t know how this hurts me,” said Florence. +“What you must think of us! It’s so unlucky that you should have had +this happen right at first. Now, maybe you won’t have the heart to +stay. Oh, I’ve known more than one Eastern girl to go home without ever +learning what we really are cut here. Miss Hammond, Gene Stewart is a +fiend when he’s drunk. All the same I know, whatever he did, he meant no +shame to you. Come now, don’t think about it again to-night.” She took +up the lamp and led Madeline into a little room. “This is out West,” + she went on, smiling, as she indicated the few furnishings; “but you can +rest. You’re perfectly safe. Won’t you let me help you undress—can’t I +do anything for you?” + +“You are very kind, thank you, but I can manage,” replied Madeline. + +“Well, then, good night. The sooner I go the sooner you’ll rest. Just +forget what happened and think how fine a surprise you’re to give your +brother to-morrow.” + +With that she slipped out and softly shut the door. + +As Madeline laid her watch on the bureau she noticed that the time was +past two o’clock. It seemed long since she had gotten off the train. +When she had turned out the lamp and crept wearily into bed she knew +what it was to be utterly spent. She was too tired to move a finger. But +her brain whirled. + +She had at first no control over it, and a thousand thronging sensations +came and went and recurred with little logical relation. There were +the roar of the train; the feeling of being lost; the sound of pounding +hoofs; a picture of her brother’s face as she had last seen it five +years before; a long, dim line of lights; the jingle of silver spurs; +night, wind, darkness, stars. Then the gloomy station, the shadowy +blanketed Mexican, the empty room, the dim lights across the square, the +tramp of the dancers and vacant laughs and discordant music, the door +flung wide and the entrance of the cowboy. She did not recall how he +had looked or what he had done. And the next instant she saw him cool, +smiling, devilish—saw him in violence; the next his bigness, his +apparel, his physical being were vague as outlines in a dream. The white +face of the padre flashed along in the train of thought, and it brought +the same dull, half-blind, indefinable state of mind subsequent to that +last nerve-breaking pistol-shot. That passed, and then clear and vivid +rose memories of the rest that had happened—strange voices betraying +fury of men, a deadened report, a moan of mortal pain, a woman’s +poignant cry. And Madeline saw the girl’s great tragic eyes and the +wild flight of the big horse into the blackness, and the dark, stalking +figure of the silent cowboy, and the white stars that seemed to look +down remorselessly. + +This tide of memory rolled over Madeline again and again, and gradually +lost its power and faded. All distress left her, and she felt herself +drifting. How black the room was—as black with her eyes open as it was +when they were shut! And the silence—it was like a cloak. There was +absolutely no sound. She was in another world from that which she knew. +She thought of this fair-haired Florence and of Alfred; and, wondering +about them, she dropped to sleep. + +When she awakened the room was bright with sunlight. A cool wind blowing +across the bed caused her to put her hands under the blanket. She was +lazily and dreamily contemplating the mud walls of this little room when +she remembered where she was and how she had come there. + +How great a shock she had been subjected to was manifest in a sensation +of disgust that overwhelmed her. She even shut her eyes to try and blot +out the recollection. She felt that she had been contaminated. + +Presently Madeline Hammond again awoke to the fact she had learned the +preceding night—that there were emotions to which she had heretofore +been a stranger. She did not try to analyze them, but she exercised her +self-control to such good purpose that by the time she had dressed she +was outwardly her usual self. She scarcely remembered when she had found +it necessary to control her emotions. There had been no trouble, no +excitement, no unpleasantness in her life. It had been ordered for +her—tranquil, luxurious, brilliant, varied, yet always the same. + +She was not surprised to find the hour late, and was going to make +inquiry about her brother when a voice arrested her. She recognized Miss +Kingsley’s voice addressing some one outside, and it had a sharpness she +had not noted before. + +“So you came back, did you? Well, you don’t look very proud of yourself +this mawnin’. Gene Stewart, you look like a coyote.” + +“Say, Flo if I am a coyote I’m not going to sneak,” he said. + +“What ’d you come for?” she demanded. + +“I said I was coming round to take my medicine.” + +“Meaning you’ll not run from Al Hammond? Gene, your skull is as thick +as an old cow’s. Al will never know anything about what you did to his +sister unless you tell him. And if you do that he’ll shoot you. She +won’t give you away. She’s a thoroughbred. Why, she was so white last +night I thought she’d drop at my feet, but she never blinked an eyelash. +I’m a woman, Gene Stewart and if I couldn’t feel like Miss Hammond I +know how awful an ordeal she must have had. Why, she’s one of the most +beautiful, the most sought after, the most exclusive women in New York +City. There’s a crowd of millionaires and lords and dukes after her. +How terrible it’d be for a woman like her to be kissed by a drunken +cowpuncher! I say it—” + +“Flo, I never insulted her that way,” broke out Stewart. + +“It was worse, then?” she queried, sharply. + +“I made a bet that I’d marry the first girl who came to town. I was on +the watch and pretty drunk. When she came—well, I got Padre Marcos and +tried to bully her into marrying me.” + +“Oh, Lord!” Florence gasped. “It’s worse than I feared.... Gene, Al will +kill you.” + +“That’ll be a good thing,” replied the cowboy, dejectedly. + +“Gene Stewart, it certainly would, unless you turn over a new leaf,” + retorted Florence. “But don’t be a fool.” And here she became +earnest and appealing. “Go away, Gene. Go join the rebels across the +border—you’re always threatening that. Anyhow, don’t stay here and ruin +any chance of stirring Al up. He’d kill you just the same as you would +kill another man for insulting your sister. Don’t make trouble for Al. +That’d only make sorrow for her, Gene.” + +The subtle import was not lost upon Madeline. She was distressed because +she could not avoid hearing what was not meant for her ears. She made an +effort not to listen, and it was futile. + +“Flo, you can’t see this a man’s way,” he replied, quietly. “I’ll stay +and take my medicine.” + +“Gene, I could sure swear at you or any other pig-head of a cowboy. +Listen. My brother-in-law, Jack, heard something of what I said to you +last night. He doesn’t like you. I’m afraid he’ll tell Al. For Heaven’s +sake, man, go down-town and shut him up and yourself, too.” + +Then Madeline heard her come into the house and presently rap on the +door and call softly: + +“Miss Hammond. Are you awake?” + +“Awake and dressed, Miss Kingsley. Come in.” + +“Oh! You’ve rested. You look so—so different. I’m sure glad. Come out +now. We’ll have breakfast, and then you may expect to meet your brother +any moment.” + +“Wait, please. I heard you speaking to Mr. Stewart. It was unavoidable. +But I am glad. I must see him. Will you please ask him to come into the +parlor a moment?” + +“Yes,” replied Florence, quickly; and as she turned at the door she +flashed at Madeline a woman’s meaning glance. “Make him keep his mouth +shut!” + +Presently there were slow, reluctant steps outside the front door, then +a pause, and the door opened. Stewart stood bareheaded in the +sunlight. Madeline remembered with a kind of shudder the tall form, the +embroidered buckskin vest, the red scarf, the bright leather wristbands, +the wide silver-buckled belt and chaps. Her glance seemed to run +over him swift as lightning. But as she saw his face now she did not +recognize it. The man’s presence roused in her a revolt. Yet something +in her, the incomprehensible side of her nature, thrilled in the look of +this splendid dark-faced barbarian. + +“Mr. Stewart, will you please come in?” she asked, after that long +pause. + +“I reckon not,” he said. The hopelessness of his tone meant that he knew +he was not fit to enter a room with her, and did not care or cared too +much. + +Madeline went to the door. The man’s face was hard, yet it was sad, too. +And it touched her. + +“I shall not tell my brother of your—your rudeness to me,” she began. +It was impossible for her to keep the chill out of her voice, to speak +with other than the pride and aloofness of her class. Nevertheless, +despite her loathing, when she had spoken so far it seemed that kindness +and pity followed involuntarily. “I choose to overlook what you did +because you were not wholly accountable, and because there must be no +trouble between Alfred and you. May I rely on you to keep silence and +to seal the lips of that priest? And you know there was a man killed or +injured there last night. I want to forget that dreadful thing. I don’t +want it known that I heard—” + +“The Greaser didn’t die,” interrupted Stewart. + +“Ah! then that’s not so bad, after all. I am glad for the sake of your +friend—the little Mexican girl.” + +A slow scarlet wave overspread his face, and his shame was painful to +see. That fixed in Madeline’s mind a conviction that if he was a heathen +he was not wholly bad. And it made so much difference that she smiled +down at him. + +“You will spare me further distress, will you not, please?” His hoarse +reply was incoherent, but she needed only to see his working face to +know his remorse and gratitude. + +Madeline went back to her room; and presently Florence came for her, and +directly they were sitting at breakfast. Madeline Hammond’s impression +of her brother’s friend had to be reconstructed in the morning light. +She felt a wholesome, frank, sweet nature. She liked the slow Southern +drawl. And she was puzzled to know whether Florence Kingsley was pretty +or striking or unusual. She had a youthful glow and flush, the clear +tan of outdoors, a face that lacked the soft curves and lines of Eastern +women, and her eyes were light gray, like crystal, steady, almost +piercing, and her hair was a beautiful bright, waving mass. + +Florence’s sister was the elder of the two, a stout woman with a strong +face and quiet eyes. It was a simple fare and service they gave to their +guest; but they made no apologies for that. Indeed, Madeline felt +their simplicity to be restful. She was sated with respect, sick of +admiration, tired of adulation; and it was good to see that these +Western women treated her as very likely they would have treated any +other visitor. They were sweet, kind; and what Madeline had at first +thought was a lack of expression or vitality she soon discovered to +be the natural reserve of women who did not live superficial lives. +Florence was breezy and frank, her sister quaint and not given much to +speech. Madeline thought she would like to have these women near her +if she were ill or in trouble. And she reproached herself for a +fastidiousness, a hypercritical sense of refinement that could not help +distinguishing what these women lacked. + +“Can you ride?” Florence was asking. “That’s what a Westerner always +asks any one from the East. Can you ride like a man—astride, I mean? +Oh, that’s fine. You look strong enough to hold a horse. We have some +fine horses out here. I reckon when Al comes we’ll go out to Bill +Stillwell’s ranch. We’ll have to go, whether we want to or not, for when +Bill learns you are here he’ll just pack us all off. You’ll love old +Bill. His ranch is run down, but the range and the rides up in the +mountains—they are beautiful. We’ll hunt and climb, and most of all +we’ll ride. I love a horse—I love the wind in my face, and a wide +stretch with the mountains beckoning. You must have the best horse +on the ranges. And that means a scrap between Al and Bill and all +the cowboys. We don’t all agree about horses, except in case of Gene +Stewart’s iron-gray.” + +“Does Mr. Stewart own the best horse in the country?” asked Madeline. +Again she had an inexplicable thrill as she remembered the wild flight +of Stewart’s big dark steed and rider. + +“Yes, and that’s all he does own,” replied Florence. “Gene can’t keep +even a quirt. But he sure loves that horse and calls him—” + +At this juncture a sharp knock on the parlor door interrupted the +conversation. Florence’s sister went to open it. She returned presently +and said: + +“It’s Gene. He’s been dawdlin’ out there on the front porch, and he +knocked to let us know Miss Hammond’s brother is comin’.” + +Florence hurried into the parlor, followed by Madeline. The door stood +open, and disclosed Stewart sitting on the porch steps. From down +the road came a clatter of hoofs. Madeline looked out over Florence’s +shoulder and saw a cloud of dust approaching, and in it she +distinguished outlines of horses and riders. A warmth spread over her, a +little tingle of gladness, and the feeling recalled her girlish love for +her brother. What would he be like after long years? + +“Gene, has Jack kept his mouth shut?” queried Florence; and again +Madeline was aware of a sharp ring in the girl’s voice. + +“No,” replied Stewart. + +“Gene! You won’t let it come to a fight? Al can be managed. But Jack +hates you and he’ll have his friends with him.” + +“There won’t be any fight.” + +“Use your brains now,” added Florence; and then she turned to push +Madeline gently back into the parlor. + +Madeline’s glow of warmth changed to a blank dismay. Was she to see +her brother act with the violence she now associated with cowboys? The +clatter of hoofs stopped before the door. Looking out, Madeline saw a +bunch of dusty, wiry horses pawing the gravel and tossing lean heads. +Her swift glance ran over the lithe horsemen, trying to pick out the one +who was her brother. But she could not. Her glance, however, caught the +same rough dress and hard aspect that characterized the cowboy Stewart. +Then one rider threw his bridle, leaped from the saddle, and came +bounding up the porch steps. Florence met him at the door. + +“Hello, Flo. Where is she?” he called, eagerly. With that he looked over +her shoulder to espy Madeline. He actually jumped at her. She hardly +knew the tall form and the bronzed face, but the warm flash of blue eyes +was familiar. As for him, he had no doubt of his sister, it appeared, +for with broken welcome he threw his arms around her, then held her off +and looked searchingly at her. + +“Well, sister,” he began, when Florence turned hurriedly from the door +and interrupted him. + +“Al, I think you’d better stop the wrangling out there.” He stared at +her, appeared suddenly to hear the loud voices from the street, and +then, releasing Madeline, he said: + +“By George! I forgot, Flo. There is a little business to see to. Keep my +sister in here, please, and don’t be fussed up now.” + +He went out on the porch and called to his men: + +“Shut off your wind, Jack! And you, too, Blaze! I didn’t want you +fellows to come here. But as you would come, you’ve got to shut up. This +is my business.” + +Whereupon he turned to Stewart, who was sitting on the fence. + +“Hello, Stewart!” he said. + +It was a greeting; but there was that in the voice which alarmed +Madeline. + +Stewart leisurely got up and leisurely advanced to the porch. + +“Hello, Hammond!” he drawled. + +“Drunk again last night?” + +“Well, if you want to know, and if it’s any of your mix, yes, I +was-pretty drunk,” replied Stewart. + +It was a kind of cool speech that showed the cowboy in control of +himself and master of the situation—not an easy speech to follow up +with undue inquisitiveness. There was a short silence. + +“Damn it, Stewart,” said the speaker, presently, “here’s the situation: +It’s all over town that you met my sister last night at the station +and—and insulted her. Jack’s got it in for you, so have these other +boys. But it’s my affair. Understand, I didn’t fetch them here. They can +see you square yourself, or else—Gene, you’ve been on the wrong trail +for some time, drinking and all that. You’re going to the bad. But Bill +thinks, and I think, you’re still a man. We never knew you to lie. Now +what have you to say for yourself?” + +“Nobody is insinuating that I am a liar?” drawled Stewart. + +“No.” + +“Well, I’m glad to hear that. You see, Al, I was pretty drunk last +night, but not drunk enough to forget the least thing I did. I told Pat +Hawe so this morning when he was curious. And that’s polite for me to +be to Pat. Well, I found Miss Hammond waiting alone at the station. She +wore a veil, but I knew she was a lady, of course. I imagine, now that +I think of it, that Miss Hammond found my gallantry rather startling, +and—” + +At this point Madeline, answering to unconsidered impulse, eluded +Florence and walked out upon the porch. + +Sombreros flashed down and the lean horses jumped. + +“Gentlemen,” said Madeline, rather breathlessly; and it did not add +to her calmness to feel a hot flush in her cheeks, “I am very new to +Western ways, but I think you are laboring under a mistake, which, in +justice to Mr. Stewart, I want to correct. Indeed, he was rather—rather +abrupt and strange when he came up to me last night; but as I understand +him now, I can attribute that to his gallantry. He was somewhat wild +and sudden and—sentimental in his demand to protect me—and it was not +clear whether he meant his protection for last night or forever; but I +am happy to say be offered me no word that was not honorable. And he saw +me safely here to Miss Kingsley’s home.” + + + + +III. Sister and Brother + + +Then Madeline returned to the little parlor with the brother whom she +had hardly recognized. + +“Majesty!” he exclaimed. “To think of your being here!” + +The warmth stole back along her veins. She remembered how that pet name +had sounded from the lips of this brother who had given it to her. + +“Alfred!” + +Then his words of gladness at sight of her, his chagrin at not being +at the train to welcome her, were not so memorable of him as the way he +clasped her, for he had held her that way the day he left home, and she +had not forgotten. But now he was so much taller and bigger, so dusty +and strange and different and forceful, that she could scarcely think +him the same man. She even had a humorous thought that here was another +cowboy bullying her, and this time it was her brother. + +“Dear old girl,” he said, more calmly, as he let her go, “you haven’t +changed at all, except to grow lovelier. Only you’re a woman now, and +you’ve fulfilled the name I gave you. God! how sight of you brings back +home! It seems a hundred years since I left. I missed you more than all +the rest.” + +Madeline seemed to feel with his every word that she was remembering +him. She was so amazed at the change in him that she could not believe +her eyes. She saw a bronzed, strong-jawed, eagle-eyed man, stalwart, +superb of height, and, like the cowboys, belted, booted, spurred. And +there was something hard as iron in his face that quivered with his +words. It seemed that only in those moments when the hard lines broke +and softened could she see resemblance to the face she remembered. It +was his manner, the tone of his voice, and the tricks of speech +that proved to her he was really Alfred. She had bidden good-by to a +disgraced, disinherited, dissolute boy. Well she remembered the handsome +pale face with its weakness and shadows and careless smile, with the +ever-present cigarette hanging between the lips. The years had passed, +and now she saw him a man—the West had made him a man. And Madeline +Hammond felt a strong, passionate gladness and gratefulness, and a +direct check to her suddenly inspired hatred of the West. + +“Majesty, it was good of you to come. I’m all broken up. How did you +ever do it? But never mind that now. Tell me about that brother of +mine.” + +And Madeline told him, and then about their sister Helen. Question after +question he fired at her; and she told him of her mother; of Aunt +Grace, who had died a year ago; of his old friends, married, scattered, +vanished. But she did not tell him of his father, for he did not ask. + +Quite suddenly the rapid-fire questioning ceased; he choked, was silent +a moment, and then burst into tears. It seemed to her that a long, +stored-up bitterness was flooding away. It hurt her to see him—hurt her +more to hear him. And in the succeeding few moments she grew closer to +him than she had ever been in the past. Had her father and mother done +right by him? Her pulse stirred with unwonted quickness. She did not +speak, but she kissed him, which, for her, was an indication of unusual +feeling. And when he recovered command over his emotions he made no +reference to his breakdown, nor did she. But that scene struck deep +into Madeline Hammond’s heart. Through it she saw what he had lost and +gained. + +“Alfred, why did you not answer my last letters?” asked Madeline. “I had +not heard from you for two years.” + +“So long? How time flies! Well, things went bad with me about the last +time I heard from you. I always intended to write some day, but I never +did.” + +“Things went wrong? Tell me.” + +“Majesty, you mustn’t worry yourself with my troubles. I want you to +enjoy your stay and not be bothered with my difficulties.” + +“Please tell me. I suspected something had gone wrong. That is partly +why I decided to come out.” + +“All right; if you must know,” he began; and it seemed to Madeline that +there was a gladness in his decision to unburden himself. “You remember +all about my little ranch, and that for a while I did well raising +stock? I wrote you all that. Majesty, a man makes enemies anywhere. +Perhaps an Eastern man in the West can make, if not so many, certainly +more bitter ones. At any rate, I made several. There was a cattleman, +Ward by name—he’s gone now—and he and I had trouble over cattle. That +gave me a back-set. Pat Hawe, the sheriff here, has been instrumental in +hurting my business. He’s not so much of a rancher, but he has influence +at Santa Fe and El Paso and Douglas. I made an enemy of him. I never did +anything to him. He hates Gene Stewart, and upon one occasion I spoiled +a little plot of his to get Gene in his clutches. The real reason for +his animosity toward me is that he loves Florence, and Florence is going +to marry me.” + +“Alfred!” + +“What’s the matter, Majesty? Didn’t Florence impress you favorably?” he +asked, with a keen glance. + +“Why—yes, indeed. I like her. But I did not think of her in relation +to you—that way. I am greatly surprised. Alfred, is she well born? What +connections?” + +“Florence is just a girl of ordinary people. She was born in Kentucky, +was brought up in Texas. My aristocratic and wealthy family would +scorn—” + +“Alfred, you are still a Hammond,” said Madeline, with uplifted head. + +Alfred laughed. “We won’t quarrel, Majesty. I remember you, and in spite +of your pride you’ve got a heart. If you stay here a month you’ll love +Florence Kingsley. I want you to know she’s had a great deal to do +with straightening me up.... Well, to go on with my story. There’s Don +Carlos, a Mexican rancher, and he’s my worst enemy. For that matter, +he’s as bad an enemy of Bill Stillwell and other ranchers. Stillwell, by +the way, is my friend and one of the finest men on earth. I got in debt +to Don Carlos before I knew he was so mean. In the first place I lost +money at faro—I gambled some when I came West—and then I made unwise +cattle deals. Don Carlos is a wily Greaser, he knows the ranges, he +has the water, and he is dishonest. So he outfigured me. And now I am +practically ruined. He has not gotten possession of my ranch, but that’s +only a matter of time, pending lawsuits at Santa Fe. At present I have a +few hundred cattle running on Stillwell’s range, and I am his foreman.” + +“Foreman?” queried Madeline. + +“I am simply boss of Stillwell’s cowboys, and right glad of my job.” + +Madeline was conscious of an inward burning. It required an effort for +her to retain her outward tranquillity. Annoying consciousness she had +also of the returning sense of new disturbing emotions. She began to see +just how walled in from unusual thought-provoking incident and sensation +had been her exclusive life. + +“Cannot your property be reclaimed?” she asked. “How much do you owe?” + +“Ten thousand dollars would clear me and give me another start. But, +Majesty, in this country that’s a good deal of money, and I haven’t been +able to raise it. Stillwell’s in worse shape than I am.” + +Madeline went over to Alfred and put her hands on his shoulders. + +“We must not be in debt.” + +He stared at her as if her words had recalled something long forgotten. +Then he smiled. + +“How imperious you are! I’d forgotten just who my beautiful sister +really is. Majesty, you’re not going to ask me to take money from you?” + +“I am.” + +“Well, I’ll not do it. I never did, even when I was in college, and then +there wasn’t much beyond me.” + +“Listen, Alfred,” she went on, earnestly, “this is entirely different. +I had only an allowance then. You had no way to know that since I last +wrote you I had come into my inheritance from Aunt Grace. It was—well, +that doesn’t matter. Only, I haven’t been able to spend half the income. +It’s mine. It’s not father’s money. You will make me very happy if +you’ll consent. Alfred, I’m so—so amazed at the change in you. I’m +so happy. You must never take a backward step from now on. What is ten +thousand dollars to me? Sometimes I spend that in a month. I throw money +away. If you let me help you it will be doing me good as well as you. +Please, Alfred.” + +He kissed her, evidently surprised at her earnestness. And indeed +Madeline was surprised herself. Once started, her speech had flowed. + +“You always were the best of fellows, Majesty. And if you really +care—if you really want to help me I’ll be only too glad to accept. It +will be fine. Florence will go wild. And that Greaser won’t harass me +any more. Majesty, pretty soon some titled fellow will be spending your +money; I may as well take a little before he gets it all,” he finished, +jokingly. + +“What do you know about me?” she asked, lightly. + +“More than you think. Even if we are lost out here in the woolly West +we get news. Everybody knows about Anglesbury. And that Dago duke who +chased you all over Europe, that Lord Castleton has the running now and +seems about to win. How about it, Majesty?” + +Madeline detected a hint that suggested scorn in his gay speech. And +deep in his searching glance she saw a flame. She became thoughtful. She +had forgotten Castleton, New York, society. + +“Alfred,” she began, seriously, “I don’t believe any titled gentleman +will ever spend my money, as you elegantly express it.” + +“I don’t care for that. It’s you!” he cried, passionately, and he +grasped her with a violence that startled her. He was white; his eyes +were now like fire. “You are so splendid—so wonderful. People called +you the American Beauty, but you’re more than that. You’re the American +Girl! Majesty, marry no man unless you love him, and love an American. +Stay away from Europe long enough to learn to know the men—the real men +of your own country.” + +“Alfred, I’m afraid there are not always real men and real love for +American girls in international marriages. But Helen knows this. It’ll +be her choice. She’ll be miserable if she marries Anglesbury.” + +“It’ll serve her just right,” declared her brother. “Helen was always +crazy for glitter, adulation, fame. I’ll gamble she never saw more of +Anglesbury than the gold and ribbons on his breast.” + +“I am sorry. Anglesbury is a gentleman; but it is the money he wanted, I +think. Alfred, tell me how you came to know about me, ’way out here? You +may be assured I was astonished to find that Miss Kingsley knew me as +Majesty Hammond.” + +“I imagine it was a surprise,” he replied, with a laugh, “I told +Florence about you—gave her a picture of you. And, of course, being a +woman, she showed the picture and talked. She’s in love with you. Then, +my dear sister, we do get New York papers out here occasionally, and we +can see and read. You may not be aware that you and your society friends +are objects of intense interest in the U. S. in general, and the West in +particular. The papers are full of you, and perhaps a lot of things you +never did.” + +“That Mr. Stewart knew, too. He said, ‘You’re not Majesty Hammond?’” + +“Never mind his impudence!” exclaimed Alfred; and then again he laughed. +“Gene is all right, only you’ve got to know him. I’ll tell you what he +did. He got hold of one of those newspaper pictures of you—the one +in the Times; he took it away from here, and in spite of Florence he +wouldn’t fetch it back. It was a picture of you in riding-habit with +your blue-ribbon horse, White Stockings—remember? It was taken at +Newport. Well, Stewart tacked the picture up in his bunk-house and named +his beautiful horse Majesty. All the cowboys knew it. They would see +the picture and tease him unmercifully. But he didn’t care. One day I +happened to drop in on him and found him just recovering from a carouse. +I saw the picture, too, and I said to him, ‘Gene, if my sister knew you +were a drunkard she’d not be proud of having her picture stuck up in +your room.’ Majesty, he did not touch a drop for a month, and when he +did drink again he took the picture down, and he has never put it back.” + +Madeline smiled at her brother’s amusement, but she did not reply. She +simply could not adjust herself to these queer free Western’ ways. Her +brother had eloquently pleaded for her to keep herself above a sordid +and brilliant marriage, yet he not only allowed a cowboy to keep her +picture in his room, but actually spoke of her and used her name in a +temperance lecture. Madeline just escaped feeling disgust. She was saved +from this, however, by nothing less than her brother’s naive gladness +that through subtle suggestion Stewart had been persuaded to be good for +a month. Something made up of Stewart’s effrontery to her; of Florence +Kingsley meeting her, frankly as it were, as an equal; of the elder +sister’s slow, quiet, easy acceptance of this visitor who had been +honored at the courts of royalty; of that faint hint of scorn in +Alfred’s voice, and his amused statement in regard to her picture +and the name Majesty—something made up of all these stung Madeline +Hammond’s pride, alienated her for an instant, and then stimulated her +intelligence, excited her interest, and made her resolve to learn a +little about this incomprehensible West. + +“Majesty, I must run down to the siding,” he said, consulting his watch. +“We’re loading a shipment of cattle. I’ll be back by supper-time and +bring Stillwell with me. You’ll like him. Give me the check for your +trunk.” + +She went into the little bedroom and, taking up her bag, she got out a +number of checks. + +“Six! Six trunks!” he exclaimed. “Well, I’m very glad you intend to stay +awhile. Say, Majesty, it will take me as long to realize who you really +are as it’ll take to break you of being a tenderfoot. I hope you packed +a riding-suit. If not you’ll have to wear trousers! You’ll have to do +that, anyway, when we go up in the mountains.” + +“No!” + +“You sure will, as Florence says.” + +“We shall see about that. I don’t know what’s in the trunks. I never +pack anything. My dear brother, what do I have maids for?” + +“How did it come that you didn’t travel with a maid?” + +“I wanted to be alone. But don’t you worry. I shall be able to look +after myself. I dare say it will be good for me.” + +She went to the gate with him. + +“What a shaggy, dusty horse! He’s wild, too. Do you let him stand that +way without being haltered? I should think he would run off.” + +“Tenderfoot! You’ll be great fun, Majesty, especially for the cowboys.” + +“Oh, will I?” she asked, constrainedly. + +“Yes, and in three days they will be fighting one another over you. +That’s going to worry me. Cowboys fall in love with a plain woman, +an ugly woman, any woman, so long as she’s young. And you! Good Lord! +They’ll go out of their heads.” + +“You are pleased to be facetious, Alfred. I think I have had quite +enough of cowboys, and I haven’t been here twenty-four hours.” + +“Don’t think too much of first impressions. That was my mistake when I +arrived here. Good-by. I’ll go now. Better rest awhile. You look tired.” + +The horse started as Alfred put his foot in the stirrup and was running +when the rider slipped his leg over the saddle. Madeline watched him in +admiration. He seemed to be loosely fitted to the saddle, moving with +the horse. + +“I suppose that’s a cowboy’s style. It pleases me,” she said. “How +different from the seat of Eastern riders!” + +Then Madeline sat upon the porch and fell to interested observation of +her surrounding. Near at hand it was decidedly not prepossessing. The +street was deep in dust, and the cool wind whipped up little puffs. The +houses along this street were all low, square, flat-roofed structures +made of some kind of red cement. It occurred to her suddenly that this +building-material must be the adobe she had read about. There was no +person in sight. The long street appeared to have no end, though the +line of houses did not extend far. Once she heard a horse trotting at +some distance, and several times the ringing of a locomotive bell. Where +were the mountains, wondered Madeline. Soon low over the house-roofs she +saw a dim, dark-blue, rugged outline. It seemed to charm her eyes and +fix her gaze. She knew the Adirondacks, she had seen the Alps from the +summit of Mont Blanc, and had stood under the great black, white-tipped +shadow of the Himalayas. But they had not drawn her as these remote +Rockies. This dim horizon line boldly cutting the blue sky fascinated +her. Florence Kingsley’s expression “beckoning mountains” returned to +Madeline. She could not see or feel so much as that. Her impression was +rather that these mountains were aloof, unattainable, that if approached +they would recede or vanish like the desert mirage. + +Madeline went to her room, intending to rest awhile, and she fell +asleep. She was aroused by Florence’s knock and call. + +“Miss Hammond, your brother has come back with Stillwell.” + +“Why, how I have slept!” exclaimed Madeline. “It’s nearly six o’clock.” + +“I’m sure glad. You were tired. And the air here makes strangers sleepy. +Come, we want you to meet old Bill. He calls himself the last of the +cattlemen. He has lived in Texas and here all his life.” + +Madeline accompanied Florence to the porch. Her brother, who was sitting +near the door, jumped up and said: + +“Hello, Majesty!” And as he put his arm around her he turned toward a +massive man whose broad, craggy face began to ripple and wrinkle. “I +want to introduce my friend Stillwell to you. Bill, this is my sister, +the sister I’ve so often told you about—Majesty.” + +“Wal, wal, Al, this’s the proudest meetin’ of my life,” replied +Stillwell, in a booming voice. He extended a huge hand. “Miss—Miss +Majesty, sight of you is as welcome as the rain an’ the flowers to an +old desert cattleman.” + +Madeline greeted him, and it was all she could do to repress a cry +at the way he crunched her hand in a grasp of iron. He was old, +white-haired, weather-beaten, with long furrows down his checks and with +gray eyes almost hidden in wrinkles. If he was smiling she fancied it a +most extraordinary smile. The next instant she realized that it had been +a smile, for his face appeared to stop rippling, the light died, and +suddenly it was like rudely chiseled stone. The quality of hardness she +had seen in Stewart was immeasurably intensified in this old man’s face. + +“Miss Majesty, it’s plumb humiliatin’ to all of us thet we wasn’t on +hand to meet you,” Stillwell said. “Me an’ Al stepped into the P. O. +an’ said a few mild an’ cheerful things. Them messages ought to hev been +sent out to the ranch. I’m sure afraid it was a bit unpleasant fer you +last night at the station.” + +“I was rather anxious at first and perhaps frightened,” replied +Madeline. + +“Wal, I’m some glad to tell you thet there’s no man in these parts +except your brother thet I’d as lief hev met you as Gene Stewart.” + +“Indeed?” + +“Yes, an’ thet’s takin’ into consideration Gene’s weakness, too. I’m +allus fond of sayin’ of myself thet I’m the last of the old cattlemen. +Wal, Stewart’s not a native Westerner, but he’s my pick of the last of +the cowboys. Sure, he’s young, but he’s the last of the old style—the +picturesque—an’ chivalrous, too, I make bold to say, Miss Majesty, as +well as the old hard-ridin’ kind. Folks are down on Stewart. An’ I’m +only sayin’ a good word for him because he is down, an’ mebbe last night +he might hev scared you, you bein’ fresh from the East.” + +Madeline liked the old fellow for his loyalty to the cowboy he evidently +cared for; but as there did not seem anything for her to say, she +remained silent. + +“Miss Majesty, the day of the cattleman is about over. An’ the day of +the cowboy, such as Gene Stewart, is over. There’s no place for Gene. If +these weren’t modern days he’d come near bein’ a gun-man, same as we +had in Texas, when I ranched there in the ‘seventies. But he can’t fit +nowhere now; he can’t hold a job, an’ he’s goin’ down.” + +“I am sorry to hear it,” murmured Madeline. “But, Mr. Stillwell, aren’t +these modern days out here just a little wild—yet? The conductor on +my train told me of rebels, bandits, raiders. Then I have had other +impressions of—well, that were wild enough for me.” + +“Wal, it’s some more pleasant an’ excitin’ these days than for many +years,” replied Stillwell. “The boys hev took to packin’ guns again. But +thet’s owin’ to the revolution in Mexico. There’s goin’ to be trouble +along the border. I reckon people in the East don’t know there is a +revolution. Wal, Madero will oust Diaz, an’ then some other rebel will +oust Madero. It means trouble on the border an’ across the border, too. +I wouldn’t wonder if Uncle Sam hed to get a hand in the game. There’s +already been holdups on the railroads an’ raids along the Rio Grande +Valley. An’ these little towns are full of Greasers, all disturbed by +the fightin’ down in Mexico. We’ve been hevin’ shootin’-scrapes an’ +knifin’-scrapes, an’ some cattle-raidin’. I hev been losin’ a few cattle +right along. Reminds me of old times; an’ pretty soon if it doesn’t +stop, I’ll take the old-time way to stop it.” + +“Yes, indeed, Majesty,” put in Alfred, “you have hit upon an interesting +time to visit us.” + +“Wal, thet sure ’pears to be so,” rejoined Stillwell. “Stewart got in +trouble down heah to-day, an’ I’m more than sorry to hev to tell you +thet your name figgered in it. But I couldn’t blame him, fer I sure +would hev done the same myself.” + +“That so?” queried Alfred, laughing. “Well, tell us about it.” + +Madeline simply gazed at her brother, and, though he seemed amused at +her consternation, there was mortification in his face. + +It required no great perspicuity, Madeline thought, to see that +Stillwell loved to talk, and the way he squared himself and spread his +huge hands over his knees suggested that he meant to do this opportunity +justice. + +“Miss Majesty, I reckon, bein’ as you’re in the West now, thet you must +take things as they come, an’ mind each thing a little less than the one +before. If we old fellers hedn’t been thet way we’d never hev lasted. + +“Last night wasn’t particular bad, ratin’ with some other nights lately. +There wasn’t much doin’. But, I had a hard knock. Yesterday when we +started in with a bunch of cattle I sent one of my cowboys, Danny Mains, +along ahead, carryin’ money I hed to pay off hands an’ my bills, an’ I +wanted thet money to get in town before dark. Wal, Danny was held up. +I don’t distrust the lad. There’s been strange Greasers in town lately, +an’ mebbe they knew about the money comin’. + +“Wal, when I arrived with the cattle I was some put to it to make ends +meet. An’ to-day I wasn’t in no angelic humor. When I hed my business +all done I went around pokin’ my nose beak an’ there, tryin’ to get +scent of thet money. An’ I happened in at a hall we hev thet does duty +fer’ jail an’ hospital an’ election-post an’ what not. Wal, just then +it was doin’ duty as a hospital. Last night was fiesta night—these +Greasers hev a fiesta every week or so—an’ one Greaser who hed been bad +hurt was layin’ in the hall, where he hed been fetched from the station. +Somebody hed sent off to Douglas fer a doctor, but be hedn’t come yet. +I’ve hed some experience with gunshot wounds, an’ I looked this +feller over. He wasn’t shot up much, but I thought there was danger of +blood-poison-in’. Anyway, I did all I could. + +“The hall was full of cowboys, ranchers, Greasers, miners, an’ town +folks, along with some strangers. I was about to get started up this way +when Pat Hawe come in. + +“Pat he’s the sheriff. I reckon, Miss Majesty, thet sheriffs are new to +you, an’ fer sake of the West I’ll explain to you thet we don’t hev many +of the real thing any more. Garrett, who killed Billy the Kid an’ was +killed himself near a year or so ago—he was the kind of sheriff thet +helps to make a self-respectin’ country. But this Pat Hawe—wal, I +reckon there’s no good in me sayin’ what I think of him. He come into +the hall, an’ he was roarin’ about things. He was goin’ to arrest Danny +Mains on sight. Wal, I jest polite-like told Pat thet the money was mine +an’ he needn’t get riled about it. An’ if I wanted to trail the thief +I reckon I could do it as well as anybody. Pat howled thet law was law, +an’ he was goin’ to lay down the law. Sure it ‘peared to me thet Pat was +daid set to arrest the first man he could find excuse to. + +“Then he cooled down a bit an’ was askin’ questions about the wounded +Greaser when Gene Stewart come in. Whenever Pat an’ Gene come together +it reminds me of the early days back in the ‘seventies. Jest naturally +everybody shut up. Fer Pat hates Gene, an’ I reckon Gene ain’t very +sweet on Pat. They’re jest natural foes in the first place, an’ then the +course of events here in El Cajon has been aggravatin’. + +“‘Hello, Stewart! You’re the feller I’m lookin’ fer,’ said Pat. + +“Stewart eyed him an’ said, mighty cool an’ sarcastic, ‘Hawe, you look a +good deal fer me when I’m hittin’ up the dust the other way.’ + +“Pat went red at thet, but he held in. ‘Say, Stewart, you-all think a +lot of thet roan horse of yourn, with the aristocratic name?’ + +“‘I reckon I do,’ replied Gene, shortly. + +“‘Wal, where is he?’ + +“‘Thet’s none of your business, Hawe.’ + +“‘Oho! it ain’t, hey? Wal, I guess I can make it my business. Stewart, +there was some queer goings-on last night thet you know somethin’ about. +Danny Mains robbed—Stillwell’s money gone—your roan horse gone—thet +little hussy Bonita gone—an’ this Greaser near gone, too. Now, seein’ +thet you was up late an’ prowlin’ round the station where this Greaser +was found, it ain’t onreasonable to think you might know how he got +plugged—is it?’ + +“Stewart laughed kind of cold, an’ he rolled a cigarette, all the time +eyin’ Pat, an’ then he said if he’d plugged the Greaser it ’d never hev +been sich a bunglin’ job. + +“‘I can arrest you on suspicion, Stewart, but before I go thet far +I want some evidence. I want to round up Danny Mains an’ thet little +Greaser girl. I want to find out what’s become of your hoss. You’ve +never lent him since you hed him, an’ there ain’t enough raiders across +the border to steal him from you. It’s got a queer look—thet hoss bein’ +gone.’ + +“‘You sure are a swell detective, Hawe, an’ I wish you a heap of luck,’ +replied Stewart. + +“Thet ‘peared to nettle Pat beyond bounds, an’ he stamped around an’ +swore. Then he had an idea. It jest stuck out all over him, an’ he shook +his finger in Stewart’s face. + +“‘You was drunk last night?’ + +“Stewart never batted an eye. + +“‘You met some woman on Number Eight, didn’t you?’ shouted Hawe. + +“‘I met a lady,’ replied Stewart, quiet an’ menacin’ like. + +“‘You met Al Hammond’s sister, an’ you took her up to Kingsley’s. An’ +cinch this, my cowboy cavalier, I’m goin’ up there an’ ask this grand +dame some questions, an’ if she’s as close-mouthed as you are I’ll +arrest her!’ + +“Gene Stewart turned white. I fer one expected to see him jump like +lightnin’, as he does when he’s riled sudden. But he was calm an’ he was +thinkin’ hard. Presently he said: + +“‘Pat, thet’s a fool idee, an’ if you do the trick it’ll hurt you all +the rest of your life. There’s absolutely no reason to frighten Miss +Hammond. An’ tryin’ to arrest her would be such a damned outrage as +won’t be stood fer in El Cajon. If you’re sore on me send me to jail. +I’ll go. If you want to hurt Al Hammond, go an’ do it some man kind of +way. Don’t take your spite out on us by insultin’ a lady who has come +hyar to hev a little visit. We’re bad enough without bein’ low-down as +Greasers.’ + +“It was a long talk for Gene, an’ I was as surprised as the rest of the +fellers. Think of Gene Stewart talkin’ soft an’ sweet to thet red-eyed +coyote of a sheriff! An’ Pat, he looked so devilishly gleeful thet +if somethin’ about Gene hedn’t held me tight I’d hev got in the game +myself. It was plain to me an’ others who spoke of it afterwards thet +Pat Hawe hed forgotten the law an’ the officer in the man an’ his hate. + +“‘I’m a-goin’, an’ I’m a-goin’ right now!’” he shouted. “An’ after thet +any one could hev heerd a clock tick a mile off. Stewart seemed kind +of chokin’, an’ he seemed to hev been bewildered by the idee of Hawe’s +confrontin’ you. + +“An’ finally he burst out: ‘But, man, think who it is! It’s Miss +Hammond! If you seen her, even if you was locoed or drunk, you—you +couldn’t do it.’ + +“‘Couldn’t I? Wal, I’ll show you damn quick. What do I care who she is? +Them swell Eastern women—I’ve heerd of them. They’re not so much. This +Hammond woman—’ + +“Suddenly Hawe shut up, an’ with his red mug turnin’ green he went for +his gun.” + +Stillwell paused in his narrative to get breath, and he wiped his moist +brow. And now his face began to lose its cragginess. It changed, it +softened, it rippled and wrinkled, and all that strange mobility focused +and shone in a wonderful smile. + +“An’ then, Miss Majesty, then there was somethin’ happened. Stewart took +Pat’s gun away from him and throwed it on the floor. An’ what followed +was beautiful. Sure it was the beautifulest sight I ever seen. Only it +was over so soon! A little while after, when the doctor came, he hed +another patient besides the wounded Greaser, an’ he said thet this new +one would require about four months to be up an’ around cheerful-like +again. An’ Gene Stewart hed hit the trail for the border.” + + + + +IV. A Ride From Sunrise To Sunset + + +Next morning, when Madeline was aroused by her brother, it was not yet +daybreak; the air chilled her, and in the gray gloom she had to feel +around for matches and lamp. Her usual languid manner vanished at a +touch of the cold water. Presently, when Alfred knocked on her door and +said he was leaving a pitcher of hot water outside, she replied, with +chattering teeth, “Th-thank y-you, b-but I d-don’t ne-need any now.” She +found it necessary, however, to warm her numb fingers before she could +fasten hooks and buttons. And when she was dressed she marked in the dim +mirror that there were tinges of red in her cheeks. + +“Well, if I haven’t some color!” she exclaimed. + +Breakfast waited for her in the dining-room. The sisters ate with her. +Madeline quickly caught the feeling of brisk action that seemed to be +in the air. From the back of the house sounded the tramp of boots and +voices of men, and from outside came a dull thump of hoofs, the rattle +of harness, and creak of wheels. Then Alfred came stamping in. + +“Majesty, here’s where you get the real thing,” he announced, merrily. +“We’re rushing you off, I’m sorry to say; but we must hustle back to +the ranch. The fall round-up begins to-morrow. You will ride in the +buck-board with Florence and Stillwell. I’ll ride on ahead with the boys +and fix up a little for you at the ranch. Your baggage will follow, but +won’t get there till to-morrow sometime. It’s a long ride out—nearly +fifty miles by wagon-road. Flo, don’t forget a couple of robes. Wrap her +up well. And hustle getting ready. We’re waiting.” + +A little later, when Madeline went out with Florence, the gray gloom was +lightening. Horses were champing bits and pounding gravel. + +“Mawnin’, Miss Majesty,” said Stillwell, gruffly, from the front seat of +a high vehicle. + +Alfred bundled her up into the back seat, and Florence after her, and +wrapped them with robes. Then he mounted his horse and started off. +“Gid-eb!” growled Stillwell, and with a crack of his whip the team +jumped into a trot. Florence whispered into Madeline’s ear: + +“Bill’s grouchy early in the mawnin’. He’ll thaw out soon as it gets +warm.” + +It was still so gray that Madeline could not distinguish objects at any +considerable distance, and she left El Cajon without knowing what the +town really looked like. She did know that she was glad to get out of +it, and found an easier task of dispelling persistent haunting memory. + +“Here come the cowboys,” said Florence. + +A line of horsemen appeared coming from the right and fell in behind +Alfred, and gradually they drew ahead, to disappear from sight. While +Madeline watched them the gray gloom lightened into dawn. All about her +was bare and dark; the horizon seemed close; not a hill nor a tree broke +the monotony. The ground appeared to be flat, but the road went up and +down over little ridges. Madeline glanced backward in the direction of +El Cajon and the mountains she had seen the day before, and she saw only +bare and dark ground, like that which rolled before. + +A puff of cold wind struck her face and she shivered. Florence noticed +her and pulled up the second robe and tucked it closely round her up to +her chin. + +“If we have a little wind you’ll sure feel it,” said the Western girl. + +Madeline replied that she already felt it. The wind appeared to +penetrate the robes. It was cold, pure, nipping. It was so thin she had +to breathe as fast as if she were under ordinary exertion. It hurt her +nose and made her lungs ache. + +“Aren’t you co-cold?” asked Madeline. + +“I?” Florence laughed. “I’m used to it. I never get cold.” + +The Western girl sat with ungloved hands on the outside of the robe she +evidently did not need to draw up around her. Madeline thought she had +never seen such a clear-eyed, healthy, splendid girl. + +“Do you like to see the sun rise?” asked Florence. + +“Yes, I think I do,” replied Madeline, thoughtfully. “Frankly, I have +not seen it for years.” + +“We have beautiful sunrises, and sunsets from the ranch are glorious.” + +Long lines of pink fire ran level with the eastern horizon, which +appeared to recede as day brightened. A bank of thin, fleecy clouds was +turning rose. To the south and west the sky was dark; but every moment +it changed, the blue turning bluer. The eastern sky was opalescent. Then +in one place gathered a golden light, and slowly concentrated till it +was like fire. The rosy bank of cloud turned to silver and pearl, and +behind it shot up a great circle of gold. Above the dark horizon gleamed +an intensely bright disk. It was the sun. It rose swiftly, blazing out +the darkness between the ridges and giving color and distance to the +sweep of land. + +“Wal, wal,” drawled Stillwell, and stretched his huge arms as if he had +just awakened, “thet’s somethin’ like.” + +Florence nudged Madeline and winked at her. + +“Fine mawnin’, girls,” went on old Bill, cracking his whip. “Miss +Majesty, it’ll be some oninterestin’ ride all mawnin’. But when we get +up a bit you’ll sure like it. There! Look to the southwest, jest over +thet farthest ridge.” + +Madeline swept her gaze along the gray, sloping horizon-line to where +dark-blue spires rose far beyond the ridge. + +“Peloncillo Mountains,” said Stillwell. “Thet’s home, when we get +there. We won’t see no more of them till afternoon, when they rise up +sudden-like.” + +Peloncillo! Madeline murmured the melodious name. Where had she heard +it? Then she remembered. The cowboy Stewart had told the little Mexican +girl Bonita to “hit the Peloncillo trail.” Probably the girl had ridden +the big, dark horse over this very road at night, alone. Madeline had a +little shiver that was not occasioned by the cold wind. + +“There’s a jack!” cried Florence, suddenly. + +Madeline saw her first jack-rabbit. It was as large as a dog, and its +ears were enormous. It appeared to be impudently tame, and the horses +kicked dust over it as they trotted by. From then on old Bill and +Florence vied with each other in calling Madeline’s attention to many +things along the way. Coyotes stealing away into the brush; buzzards +flapping over the carcass of a cow that had been mired in a wash; queer +little lizards running swiftly across the road; cattle grazing in the +hollows; adobe huts of Mexican herders; wild, shaggy horses, with heads +high, watching from the gray ridges—all these things Madeline looked +at, indifferently at first, because indifference had become habitual +with her, and then with an interest that flourished up and insensibly +grew as she rode on. It grew until sight of a little ragged Mexican boy +astride the most diminutive burro she had ever seen awakened her to +the truth. She became conscious of faint, unmistakable awakening of +long-dead feelings—enthusiasm and delight. When she realized that, she +breathed deep of the cold, sharp air and experienced an inward joy. And +she divined then, though she did not know why, that henceforth there was +to be something new in her life, something she had never felt before, +something good for her soul in the homely, the commonplace, the natural, +and the wild. + +Meanwhile, as Madeline gazed about her and listened to her companions, +the sun rose higher and grew warm and soared and grew hot; the horses +held tirelessly to their steady trot, and mile after mile of rolling +land slipped by. + +From the top of a ridge Madeline saw down into a hollow where a few of +the cowboys had stopped and were sitting round a fire, evidently busy at +the noonday meal. Their horses were feeding on the long, gray grass. + +“Wal, smell of thet burnin’ greasewood makes my mouth water,” said +Stillwell. “I’m sure hungry. We’ll noon hyar an’ let the hosses rest. +It’s a long pull to the ranch.” + +He halted near the camp-fire, and, clambering down, began to unharness +the team. Florence leaped out and turned to help Madeline. + +“Walk round a little,” she said. “You must be cramped from sitting still +so long. I’ll get lunch ready.” + +Madeline got down, glad to stretch her limbs, and began to stroll about. +She heard Stillwell throw the harness on the ground and slap his horses. +“Roll, you sons-of-guns!” he said. Both horses bent their fore legs, +heaved down on their sides, and tried to roll over. One horse succeeded +on the fourth try, and then heaved up with a satisfied snort and shook +off the dust and gravel. The other one failed to roll over, and gave it +up, half rose to his feet, and then lay down on the other side. + +“He’s sure going to feel the ground,” said Florence, smiling at +Madeline. “Miss Hammond, I suppose that prize horse of yours—White +Stockings—would spoil his coat if he were heah to roll in this +greasewood and cactus.” + +During lunch-time Madeline observed that she was an object of manifestly +great interest to the three cowboys. She returned the compliment, +and was amused to see that a glance their way caused them painful +embarrassment. They were grown men—one of whom had white hair—yet +they acted like boys caught in the act of stealing a forbidden look at a +pretty girl. + +“Cowboys are sure all flirts,” said Florence, as if stating an +uninteresting fact. But Madeline detected a merry twinkle in her clear +eyes. The cowboys heard, and the effect upon them was magical. They +fell to shamed confusion and to hurried useless tasks. Madeline found +it difficult to see where they had been bold, though evidently they were +stricken with conscious guilt. She recalled appraising looks of critical +English eyes, impudent French stares, burning Spanish glances—gantlets +which any American girl had to run abroad. Compared with foreign eyes +the eyes of these cowboys were those of smiling, eager babies. + +“Haw, haw!” roared Stillwell. “Florence, you jest hit the nail on the +haid. Cowboys are all plumb flirts. I was wonderin’ why them boys nooned +hyar. This ain’t no place to noon. Ain’t no grazin’ or wood wuth burnin’ +or nuthin’. Them boys jest held up, throwed the packs, an’ waited +fer us. It ain’t so surprisin’ fer Booly an’ Ned—they’re young an’ +coltish—but Nels there, why, he’s old enough to be the paw of both you +girls. It sure is amazin’ strange.” + +A silence ensued. The white-haired cowboy, Nels, fussed aimlessly over +the camp-fire, and then straightened up with a very red face. + +“Bill, you’re a dog-gone liar,” he said. “I reckon I won’t stand to be +classed with Booly an’ Ned. There ain’t no cowboy on this range thet’s +more appreciatin’ of the ladies than me, but I shore ain’t ridin’ out +of my way. I reckon I hev enough ridin’ to do. Now, Bill, if you’ve sich +dog-gone good eyes mebbe you seen somethin’ on the way out?” + +“Nels, I hevn’t seen nothin’,” he replied, bluntly. His levity +disappeared, and the red wrinkles narrowed round his searching eyes. + +“Jest take a squint at these hoss tracks,” said Nels, and he drew +Stillwell a few paces aside and pointed to large hoofprints in the dust. +“I reckon you know the hoss thet made them?” + +“Gene Stewart’s roan, or I’m a son-of-a-gun!” exclaimed Stillwell, and +he dropped heavily to his knees and began to scrutinize the tracks. “My +eyes are sure pore; but, Nels, they ain’t fresh.” + +“I reckon them tracks was made early yesterday mornin’.” + +“Wal, what if they was?” Stillwell looked at his cowboy. “It’s sure as +thet red nose of yourn Gene wasn’t ridin’ the roan.” + +“Who’s sayin’ he was? Bill, its more ’n your eyes thet’s gettin’ old. +Jest foller them tracks. Come on.” + +Stillwell walked slowly, with his head bent, muttering to himself. +Some thirty paces or more from the camp-fire he stopped short and again +flopped to his knees. Then he crawled about, evidently examining horse +tracks. + +“Nels, whoever was straddlin’ Stewart’s hoss met somebody. An’ they +hauled up a bit, but didn’t git down.” + +“Tolerable good for you, Bill, thet reasonin’,” replied the cowboy. + +Stillwell presently got up and walked swiftly to the left for some rods, +halted, and faced toward the southwest, then retraced his steps. He +looked at the imperturbable cowboy. + +“Nels, I don’t like this a little,” he growled. “Them tracks make +straight fer the Peloncillo trail.” + +“Shore,” replied Nels. + +“Wal?” went on Stillwell, impatiently. + +“I reckon you know what hoss made the other tracks?” + +“I’m thinkin’ hard, but I ain’t sure.” + +“It was Danny Mains’s bronc.” + +“How do you know thet?” demanded Stillwell, sharply. “Bill, the left +front foot of thet little hoss always wears a shoe thet sets crooked. +Any of the boys can tell you. I’d know thet track if I was blind.” + +Stillwell’s ruddy face clouded and he kicked at a cactus plant. + +“Was Danny comin’ or goin’?” he asked. + +“I reckon he was hittin’ across country fer the Peloncillo trail. But I +ain’t shore of thet without back-trailin’ him a ways. I was jest waitin’ +fer you to come up.” + +“Nels, you don’t think the boy’s sloped with thet little hussy, Bonita?” + +“Bill, he shore was sweet on Bonita, same as Gene was, an’ Ed Linton +before he got engaged, an’ all the boys. She’s shore chain-lightnin’, +that little black-eyed devil. Danny might hev sloped with her all right. +Danny was held up on the way to town, an’ then in the shame of it he got +drunk. But he’ll shew up soon.” + +“Wal, mebbe you an’ the boys are right. I believe you are. Nels, there +ain’t no doubt on earth about who was ridin’ Stewart’s hoss?” + +“Thet’s as plain as the hoss’s tracks.” + +“Wal, it’s all amazin’ strange. It beats me. I wish the boys would ease +up on drinkin’. I was pretty fond of Danny an’ Gene. I’m afraid Gene’s +done fer, sure. If he crosses the border where he can fight it won’t +take long fer him to get plugged. I guess I’m gettin’ old. I don’t stand +things like I used to.” + +“Bill, I reckon I’d better hit the Peloncillo trail. Mebbe I can find +Danny.” + +“I reckon you had, Nels,” replied Stillwell. “But don’t take more ’n a +couple of days. We can’t do much on the round-up without you. I’m short +of boys.” + +That ended the conversation. Stillwell immediately began to hitch up his +team, and the cowboys went out to fetch their strayed horses. Madeline +had been curiously interested, and she saw that Florence knew it. + +“Things happen, Miss Hammond,” she said, soberly, almost sadly. + +Madeline thought. And then straightway Florence began brightly to hum a +tune and to busy herself repacking what was left of the lunch. Madeline +conceived a strong liking and respect for this Western girl. She admired +the consideration or delicacy or wisdom—what-ever it was—which kept +Florence from asking her what she knew or thought or felt about the +events that had taken place. + +Soon they were once more bowling along the road down a gradual incline, +and then they began to climb a long ridge that had for hours hidden what +lay beyond. That climb was rather tiresome, owing to the sun and the +dust and the restricted view. + +When they reached the summit Madeline gave a little gasp of pleasure. A +deep, gray, smooth valley opened below and sloped up on the other side +in little ridges like waves, and these led to the foothills, dotted with +clumps of brush or trees, and beyond rose dark mountains, pine-fringed +and crag-spired. + +“Wal, Miss Majesty, now we’re gettin’ somewhere,” said Stillwell, +cracking his whip. “Ten miles across this valley an’ we’ll be in the +foothills where the Apaches used to run.” + +“Ten miles!” exclaimed Madeline. “It looks no more than half a mile to +me.” + +“Wal, young woman, before you go to ridin’ off alone you want to get +your eyes corrected to Western distance. Now, what’d you call them black +things off there on the slope?” + +“Horsemen. No, cattle,” replied Madeline, doubtfully. + +“Nope. Jest plain, every-day cactus. An’ over hyar—look down the +valley. Somethin’ of a pretty forest, ain’t thet?” he asked, pointing. + +Madeline saw a beautiful forest in the center of the valley toward the +south. + +“Wal, Miss Majesty, thet’s jest this deceivin’ air. There’s no forest. +It’s a mirage.” + +“Indeed! How beautiful it is!” Madeline strained her gaze on the dark +blot, and it seemed to float in the atmosphere, to have no clearly +defined margins, to waver and shimmer, and then it faded and vanished. + +The mountains dropped down again behind the horizon, and presently the +road began once more to slope up. The horses slowed to a walk. There was +a mile of rolling ridge, and then came the foothills. The road ascended +through winding valleys. Trees and brush and rocks began to appear in +the dry ravines. There was no water, yet all along the sandy washes were +indications of floods at some periods. The heat and the dust stifled +Madeline, and she had already become tired. Still she looked with all +her eyes and saw birds, and beautiful quail with crests, and rabbits, +and once she saw a deer. + +“Miss Majesty,” said Stillwell, “in the early days the Indians made this +country a bad one to live in. I reckon you never heerd much about them +times. Surely you was hardly born then. I’ll hev to tell you some day +how I fought Comanches in the Panhandle—thet was northern Texas—an’ I +had some mighty hair-raisin’ scares in this country with Apaches.” + +He told her about Cochise, chief of the Chiricahua Apaches, the most +savage and bloodthirsty tribe that ever made life a horror for the +pioneer. Cochise befriended the whites once; but he was the victim of +that friendliness, and he became the most implacable of foes. Then, +Geronimo, another Apache chief, had, as late as 1885, gone on the +war-path, and had left a bloody trail down the New Mexico and Arizona +line almost to the border. Lone ranchmen and cowboys had been killed, +and mothers had shot their children and then themselves at the approach +of the Apache. The name Apache curdled the blood of any woman of the +Southwest in those days. + +Madeline shuddered, and was glad when the old frontiersman changed +the subject and began to talk of the settling of that country by the +Spaniards, the legends of lost gold-mines handed down to the Mexicans, +and strange stories of heroism and mystery and religion. The Mexicans +had not advanced much in spite of the spread of civilization to the +Southwest. They were still superstitious, and believed the legends of +treasures hidden in the walls of their missions, and that unseen hands +rolled rocks down the gullies upon the heads of prospectors who dared to +hunt for the lost mines of the padres. + +“Up in the mountains back of my ranch there’s a lost mine,” said +Stillwell. “Mebbe it’s only a legend. But somehow I believe it’s there. +Other lost mines hev been found. An’ as fer’ the rollin’ stones, I sure +know thet’s true, as any one can find out if he goes trailin’ up the +gulch. Mebbe thet’s only the weatherin’ of the cliffs. It’s a sleepy, +strange country, this Southwest, an’, Miss Majesty, you’re a-goin’ to +love it. You’ll call it ro-mantic, Wal, I reckon ro-mantic is correct. A +feller gets lazy out hyar an’ dreamy, an’ he wants to put off work till +to-morrow. Some folks say it’s a land of manana—a land of to-morrow. +Thet’s the Mexican of it. + +“But I like best to think of what a lady said to me onct—an eddicated +lady like you, Miss Majesty. Wal, she said it’s a land where it’s always +afternoon. I liked thet. I always get up sore in the mawnin’s, an’ don’t +feel good till noon. But in the afternoon I get sorta warm an’ like +things. An’ sunset is my time. I reckon I don’t want nothin’ any finer +than sunset from my ranch. You look out over a valley that spreads wide +between Guadalupe Mountains an’ the Chiricahuas, down across the red +Arizona desert clear to the Sierra Madres in Mexico. Two hundred miles, +Miss Majesty! An’ all as clear as print! An’ the sun sets behind all +thet! When my time comes to die I’d like it to be on my porch smokin’ my +pipe an’ facin’ the west.” + +So the old cattleman talked on while Madeline listened, and Florence +dozed in her seat, and the sun began to wane, and the horses climbed +steadily. Presently, at the foot of the steep ascent, Stillwell got out +and walked, leading the team. During this long climb fatigue claimed +Madeline, and she drowsily closed her eyes, to find when she opened them +again that the glaring white sky had changed to a steel-blue. The sun +had sunk behind the foothills and the air was growing chilly. Stillwell +had returned to the driving-seat and was chuckling to the horses. +Shadows crept up out of the hollows. + +“Wal, Flo,” said Stillwell, “I reckon we’d better hev the rest of thet +there lunch before dark.” + +“You didn’t leave much of it,” laughed Florence, as she produced the +basket from under the seat. + +While they ate, the short twilight shaded and gloom filled the hollows. +Madeline saw the first star, a faint, winking point of light. The sky +had now changed to a hazy gray. Madeline saw it gradually clear and +darken, to show other faint stars. After that there was perceptible +deepening of the gray and an enlarging of the stars and a brightening of +new-born ones. Night seemed to come on the cold wind. Madeline was glad +to have the robes close around her and to lean against Florence. The +hollows were now black, but the tops of the foothills gleamed pale in +a soft light. The steady tramp of the horses went on, and the creak of +wheels and crunching of gravel. Madeline grew so sleepy that she could +not keep her weary eyelids from falling. There were drowsier spells in +which she lost a feeling of where she was, and these were disturbed by +the jolt of wheels over a rough place. Then came a blank interval, short +or long, which ended in a more violent lurch of the buckboard. Madeline +awoke to find her head on Florence’s shoulder. She sat up laughing and +apologizing for her laziness. Florence assured her they would soon reach +the ranch. + +Madeline observed then that the horses were once more trotting. The wind +was colder, the night darker, the foot-hills flatter. And the sky was +now a wonderful deep velvet-blue blazing with millions of stars. Some +of them were magnificent. How strangely white and alive! Again Madeline +felt the insistence of familiar yet baffling associations. These white +stars called strangely to her or haunted her. + + + + +V. The Round-Up + + +It was a crackling and roaring of fire that awakened Madeline next +morning, and the first thing she saw was a huge stone fireplace in which +lay a bundle of blazing sticks. Some one had kindled a fire while she +slept. For a moment the curious sensation of being lost returned to her. +She just dimly remembered reaching the ranch and being taken into a huge +house and a huge, dimly lighted room. And it seemed to her that she had +gone to sleep at once, and had awakened without remembering how she had +gotten to bed. + +But she was wide awake in an instant. The bed stood near one end of an +enormous chamber. The adobe walls resembled a hall in an ancient feudal +castle, stone-floored, stone-walled, with great darkened rafters running +across the ceiling. The few articles of furniture were worn out and +sadly dilapidated. Light flooded into the room from two windows on the +right of the fireplace and two on the left, and another large window +near the bedstead. Looking out from where she lay, Madeline saw a dark, +slow up-sweep of mountain. Her eyes returned to the cheery, snapping +fire, and she watched it while gathering courage to get up. The room was +cold. When she did slip her bare feet out upon the stone floor she very +quickly put them back under the warm blankets. And she was still in +bed trying to pluck up her courage when, with a knock on the door and a +cheerful greeting, Florence entered, carrying steaming hot water. + +“Good mawnin’, Miss Hammond. Hope you slept well. You sure were tired +last night. I imagine you’ll find this old rancho house as cold as a +barn. It’ll warm up directly. Al’s gone with the boys and Bill. We’re to +ride down on the range after a while when your baggage comes.” + +Florence wore a woolen blouse with a scarf round her neck, a +short corduroy divided skirt, and boots; and while she talked she +energetically heaped up the burning wood in the fireplace, and laid +Madeline’s clothes at the foot of the bed, and heated a rug and put that +on the floor by the bedside. And lastly, with a sweet, direct smile, she +said: + +“Al told me—and I sure saw myself—that you weren’t used to being +without your maid. Will you let me help you?” + +“Thank you, I am going to be my own maid for a while. I expect I do +appear a very helpless individual, but really I do not feel so. Perhaps +I have had just a little too much waiting on.” + +“All right. Breakfast will be ready soon, and after that we’ll look +about the place.” + +Madeline was charmed with the old Spanish house, and the more she saw of +it the more she thought what a delightful home it could be made. All +the doors opened into a courtyard, or patio, as Florence called it. The +house was low, in the shape of a rectangle, and so immense in size that +Madeline wondered if it had been a Spanish barracks. Many of the rooms +were dark, without windows, and they were empty. Others were full of +ranchers’ implements and sacks of grain and bales of hay. Florence +called these last alfalfa. The house itself appeared strong and well +preserved, and it was very picturesque. But in the living-rooms were +only the barest necessities, and these were worn out and comfortless. + +However, when Madeline went outdoors she forgot the cheerless, bare +interior. Florence led the way out on a porch and waved a hand at a +vast, colored void. “That’s what Bill likes,” she said. + +At first Madeline could not tell what was sky and what was land. The +immensity of the scene stunned her faculties of conception. She sat down +in one of the old rocking-chairs and looked and looked, and knew that +she was not grasping the reality of what stretched wondrously before +her. + +“We’re up at the edge of the foothills,” Florence said. “You remember we +rode around the northern end of the mountain range? Well, that’s behind +us now, and you look down across the line into Arizona and Mexico. That +long slope of gray is the head of the San Bernardino Valley. Straight +across you see the black Chiricahua Mountains, and away down to the +south the Guadalupe Mountains. That awful red gulf between is the +desert, and far, far beyond the dim, blue peaks are the Sierra Madres in +Mexico.” + +Madeline listened and gazed with straining eyes, and wondered if this +was only a stupendous mirage, and why it seemed so different from all +else that she had seen, and so endless, so baffling, so grand. + +“It’ll sure take you a little while to get used to being up high and +seeing so much,” explained Florence. “That’s the secret—we’re up high, +the air is clear, and there’s the whole bare world beneath us. Don’t +it somehow rest you? Well, it will. Now see those specks in the valley. +They are stations, little towns. The railroad goes down that way. The +largest speck is Chiricahua. It’s over forty miles by trail. Here round +to the north you can see Don Carlos’s rancho. He’s fifteen miles off, +and I sure wish he were a thousand. That little green square about +half-way between here and Don Carlos—that’s Al’s ranch. Just below us +are the adobe houses of the Mexicans. There’s a church, too. And here to +the left you see Stillwell’s corrals and bunk-houses and his stables all +falling to pieces. The ranch has gone to ruin. All the ranches are going +to ruin. But most of them are little one-horse affairs. And here—see +that cloud of dust down in the valley? It’s the round-up. The boys are +there, and the cattle. Wait, I’ll get the glasses.” + +By their aid Madeline saw in the foreground a great, dense herd of +cattle with dark, thick streams and dotted lines of cattle leading in +every direction. She saw streaks and clouds of dust, running horses, and +a band of horses grazing; and she descried horsemen standing still like +sentinels, and others in action. + +“The round-up! I want to know all about it—to see it,” declared +Madeline. “Please tell me what it means, what it’s for, and then take me +down there.” + +“It’s sure a sight, Miss Hammond. I’ll be glad to take you down, but I +fancy you’ll not want to go close. Few Eastern people who regularly eat +their choice cuts of roast beef and porterhouse have any idea of the +open range and the struggle cattle have to live and the hard life of +cowboys. It’ll sure open your eyes, Miss Hammond. I’m glad you care to +know. Your brother would have made a big success in this cattle business +if it hadn’t been for crooked work by rival ranchers. He’ll make it yet, +in spite of them.” + +“Indeed he shall,” replied Madeline. “But tell me, please, all about the +round-up.” + +“Well, in the first place, every cattleman has to have a brand to +identify his stock. Without it no cattleman, nor half a hundred cowboys, +if he had so many, could ever recognize all the cattle in a big herd. +There are no fences on our ranges. They are all open to everybody. Some +day I hope we’ll be rich enough to fence a range. The different herds +graze together. Every calf has to be caught, if possible, and branded +with the mark of its mother. That’s no easy job. A maverick is an +unbranded calf that has been weaned and shifts for itself. The maverick +then belongs to the man who finds it and brands it. These little calves +that lose their mothers sure have a cruel time of it. Many of them die. +Then the coyotes and wolves and lions prey on them. Every year we have +two big round-ups, but the boys do some branding all the year. A calf +should be branded as soon as it’s found. This is a safeguard against +cattle-thieves. We don’t have the rustling of herds and bunches of +cattle like we used to. But there’s always the calf-thief, and always +will be as long as there’s cattle-raising. The thieves have a good many +cunning tricks. They kill the calf’s mother or slit the calf’s tongue +so it can’t suck and so loses its mother. They steal and hide a calf +and watch it till it’s big enough to fare for itself, and then brand it. +They make imperfect brands and finish them at a later time. + +“We have our big round-up in the fall, when there’s plenty of grass and +water, and all the riding-stock as well as the cattle are in fine shape. +The cattlemen in the valley meet with their cowboys and drive in all the +cattle they can find. Then they brand and cut out each man’s herd +and drive it toward home. Then they go on up or down the valley, make +another camp, and drive in more cattle. It takes weeks. There are +so many Greasers with little bands of stock, and they are crafty and +greedy. Bill says he knows Greaser cowboys, vaqueros, who never owned +a steer or a cow, and now they’ve got growing herds. The same might be +said of more than one white cowboy. But there’s not as much of that as +there used to be.” + +“And the horses? I want to know about them,” said Madeline, when +Florence paused. + +“Oh, the cow-ponies! Well, they sure are interesting. Broncos, the boys +call them. Wild! they’re wilder than the steers they have to chase. +Bill’s got broncos heah that never have been broken and never will be. +And not every boy can ride them, either. The vaqueros have the finest +horses. Don Carlos has a black that I’d give anything to own. And he +has other fine stock. Gene Stewart’s big roan is a Mexican horse, the +swiftest and proudest I ever saw. I was up on him once and—oh, he can +run! He likes a woman, too, and that’s sure something I want in a horse. +I heard Al and Bill talking at breakfast about a horse for you. They +were wrangling. Bill wanted you to have one, and Al another. It was +funny to hear them. Finally they left the choice to me, until the +round-up is over. Then I suppose every cowboy on the range will offer +you his best mount. Come, let’s go out to the corrals and look over the +few horses left.” + +For Madeline the morning hours flew by, with a goodly part of the time +spent on the porch gazing out over that ever-changing vista. At noon +a teamster drove up with her trunks. Then while Florence helped the +Mexican woman get lunch Madeline unpacked part of her effects and got +out things for which she would have immediate need. After lunch she +changed her dress for a riding-habit and, going outside, found Florence +waiting with the horses. + +The Western girl’s clear eyes seemed to take stock of Madeline’s +appearance in one swift, inquisitive glance and then shone with +pleasure. + +“You sure look—you’re a picture, Miss Hammond. That riding-outfit is +a new one. What it ’d look like on me or another woman I can’t imagine, +but on you it’s—it’s stunning. Bill won’t let you go within a mile of +the cowboys. If they see you that’ll be the finish of the round-up.” + +While they rode down the slope Florence talked about the open ranges of +New Mexico and Arizona. + +“Water is scarce,” she said. “If Bill could afford to pipe water down +from the mountains he’d have the finest ranch in the valley.” + +She went on to tell that the climate was mild in winter and hot in +summer. Warm, sunshiny days prevailed nearly all the year round. Some +summers it rained, and occasionally there would be a dry year, the +dreaded ano seco of the Mexicans. Rain was always expected and prayed +for in the midsummer months, and when it came the grama-grass sprang +up, making the valleys green from mountain to mountain. The intersecting +valleys, ranging between the long slope of foothills, afforded the best +pasture for cattle, and these were jealously sought by the Mexicans +who had only small herds to look after. Stillwell’s cowboys were always +chasing these vaqueros off land that belonged to Stillwell. He owned +twenty thousand acres of unfenced land adjoining the open range. Don +Carlos possessed more acreage than that, and his cattle were always +mingling with Stillwell’s. And in turn Don Carlos’s vaqueros were always +chasing Stillwell’s cattle away from the Mexican’s watering-place. Bad +feeling had been manifested for years, and now relations were strained +to the breaking-point. + +As Madeline rode along she made good use of her eyes. The soil was +sandy and porous, and she understood why the rain and water from the +few springs disappeared so quickly. At a little distance the grama-grass +appeared thick, but near at hand it was seen to be sparse. Bunches of +greasewood and cactus plants were interspersed here and there in +the grass. What surprised Madeline was the fact that, though she and +Florence had seemed to be riding quite awhile, they had apparently not +drawn any closer to the round-up. The slope of the valley was noticeable +only after some miles had been traversed. Looking forward, Madeline +imagined the valley only a few miles wide. She would have been sure she +could walk her horse across it in an hour. Yet that black, bold range +of Chiricahua Mountains was distant a long day’s journey for even a +hard-riding cowboy. It was only by looking back that Madeline could +grasp the true relation of things; she could not be deceived by distance +she had covered. + +Gradually the black dots enlarged and assumed shape of cattle and horses +moving round a great dusty patch. In another half-hour Madeline rode +behind Florence to the outskirts of the scene of action. They drew rein +near a huge wagon in the neighborhood of which were more than a hundred +horses grazing and whistling and trotting about and lifting heads to +watch the new-comers. Four cowboys stood mounted guard over this drove +of horses. Perhaps a quarter of a mile farther out was a dusty melee. +A roar of tramping hoofs filled Madeline’s ears. The lines of marching +cattle had merged into a great, moving herd half obscured by dust. + +“I can make little of what is going on,” said Madeline. “I want to go +closer.” + +They trotted across half the intervening distance, and when Florence +halted again Madeline was still not satisfied and asked to be taken +nearer. This time, before they reined in again, Al Hammond saw them and +wheeled his horse in their direction. He yelled something which Madeline +did not understand, and then halted them. + +“Close enough,” he called; and in the din his voice was not very clear. +“It’s not safe. Wild steers! I’m glad you came, girls. Majesty, what do +you think of that bunch of cattle?” + +Madeline could scarcely reply what she thought, for the noise and dust +and ceaseless action confused her. + +“They’re milling, Al,” said Florence. + +“We just rounded them up. They’re milling, and that’s bad. The vaqueros +are hard drivers. They beat us all hollow, and we drove some, too.” He +was wet with sweat, black with dust, and out of breath. “I’m off now. +Flo, my sister will have enough of this in about two minutes. Take her +back to the wagon. I’ll tell Bill you’re here, and run in whenever I get +a minute.” + +The bawling and bellowing, the crackling of horns and pounding of hoofs, +the dusty whirl of cattle, and the flying cowboys disconcerted Madeline +and frightened her a little; but she was intensely interested and meant +to stay there until she saw for herself what that strife of sound and +action meant. When she tried to take in the whole scene she did not make +out anything clearly and she determined to see it little by little. + +“Will you stay longer?” asked Florence; and, receiving an affirmative +reply, she warned Madeline: “If a runaway steer or angry cow comes this +way let your horse go. He’ll get out of the way.” + +That lent the situation excitement, and Madeline became absorbed. The +great mass of cattle seemed to be eddying like a whirlpool, and from +that Madeline understood the significance of the range word “milling.” + But when Madeline looked at one end of the herd she saw cattle standing +still, facing outward, and calves cringing close in fear. The motion +of the cattle slowed from the inside of the herd to the outside and +gradually ceased. The roar and tramp of hoofs and crack of horns and +thump of heads also ceased in degree, but the bawling and bellowing +continued. While she watched, the herd spread, grew less dense, and +stragglers appeared to be about to bolt through the line of mounted +cowboys. + +From that moment so many things happened, and so swiftly, that Madeline +could not see a tenth of what was going on within eyesight. It seemed +horsemen darted into the herd and drove out cattle. Madeline pinned her +gaze on one cowboy who rode a white horse and was chasing a steer. He +whirled a lasso around his head and threw it; the rope streaked out +and the loop caught the leg of the steer. The white horse stopped with +wonderful suddenness, and the steer slid in the dust. Quick as a flash +the cowboy was out of the saddle, and, grasping the legs of the steer +before it could rise, he tied them with a rope. It had all been done +almost as quickly as thought. Another man came with what Madeline +divined was a branding-iron. He applied it to the flank of the steer. +Then it seemed the steer was up with a jump, wildly looking for some way +to run, and the cowboy was circling his lasso. Madeline saw fires in the +background, with a man in charge, evidently heating the irons. Then this +same cowboy roped a heifer which bawled lustily when the hot iron seared +its hide. Madeline saw the smoke rising from the touch of the iron, +and the sight made her shrink and want to turn away, but she resolutely +fought her sensitiveness. She had never been able to bear the sight of +any animal suffering. The rough work in men’s lives was as a sealed book +to her; and now, for some reason beyond her knowledge, she wanted to +see and hear and learn some of the every-day duties that made up those +lives. + +“Look, Miss Hammond, there’s Don Carlos!” said Florence. “Look at that +black horse!” + +Madeleine saw a dark-faced Mexican riding by. He was too far away for +her to distinguish his features, but he reminded her of an Italian +brigand. He bestrode a magnificent horse. + +Stillwell rode up to the girls then and greeted them in his big voice. + +“Right in the thick of it, hey? Wal, thet’s sure fine. I’m glad to see, +Miss Majesty, thet you ain’t afraid of a little dust or smell of burnin’ +hide an’ hair.” + +“Couldn’t you brand the calves without hurting them?” asked Madeline. + +“Haw, haw! Why, they ain’t hurt none. They jest bawl for their mammas. +Sometimes, though, we hev to hurt one jest to find which is his mamma.” + +“I want to know how you tell what brand to put on those calves that are +separated from their mothers,” asked Madeline. + +“Thet’s decided by the round-up bosses. I’ve one boss an’ Don Carlos +has one. They decide everything, an’ they hev to be obyed. There’s Nick +Steele, my boss. Watch him! He’s ridin’ a bay in among the cattle there. +He orders the calves an’ steers to be cut out. Then the cowboys do the +cuttin’ out an’ the brandin’. We try to divide up the mavericks as near +as possible.” + +At this juncture Madeline’s brother joined the group, evidently in +search of Stillwell. + +“Bill, Nels just rode in,” he said. + +“Good! We sure need him. Any news of Danny Mains?” + +“No. Nels said he lost the trail when he got on hard ground.” + +“Wal, wal. Say, Al, your sister is sure takin’ to the round-up. An’ the +boys are gettin’ wise. See thet sun-of-a-gun Ambrose cuttin’ capers +all around. He’ll sure do his prettiest. Ambrose is a ladies’ man, he +thinks.” + +The two men and Florence joined in a little pleasant teasing of +Madeline, and drew her attention to what appeared to be really +unnecessary feats of horsemanship all made in her vicinity. The cowboys +evinced their interest in covert glances while recoiling a lasso or +while passing to and fro. It was all too serious for Madeline to be +amused at that moment. She did not care to talk. She sat her horse and +watched. + +The lithe, dark vaqueros fascinated her. They were here, there, +everywhere, with lariats flying, horses plunging back, jerking calves +and yearlings to the grass. They were cruel to their mounts, cruel to +their cattle. Madeline winced as the great silver rowels of the spurs +went plowing into the flanks of their horses. She saw these spurs +stained with blood, choked with hair. She saw the vaqueros break the +legs of calves and let them lie till a white cowboy came along and shot +them. Calves were jerked down and dragged many yards; steers were pulled +by one leg. These vaqueros were the most superb horsemen Madeline had +ever seen, and she had seen the Cossacks and Tatars of the Russian +steppes. They were swift, graceful, daring; they never failed to catch +a running steer, and the lassoes always went true. What sharp dashes +the horses made, and wheelings here and there, and sudden stops, and how +they braced themselves to withstand the shock! + +The cowboys, likewise, showed wonderful horsemanship, and, reckless as +they were, Madeline imagined she saw consideration for steed and cattle +that was wanting in the vaqueros. They changed mounts oftener than the +Mexican riders, and the horses they unsaddled for fresh ones were not so +spent, so wet, so covered with lather. It was only after an hour or more +of observation that Madeline began to realize the exceedingly toilsome +and dangerous work cowboys had to perform. There was little or no rest +for them. They were continually among wild and vicious and wide-horned +steers. In many instances they owed their lives to their horses. The +danger came mostly when the cowboy leaped off to tie and brand a calf he +had thrown. Some of the cows charged with lowered, twisting horns. Time +and again Madeline’s heart leaped to her throat for fear a man would be +gored. One cowboy roped a calf that bawled loudly. Its mother dashed in +and just missed the kneeling cowboy as he rolled over. Then he had to +run, and he could not run very fast. He was bow-legged and appeared +awkward. Madeline saw another cowboy thrown and nearly run over by a +plunging steer. His horse bolted as if it intended to leave the range. +Then close by Madeline a big steer went down at the end of a lasso. +The cowboy who had thrown it nimbly jumped down, and at that moment his +horse began to rear and prance and suddenly to lower his head close to +the ground and kick high. He ran round in a circle, the fallen steer on +the taut lasso acting as a pivot. The cowboy loosed the rope from the +steer, and then was dragged about on the grass. It was almost frightful +for Madeline to see that cowboy go at his horse. But she recognized the +mastery and skill. Then two horses came into collision on the run. One +horse went down; the rider of the other was unseated and was kicked +before he could get up. This fellow limped to his mount and struck at +him, while the horse showed his teeth in a vicious attempt to bite. + +All the while this ceaseless activity was going on there was a strange +uproar—bawl and bellow, the shock of heavy bodies meeting and falling, +the shrill jabbering of the vaqueros, and the shouts and banterings of +the cowboys. They took sharp orders and replied in jest. They went about +this stern toil as if it were a game to be played in good humor. One +sang a rollicking song, another whistled, another smoked a cigarette. +The sun was hot, and they, like their horses, were dripping with sweat. +The characteristic red faces had taken on so much dust that cowboys +could not be distinguished from vaqueros except by the difference in +dress. Blood was not wanting on tireless hands. The air was thick, +oppressive, rank with the smell of cattle and of burning hide. + +Madeline began to sicken. She choked with dust, was almost stifled +by the odor. But that made her all the more determined to stay there. +Florence urged her to come away, or at least move back out of the +worst of it. Stillwell seconded Florence. Madeline, however, smilingly +refused. Then her brother said: “Here, this is making you sick. You’re +pale.” And she replied that she intended to stay until the day’s work +ended. Al gave her a strange look, and made no more comment. The kindly +Stillwell then began to talk. + +“Miss Majesty, you’re seein’ the life of the cattleman an’ cowboy—the +real thing—same as it was in the early days. The ranchers in Texas an’ +some in Arizona hev took on style, new-fangled idees thet are good, +an’ I wish we could follow them. But we’ve got to stick to the +old-fashioned, open-range round-up. It looks cruel to you, I can see +thet. Wal, mebbe so, mebbe so. Them Greasers are cruel, thet’s certain. +Fer thet matter, I never seen a Greaser who wasn’t cruel. But I reckon +all the strenuous work you’ve seen to-day ain’t any tougher than most +any day of a cowboy’s life. Long hours on hossback, poor grub, sleepin’ +on the ground, lonesome watches, dust an’ sun an’ wind an’ thirst, day +in an’ day out all the year round—thet’s what a cowboy has. + +“Look at Nels there. See, what little hair he has is snow-white. He’s +red an’ thin an’ hard—burned up. You notice thet hump of his shoulders. +An’ his hands, when he gets close—jest take a peep at his hands. Nels +can’t pick up a pin. He can’t hardly button his shirt or untie a knot in +his rope. He looks sixty years—an old man. Wal, Nels ‘ain’t seen forty. +He’s a young man, but he’s seen a lifetime fer every year. Miss Majesty, +it was Arizona thet made Nels what he is, the Arizona desert an’ the +work of a cowman. He’s seen ridin’ at Canyon Diablo an’ the Verdi an’ +Tonto Basin. He knows every mile of Aravaipa Valley an’ the Pinaleno +country. He’s ranged from Tombstone to Douglas. He hed shot bad white +men an’ bad Greasers before he was twenty-one. He’s seen some life, Nels +has. My sixty years ain’t nothin’; my early days in the Staked Plains +an’ on the border with Apaches ain’t nothin’ to what Nels has seen an’ +lived through. He’s just come to be part of the desert; you might say +he’s stone an’ fire an’ silence an’ cactus an’ force. He’s a man, Miss +Majesty, a wonderful man. Rough he’ll seem to you. Wal, I’ll show you +pieces of quartz from the mountains back of my ranch an’ they’re thet +rough they’d cut your hands. But there’s pure gold in them. An’ so it is +with Nels an’ many of these cowboys. + +“An’ there’s Price—Monty Price. Monty stands fer Montana, where he +hails from. Take a good look at him, Miss Majesty. He’s been hurt, I +reckon. Thet accounts fer him bein’ without hoss or rope; an’ thet limp. +Wal, he’s been ripped a little. It’s sure rare an seldom thet a cowboy +gets foul of one of them thousands of sharp horns; but it does happen.” + +Madeline saw a very short, wizened little man, ludicrously bow-legged, +with a face the color and hardness of a burned-out cinder. He was +hobbling by toward the wagon, and one of his short, crooked legs +dragged. + +“Not much to look at, is he?” went on Stillwell. “Wal; I know it’s +natural thet we’re all best pleased by good looks in any one, even a +man. It hedn’t ought to be thet way. Monty Price looks like hell. But +appearances are sure deceivin’. Monty saw years of ridin’ along the +Missouri bottoms, the big prairies, where there’s high grass an’ +sometimes fires. In Montana they have blizzards that freeze cattle +standin’ in their tracks. An’ hosses freeze to death. They tell me thet +a drivin’ sleet in the face with the mercury forty below is somethin’ to +ride against. You can’t get Monty to say much about cold. All you hev +to do is to watch him, how he hunts the sun. It never gets too hot fer +Monty. Wal, I reckon he was a little more prepossessin’ once. The story +thet come to us about Monty is this: He got caught out in a prairie fire +an’ could hev saved himself easy, but there was a lone ranch right in +the line of fire, an’ Monty knowed the rancher was away, an’ his wife +an’ baby was home. He knowed, too, the way the wind was, thet the +ranch-house would burn. It was a long chance he was takin’. But he went +over, put the woman up behind him, wrapped the baby an’ his hoss’s haid +in a wet blanket, an’ rode away. Thet was sure some ride, I’ve heerd. +But the fire ketched Monty at the last. The woman fell an’ was lost, +an’ then his hoss. An’ Monty ran an’ walked an’ crawled through the fire +with thet baby, an’ he saved it. Monty was never much good as a cowboy +after thet. He couldn’t hold no jobs. Wal, he’ll have one with me as +long as I have a steer left.” + + + + +VI. A Gift and A Purchase + + +For a week the scene of the round-up lay within riding-distance of +the ranch-house, and Madeline passed most of this time in the saddle, +watching the strenuous labors of the vaqueros and cowboys. She +overestimated her strength, and more than once had to be lifted from her +horse. Stillwell’s pleasure in her attendance gave place to concern. He +tried to persuade her to stay away from the round-up, and Florence grew +even more solicitous. + +Madeline, however, was not moved by their entreaties. She grasped only +dimly the truth of what it was she was learning—something infinitely +more than the rounding up of cattle by cowboys, and she was loath to +lose an hour of her opportunity. + +Her brother looked out for her as much as his duties permitted; but for +several days he never once mentioned her growing fatigue and the strain +of excitement, or suggested that she had better go back to the house +with Florence. Many times she felt the drawing power of his keen blue +eyes on her face. And at these moments she sensed more than brotherly +regard. He was watching her, studying her, weighing her, and the +conviction was vaguely disturbing. It was disquieting for Madeline to +think that Alfred might have guessed her trouble. From time to time +he brought cowboys to her and introduced them, and laughed and jested, +trying to make the ordeal less embarrassing for these men so little used +to women. + +Before the week was out, however, Alfred found occasion to tell her that +it would be wiser for her to let the round-up go on without gracing it +further with her presence. He said it laughingly; nevertheless, he was +serious. And when Madeline turned to him in surprise he said, bluntly: + +“I don’t like the way Don Carlos follows you around. Bill’s afraid +that Nels or Ambrose or one of the cowboys will take a fall out of the +Mexican. They’re itching for the chance. Of course, dear, it’s absurd to +you, but it’s true.” + +Absurd it certainly was, yet it served to show Madeline how intensely +occupied she had been with her own feelings, roused by the tumult and +toil of the round-up. She recalled that Don Carlos had been presented to +her, and that she had not liked his dark, striking face with its bold, +prominent, glittering eyes and sinister lines; and she had not liked his +suave, sweet, insinuating voice or his subtle manner, with its slow +bows and gestures. She had thought he looked handsome and dashing on +the magnificent black horse. However, now that Alfred’s words made her +think, she recalled that wherever she had been in the field the noble +horse, with his silver-mounted saddle and his dark rider, had been +always in her vicinity. + +“Don Carlos has been after Florence for a long time,” said Alfred. “He’s +not a young man by any means. He’s fifty, Bill says; but you can seldom +tell a Mexican’s age from his looks. Don Carlos is well educated and a +man we know very little about. Mexicans of his stamp don’t regard women +as we white men do. Now, my dear, beautiful sister from New York, I +haven’t much use for Don Carlos; but I don’t want Nels or Ambrose to +make a wild throw with a rope and pull the Don off his horse. So you had +better ride up to the house and stay there.” + +“Alfred, you are joking, teasing me,” said Madeline. “Indeed not,” + replied Alfred. “How about it, Flo?” Florence replied that the cowboys +would upon the slightest provocation treat Don Carlos with less ceremony +and gentleness than a roped steer. Old Bill Stillwell came up to be +importuned by Alfred regarding the conduct of cowboys on occasion, and +he not only corroborated the assertion, but added emphasis and evidence +of his own. + +“An’, Miss Majesty,” he concluded, “I reckon if Gene Stewart was ridin’ +fer me, thet grinnin’ Greaser would hev hed a bump in the dust before +now.” + +Madeline had been wavering between sobriety and laughter until +Stillwell’s mention of his ideal of cowboy chivalry decided in favor of +the laughter. + +“I am not convinced, but I surrender,” she said. “You have only some +occult motive for driving me away. I am sure that handsome Don Carlos +is being unjustly suspected. But as I have seen a little of cowboys’ +singular imagination and gallantry, I am rather inclined to fear their +possibilities. So good-by.” + +Then she rode with Florence up the long, gray slope to the ranch-house. +That night she suffered from excessive weariness, which she attributed +more to the strange working of her mind than to riding and sitting her +horse. Morning, however, found her in no disposition to rest. It was +not activity that she craved, or excitement, or pleasure. An unerring +instinct, rising dear from the thronging sensations of the last few +days, told her that she had missed something in life. It could not have +been love, for she loved brother, sister, parents, friends; it could not +have been consideration for the poor, the unfortunate, the hapless; she +had expressed her sympathy for these by giving freely; it could not have +been pleasure, culture, travel, society, wealth, position, fame, for +these had been hers all her life. Whatever this something was, she +had baffling intimations of it, hopes that faded on the verge of +realizations, haunting promises that were unfulfilled. Whatever it was, +it had remained hidden and unknown at home, and here in the West it +began to allure and drive her to discovery. Therefore she could not +rest; she wanted to go and see; she was no longer chasing phantoms; it +was a hunt for treasure that held aloof, as intangible as the substance +of dreams. + +That morning she spoke a desire to visit the Mexican quarters lying at +the base of the foothills. Florence protested that this was no place to +take Madeline. But Madeline insisted, and it required only a few words +and a persuading smile to win Florence over. + +From the porch the cluster of adobe houses added a picturesque touch of +color and contrast to the waste of gray valley. Near at hand they proved +the enchantment lent by distance. They were old, crumbling, broken down, +squalid. A few goats climbed around upon them; a few mangy dogs barked +announcement of visitors; and then a troop of half-naked, dirty, +ragged children ran out. They were very shy, and at first retreated in +affright. But kind words and smiles gained their confidence, and then +they followed in a body, gathering a quota of new children at each +house. Madeline at once conceived the idea of doing something to better +the condition of these poor Mexicans, and with this in mind she decided +to have a look indoors. She fancied she might have been an apparition, +judging from the effect her presence had upon the first woman she +encountered. While Florence exercised what little Spanish she had +command of, trying to get the women to talk, Madeline looked about the +miserable little rooms. And there grew upon her a feeling of sickness, +which increased as she passed from one house to another. She had not +believed such squalor could exist anywhere in America. The huts reeked +with filth; vermin crawled over the dirt floors. There was absolutely no +evidence of water, and she believed what Florence told her—that these +people never bathed. There was little evidence of labor. Idle men and +women smoking cigarettes lolled about, some silent, others jabbering. +They did not resent the visit of the American women, nor did they show +hospitality. They appeared stupid. Disease was rampant in these houses; +when the doors were shut there was no ventilation, and even with the +doors open Madeline felt choked and stifled. A powerful penetrating odor +pervaded the rooms that were less stifling than others, and this odor +Florence explained came from a liquor the Mexicans distilled from +a cactus plant. Here drunkenness was manifest, a terrible inert +drunkenness that made its victims deathlike. + +Madeline could not extend her visit to the little mission-house. She saw +a padre, a starved, sad-faced man who, she instinctively felt, was +good. She managed to mount her horse and ride up to the house; but, once +there, she weakened and Florence had almost to carry her in-doors. She +fought off a faintness, only to succumb to it when alone in her room. +Still, she did not entirely lose consciousness, and soon recovered to +the extent that she did not require assistance. + +Upon the morning after the end of the round-up, when she went out on +the porch, her brother and Stillwell appeared to be arguing about the +identity of a horse. + +“Wal, I reckon it’s my old roan,” said Stillwell, shading his eyes with +his hand. + +“Bill, if that isn’t Stewart’s horse my eyes are going back on me,” + replied Al. “It’s not the color or shape—the distance is too far to +judge by that. It’s the motion—the swing.” + +“Al, mebbe you’re right. But they ain’t no rider up on thet hoss. Flo, +fetch my glass.” + +Florence went into the house, while Madeline tried to discover the +object of attention. Presently far up the gray hollow along a foothill +she saw dust, and then the dark, moving figure of a horse. She was +watching when Florence returned with the glass. Bill took a long look, +adjusted the glasses carefully, and tried again. + +“Wal, I hate to admit my eyes are gettin’ pore. But I guess I’ll hev to. +Thet’s Gene Stewart’s hoss, saddled, an’ comin’ at a fast clip without +a rider. It’s amazin’ strange, an’ some in keepin’ with other things +concernin’ Gene.” + +“Give me the glass,” said Al. “Yes, I was right. Bill, the horse is not +frightened. He’s coming steadily; he’s got something on his mind.” + +“Thet’s a trained hoss, Al. He has more sense than some men I know. Take +a look with the glasses up the hollow. See anybody?” + +“No.” + +“Swing up over the foothills—where the trail leads. Higher—along thet +ridge where the rocks begin. See anybody?” + +“By Jove! Bill—two horses! But I can’t make out much for dust. They are +climbing fast. One horse gone among the rocks. There—the other’s gone. +What do you make of that?” + +“Wal, I can’t make no more ’n you. But I’ll bet we know somethin’ soon, +fer Gene’s hoss is comin’ faster as he nears the ranch.” + +The wide hollow sloping up into the foothills lay open to unobstructed +view, and less than half a mile distant Madeline saw the riderless +horse coming along the white trail at a rapid canter. She watched him, +recalling the circumstances under which she had first seen him, and then +his wild flight through the dimly lighted streets of El Cajon out into +the black night. She thrilled again and believed she would never think +of that starry night’s adventure without a thrill. She watched the horse +and felt more than curiosity. A shrill, piercing whistle pealed in. + +“Wal, he’s seen us, thet’s sure,” said Bill. + +The horse neared the corrals, disappeared into a lane, and then, +breaking his gait again, thundered into the inclosure and pounded to a +halt some twenty yards from where Stillwell waited for him. + +One look at him at close range in the clear light of day was enough +for Madeline to award him a blue ribbon over all horses, even her +prize-winner, White Stockings. The cowboy’s great steed was no lithe, +slender-bodied mustang. He was a charger, almost tremendous of build, +with a black coat faintly mottled in gray, and it shone like polished +glass in the sun. Evidently he had been carefully dressed down for this +occasion, for there was no dust on him, nor a kink in his beautiful +mane, nor a mark on his glossy hide. + +“Come hyar, you son-of-a-gun,” said Stillwell. + +The horse dropped his head, snorted, and came obediently up. He was +neither shy nor wild. He poked a friendly nose at Stillwell, and then +looked at Al and the women. Unhooking the stirrups from the pommel, +Stillwell let them fall and began to search the saddle for something +which he evidently expected to find. Presently from somewhere among the +trappings he produced a folded bit of paper, and after scrutinizing it +handed it to Al. + +“Addressed to you; an’ I’ll bet you two bits I know what’s in it,” he +said. + +Alfred unfolded the letter, read it, and then looked at Stillwell. + +“Bill, you’re a pretty good guesser. Gene’s made for the border. He sent +the horse by somebody, no names mentioned, and wants my sister to have +him if she will accept.” + +“Any mention of Danny Mains?” asked the rancher. + +“Not a word.” + +“Thet’s bad. Gene’d know about Danny if anybody did. But he’s a +close-mouthed cuss. So he’s sure hittin’ for Mexico. Wonder if Danny’s +goin’, too? Wal, there’s two of the best cowmen I ever seen gone to hell +an’ I’m sorry.” + +With that he bowed his head and, grumbling to himself, went into the +house. Alfred lifted the reins over the head of the horse and, leading +him to Madeline, slipped the knot over her arm and placed the letter in +her hand. + +“Majesty, I’d accept the horse,” he said. “Stewart is only a cowboy now, +and as tough as any I’ve known. But he comes of a good family. He was a +college man and a gentleman once. He went to the bad out here, like so +many fellows go, like I nearly did. Then he had told me about his sister +and mother. He cared a good deal for them. I think he has been a source +of unhappiness to them. It was mostly when he was reminded of this in +some way that he’d get drunk. I have always stuck to him, and I would do +so yet if I had the chance. You can see Bill is heartbroken about Danny +Mains and Stewart. I think he rather hoped to get good news. There’s +not much chance of them coming back now, at least not in the case of +Stewart. This giving up his horse means he’s going to join the rebel +forces across the border. What wouldn’t I give to see that cowboy break +loose on a bunch of Greasers! Oh, damn the luck! I beg your pardon, +Majesty. But I’m upset, too. I’m sorry about Stewart. I liked him +pretty well before he thrashed that coyote of a sheriff, Pat Hawe, and +afterward I guess I liked him more. You read the letter, sister, and +accept the horse.” + +In silence Madeline bent her gaze from her brother’s face to the letter: + +Friend Al,—I’m sending my horse down to you because I’m going away and +haven’t the nerve to take him where he’d get hurt or fall into strange +hands. + +If you think it’s all right, why, give him to your sister with my +respects. But if you don’t like the idea, Al, or if she won’t have him, +then he’s for you. I’m not forgetting your kindness to me, even if I +never showed it. And, Al, my horse has never felt a quirt or a spur, and +I’d like to think you’d never hurt him. I’m hoping your sister will take +him. She’ll be good to him, and she can afford to take care of him. And, +while I’m waiting to be plugged by a Greaser bullet, if I happen to have +a picture in mind of how she’ll look upon my horse, why, man, it’s not +going to make any difference to you. She needn’t ever know it. Between +you and me, Al, don’t let her or Flo ride alone over Don Carlos’s way. +If I had time I could tell you something about that slick Greaser. And +tell your sister, if there’s ever any reason for her to run away from +anybody when she’s up on that roan, just let her lean over and yell in +his ear. She’ll find herself riding the wind. So long. + +Gene Stewart. + + +Madeline thoughtfully folded the letter and murmured, “How he must love +his horse!” + +“Well, I should say so,” replied Alfred. “Flo will tell you. She’s the +only person Gene ever let ride that horse, unless, as Bill thinks, the +little Mexican girl, Bonita, rode him out of El Cajon the other night. +Well, sister mine, how about it—will you accept the horse?” + +“Assuredly. And very happy indeed am I to get him. Al, you said, I +think, that Mr. Stewart named him after me—saw my nickname in the New +York paper?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, I will not change his name. But, Al, how shall I ever climb up +on him? He’s taller than I am. What a giant of a horse! Oh, look at +him—he’s nosing my hand. I really believe he understood what I said. +Al, did you ever see such a splendid head and such beautiful eyes? They +are so large and dark and soft—and human. Oh, I am a fickle woman, for +I am forgetting White Stockings.” + +“I’ll gamble he’ll make you forget any other horse,” said Alfred. +“You’ll have to get on him from the porch.” + +As Madeline was not dressed for the saddle, she did not attempt to +mount. + +“Come, Majesty—how strange that sounds!—we must get acquainted. You +have now a new owner, a very severe young woman who will demand loyalty +from you and obedience, and some day, after a decent period, she will +expect love.” + +Madeline led the horse to and fro, and was delighted with his +gentleness. She discovered that he did not need to be led. He came at +her call, followed her like a pet dog, rubbed his black muzzle against +her. Sometimes, at the turns in their walk, he lifted his head and with +ears forward looked up the trail by which he had come, and beyond the +foothills. He was looking over the range. Some one was calling to him, +perhaps, from beyond the mountains. Madeline liked him the better for +that memory, and pitied the wayward cowboy who had parted with his only +possession for very love of it. + +That afternoon when Alfred lifted Madeline to the back of the big roan +she felt high in the air. + +“We’ll have a run out to the mesa,” said her brother, as he mounted. +“Keep a tight rein on him and ease up when you want him to go faster. +But don’t yell in his ear unless you want Florence and me to see you +disappear on the horizon.” + +He trotted out of the yard, down by the corrals, to come out on the +edge of a gray, open flat that stretched several miles to the slope of a +mesa. Florence led, and Madeline saw that she rode like a cowboy. Alfred +drew on to her side, leaving Madeline in the rear. Then the leading +horses broke into a gallop. They wanted to run, and Madeline felt with a +thrill that she would hardly be able to keep Majesty from running, even +if she wanted to. He sawed on the tight bridle as the others drew away +and broke from pace to gallop. Then Florence put her horse into a run. +Alfred turned and called to Madeline to come along. + +“This will never do. They are running away from us,” said Madeline, and +she eased up her hold on the bridle. Something happened beneath her just +then; she did not know at first exactly what. As much as she had been on +horseback she had never ridden at a running gait. In New York it was not +decorous or safe. So when Majesty lowered and stretched and changed the +stiff, jolting gallop for a wonderful, smooth, gliding run it required +Madeline some moments to realize what was happening. It did not take +long for her to see the distance diminishing between her and her +companions. Still they had gotten a goodly start and were far advanced. +She felt the steady, even rush of the wind. It amazed her to find how +easily, comfortably she kept to the saddle. The experience was new. +The one fault she had heretofore found with riding was the violent +shaking-up. In this instance she experienced nothing of that kind, no +strain, no necessity to hold on with a desperate awareness of work. She +had never felt the wind in her face, the whip of a horse’s mane, the +buoyant, level spring of a tanning gait. It thrilled her, exhilarated +her, fired her blood. Suddenly she found herself alive, throbbing; and, +inspired by she knew not what, she loosened the bridle and, leaning far +forward, she cried, “Oh, you splendid fellow, run!” + +She heard from under her a sudden quick clattering roar of hoofs, and +she swayed back with the wonderfully swift increase in Majesty’s speed. +The wind stung her face, howled in her ears, tore at her hair. The gray +plain swept by on each side, and in front seemed to be waving toward +her. In her blurred sight Florence and Alfred appeared to be coming +back. But she saw presently, upon nearer view, that Majesty was +overhauling the other horses, was going to pass them. Indeed, he did +pass them, shooting by so as almost to make them appear standing still. +And he ran on, not breaking his gait till he reached the steep side of +the mesa, where he slowed down and stopped. + +“Glorious!” exclaimed Madeline. She was all in a blaze, and every muscle +and nerve of her body tingled and quivered. Her hands, as she endeavored +to put up the loosened strands of hair, trembled and failed of +their accustomed dexterity. Then she faced about and waited for her +companions. + +Alfred reached her first, laughing, delighted, yet also a little +anxious. + +“Holy smoke! But can’t he run? Did he bolt on you?” + +“No, I called in his ear,” replied Madeline. + +“So that was it. That’s the woman of you, and forbidden fruit. Flo said +she’d do it the minute she was on him. Majesty, you can ride. See if Flo +doesn’t say so.” + +The Western girl came up then with her pleasure bright in her face. + +“It was just great to see you. How your hair burned in the wind! Al, she +sure can ride. Oh, I’m so glad! I was a little afraid. And that horse! +Isn’t he grand? Can’t he run?” + +Alfred led the way up the steep, zigzag trail to the top of the mesa. +Madeline saw a beautiful flat surface of short grass, level as a floor. +She uttered a little cry of wonder and enthusiasm. + +“Al, what a place for golf! This would be the finest links in the +world.” + +“Well, I’ve thought of that myself,” he replied. “The only trouble would +be—could anybody stop looking at the scenery long enough to hit a ball? +Majesty, look!” + +And then it seemed that Madeline was confronted by a spectacle too +sublime and terrible for her gaze. The immensity of this red-ridged, +deep-gulfed world descending incalculable distances refused to be +grasped, and awed her, shocked her. + +“Once, Majesty, when I first came out West, I was down and +out—determined to end it all,” said Alfred. “And happened to climb up +here looking for a lonely place to die. When I saw that I changed my +mind.” + +Madeline was silent. She remained so during the ride around the rim of +the mesa and down the steep trail. This time Alfred and Florence failed +to tempt her into a race. She had been awe-struck; she had been exalted +she had been confounded; and she recovered slowly without divining +exactly what had come to her. + +She reached the ranch-house far behind her companions, and at +supper-time was unusually thoughtful. Later, when they assembled on the +porch to watch the sunset, Stillwell’s humorous complainings inspired +the inception of an idea which flashed up in her mind swift as +lightning. And then by listening sympathetically she encouraged him to +recite the troubles of a poor cattleman. They were many and long and +interesting, and rather numbing to the life of her inspired idea. + +“Mr. Stillwell, could ranching here on a large scale, with up-to-date +methods, be made—well, not profitable, exactly, but to pay—to run +without loss?” she asked, determined to kill her new-born idea at birth +or else give it breath and hope of life. + +“Wal, I reckon it could,” he replied, with a short laugh. “It’d sure be +a money-maker. Why, with all my bad luck an’ poor equipment I’ve lived +pretty well an’ paid my debts an’ haven’t really lost any money except +the original outlay. I reckon thet’s sunk fer good.” + +“Would you sell—if some one would pay your price?” + +“Miss Majesty, I’d jump at the chance. Yet somehow I’d hate to leave +hyar. I’d jest be fool enough to go sink the money in another ranch.” + +“Would Don Carlos and these other Mexicans sell?” + +“They sure would. The Don has been after me fer years, wantin’ to sell +thet old rancho of his; an’ these herders in the valley with their stray +cattle, they’d fall daid at sight of a little money.” + +“Please tell me, Mr. Stillwell, exactly what you would do here if you +had unlimited means?” went on Madeline. + +“Good Lud!” ejaculated the rancher, and started so he dropped his pipe. +Then with his clumsy huge fingers he refilled it, relighted it, took a +few long pulls, puffed great clouds of smoke, and, squaring round, hands +on his knees, he looked at Madeline with piercing intentness. His hard +face began to relax and soften and wrinkle into a smile. + +“Wal, Miss Majesty, it jest makes my old heart warm up to think of sich +a thing. I dreamed a lot when I first come hyar. What would I do if I +hed unlimited money? Listen. I’d buy out Don Carlos an’ the Greasers. +I’d give a job to every good cowman in this country. I’d make them +prosper as I prospered myself. I’d buy all the good horses on the +ranges. I’d fence twenty thousand acres of the best grazin’. I’d drill +fer water in the valley. I’d pipe water down from the mountains. I’d dam +up that draw out there. A mile-long dam from hill to hill would give me +a big lake, an’ hevin’ an eye fer beauty, I’d plant cottonwoods around +it. I’d fill that lake full of fish. I’d put in the biggest field of +alfalfa in the Southwest. I’d plant fruit-trees an’ garden. I’d tear +down them old corrals an’ barns an’ bunk-houses to build new ones. I’d +make this old rancho some comfortable an’ fine. I’d put in grass an’ +flowers all around an’ bring young pine-trees down from the mountains. +An’ when all thet was done I’d sit in my chair an’ smoke an’ watch the +cattle stringin’ in fer water an’ stragglin’ back into the valley. An’ +I see the cowboys ridin’ easy an’ heah them singin’ in their bunks. An’ +thet red sun out there wouldn’t set on a happier man in the world than +Bill Stillwell, last of the old cattlemen.” + +Madeline thanked the rancher, and then rather abruptly retired to her +room, where she felt no restraint to hide the force of that wonderful +idea, now full-grown and tenacious and alluring. + +Upon the next day, late in the afternoon, she asked Alfred if it would +be safe for her to ride out to the mesa. + +“I’ll go with you,” he said, gaily. + +“Dear fellow, I want to go alone,” she replied. + +“Ah!” Alfred exclaimed, suddenly serious. He gave her just a quick +glance, then turned away. “Go ahead. I think it’s safe. I’ll make it +safe by sitting here with my glass and keeping an eye on you. Be careful +coming down the trail. Let the horse pick his way. That’s all.” + +She rode Majesty across the wide flat, up the zigzag trail, across the +beautiful grassy level to the far rim of the mesa, and not till then did +she lift her eyes to face the southwest. + +Madeline looked from the gray valley at her feet to the blue Sierra +Madres, gold-tipped in the setting sun. Her vision embraced in that +glance distance and depth and glory hitherto unrevealed to her. The gray +valley sloped and widened to the black sentinel Chiricahuas, and beyond +was lost in a vast corrugated sweep of earth, reddening down to the +west, where a golden blaze lifted the dark, rugged mountains into bold +relief. The scene had infinite beauty. But after Madeline’s first swift, +all-embracing flash of enraptured eyes, thought of beauty passed away. +In that darkening desert there was something illimitable. Madeline saw +the hollow of a stupendous hand; she felt a mighty hold upon her heart. +Out of the endless space, out of silence and desolation and mystery and +age, came slow-changing colored shadows, phantoms of peace, and they +whispered to Madeline. They whispered that it was a great, grim, +immutable earth; that time was eternity; that life was fleeting. They +whispered for her to be a woman; to love some one before it was too +late; to love any one, every one; to realize the need of work, and in +doing it to find happiness. + +She rode back across the mesa and down the trail, and, once more upon +the flat, she called to the horse and made him run. His spirit seemed to +race with hers. The wind of his speed blew her hair from its fastenings. +When he thundered to a halt at the porch steps Madeline, breathless and +disheveled, alighted with the mass of her hair tumbling around her. + +Alfred met her, and his exclamation, and Florence’s rapt eyes shining +on her face, and Stillwell’s speechlessness made her self-conscious. +Laughing, she tried to put up the mass of hair. + +“I must—look a—fright,” she panted. + +“Wal, you can say what you like,” replied the old cattleman, “but I know +what I think.” + +Madeline strove to attain calmness. + +“My hat—and my combs—went on the wind. I thought my hair would go, +too.... There is the evening star.... I think I am very hungry.” + +And then she gave up trying to be calm, and likewise to fasten up her +hair, which fell again in a golden mass. + +“Mr. Stillwell,” she began, and paused, strangely aware of a hurried +note, a deeper ring in her voice. “Mr. Stillwell, I want to buy your +ranch—to engage you as my superintendent. I want to buy Don Carlos’s +ranch and other property to the extent, say, of fifty thousand acres. +I want you to buy horses and cattle—in short, to make all those +improvements which you said you had so long dreamed of. Then I have +ideas of my own, in the development of which I must have your advice and +Alfred’s. I intend to better the condition of those poor Mexicans in the +valley. I intend to make life a little more worth living for them and +for the cowboys of this range. To-morrow we shall talk it all over, plan +all the business details.” + +Madeline turned from the huge, ever-widening smile that beamed down upon +her and held out her hands to her brother. + +“Alfred, strange, is it not, my coming out to you? Nay, don’t smile. I +hope I have found myself—my work—my happiness—here under the light of +that western star.” + + + + +VII. Her Majesty’s Rancho + + +FIVE months brought all that Stillwell had dreamed of, and so many more +changes and improvements and innovations that it was as if a magic touch +had transformed the old ranch. Madeline and Alfred and Florence had +talked over a fitting name, and had decided on one chosen by Madeline. +But this instance was the only one in the course of developments in +which Madeline’s wishes were not compiled with. The cowboys named the +new ranch “Her Majesty’s Rancho.” Stillwell said the names cowboys +bestowed were felicitous, and as unchangeable as the everlasting hills; +Florence went over to the enemy; and Alfred, laughing at Madeline’s +protest, declared the cowboys had elected her queen of the ranges, and +that there was no help for it. So the name stood “Her Majesty’s Rancho.” + +The April sun shone down upon a slow-rising green knoll that nestled in +the lee of the foothills, and seemed to center bright rays upon the long +ranch-house, which gleamed snow-white from the level summit. The grounds +around the house bore no semblance to Eastern lawns or parks; there had +been no landscape-gardening; Stillwell had just brought water and grass +and flowers and plants to the knoll-top, and there had left them, as it +were, to follow nature. His idea may have been crude, but the result +was beautiful. Under that hot sun and balmy air, with cool water daily +soaking into the rich soil, a green covering sprang into life, and +everywhere upon it, as if by magic, many colored flowers rose in the +sweet air. Pale wild flowers, lavender daisies, fragile bluebells, white +four-petaled lilies like Eastern mayflowers, and golden poppies, deep +sunset gold, color of the West, bloomed in happy confusion. California +roses, crimson as blood, nodded heavy heads and trembled with the weight +of bees. Low down in bare places, isolated, open to the full power of +the sun, blazed the vermilion and magenta blossoms of cactus plants. + +Green slopes led all the way down to where new adobe barns and sheds had +been erected, and wide corrals stretched high-barred fences down to the +great squares of alfalfa gently inclining to the gray of the valley. The +bottom of a dammed-up hollow shone brightly with its slowly increasing +acreage of water, upon which thousands of migratory wildfowl whirred and +splashed and squawked, as if reluctant to leave this cool, wet surprise +so new in the long desert journey to the northland. Quarters for the +cowboys—comfortable, roomy adobe houses that not even the lamest cowboy +dared describe as crampy bunks—stood in a row upon a long bench of +ground above the lake. And down to the edge of the valley the cluster of +Mexican habitations and the little church showed the touch of the same +renewing hand. + + +All that had been left of the old Spanish house which had been +Stillwell’s home for so long was the bare, massive structure, and +some of this had been cut away for new doors and windows. Every modern +convenience, even to hot and cold running water and acetylene light, +had been installed; and the whole interior painted and carpentered and +furnished. The ideal sought had not been luxury, but comfort. Every door +into the patio looked out upon dark, rich grass and sweet-faced flowers, +and every window looked down the green slopes. + +Madeline’s rooms occupied the west end of the building and comprised +four in number, all opening out upon the long porch. There was a +small room for her maid, another which she used as an office, then her +sleeping-apartment; and, lastly, the great light chamber which she had +liked so well upon first sight, and which now, simply yet beautifully +furnished and containing her favorite books and pictures, she had come +to love as she had never loved any room at home. In the morning the +fragrant, balmy air blew the white curtains of the open windows; at +noon the drowsy, sultry quiet seemed to creep in for the siesta that was +characteristic of the country; in the afternoon the westering sun peeped +under the porch roof and painted the walls with gold bars that slowly +changed to red. + +Madeline Hammond cherished a fancy that the transformation she had +wrought in the old Spanish house and in the people with whom she had +surrounded herself, great as that transformation had been, was as +nothing compared to the one wrought in herself. She had found an object +in life. She was busy, she worked with her hands as well as mind, yet +she seemed to have more time to read and think and study and idle +and dream than ever before. She had seen her brother through his +difficulties, on the road to all the success and prosperity that he +cared for. Madeline had been a conscientious student of ranching and an +apt pupil of Stillwell. The old cattleman, in his simplicity, gave her +the place in his heart that was meant for the daughter he had never had. +His pride in her, Madeline thought, was beyond reason or belief or +words to tell. Under his guidance, sometimes accompanied by Alfred and +Florence, Madeline had ridden the ranges and had studied the life and +work of the cowboys. She had camped on the open range, slept under the +blinking stars, ridden forty miles a day in the face of dust and wind. +She had taken two wonderful trips down into the desert—one trip to +Chiricahua, and from there across the waste of sand and rock and alkali +and cactus to the Mexican borderline; and the other through the Aravaipa +Valley, with its deep, red-walled canyons and wild fastnesses. + +This breaking-in, this training into Western ways, though she had been +a so-called outdoor girl, had required great effort and severe pain; but +the education, now past its grades, had become a labor of love. She +had perfect health, abounding spirits. She was so active hat she had to +train herself into taking the midday siesta, a custom of the country +and imperative during the hot summer months. Sometimes she looked in +her mirror and laughed with sheer joy at sight of the lithe, audacious, +brown-faced, flashing-eyed creature reflected there. It was not so much +joy in her beauty as sheer joy of life. Eastern critics had been wont to +call her beautiful in those days when she had been pale and slender and +proud and cold. She laughed. If they could only see her now! From the +tip of her golden head to her feet she was alive, pulsating, on fire. + +Sometimes she thought of her parents, sister, friends, of how they had +persistently refused to believe she could or would stay in the West. +They were always asking her to come home. And when she wrote, which was +dutifully often, the last thing under the sun that she was likely to +mention was the change in her. She wrote that she would return to her +old home some time, of course, for a visit; and letters such as this +brought returns that amused Madeline, sometimes saddened her. She meant +to go back East for a while, and after that once or twice every year. +But the initiative was a difficult step from which she shrank. Once +home, she would have to make explanations, and these would not be +understood. Her father’s business had been such that he could not leave +it for the time required for a Western trip, or else, according to his +letter, he would have come for her. Mrs. Hammond could not have been +driven to cross the Hudson River; her un-American idea of the wilderness +westward was that Indians still chased buffalo on the outskirts of +Chicago. Madeline’s sister Helen had long been eager to come, as much +from curiosity, Madeline thought, as from sisterly regard. And at length +Madeline concluded that the proof of her breaking permanent ties might +better be seen by visiting relatives and friends before she went back +East. With that in mind she invited Helen to visit her during the +summer, and bring as many friends as she liked. + + * * * + +No slight task indeed was it to oversee the many business details of Her +Majesty’s Rancho and to keep a record of them. Madeline found the course +of business training upon which her father had insisted to be invaluable +to her now. It helped her to assimilate and arrange the practical +details of cattle-raising as put forth by the blunt Stillwell. She split +up the great stock of cattle into different herds, and when any of these +were out running upon the open range she had them closely watched. Part +of the time each herd was kept in an inclosed range, fed and watered, +and carefully handled by a big force of cowboys. She employed three +cowboy scouts whose sole duty was to ride the ranges searching for +stray, sick, or crippled cattle or motherless calves, and to bring these +in to be treated and nursed. There were two cowboys whose business was +to master a pack of Russian stag-hounds and to hunt down the coyotes, +wolves, and lions that preyed upon the herds. The better and tamer +milch cows were separated from the ranging herds and kept in a pasture +adjoining the dairy. All branding was done in corrals, and calves were +weaned from mother-cows at the proper time to benefit both. The old +method of branding and classing, that had so shocked Madeline, had been +abandoned, and one had been inaugurated whereby cattle and cowboys and +horses were spared brutality and injury. + +Madeline established an extensive vegetable farm, and she planted +orchards. The climate was superior to that of California, and, with +abundant water, trees and plants and gardens flourished and bloomed in +a way wonderful to behold. It was with ever-increasing pleasure that +Madeline walked through acres of ground once bare, now green and bright +and fragrant. There were poultry-yards and pig-pens and marshy quarters +for ducks and geese. Here in the farming section of the ranch Madeline +found employment for the little colony of Mexicans. Their lives had been +as hard and barren as the dry valley where they had lived. But as the +valley had been transformed by the soft, rich touch of water, so their +lives had been transformed by help and sympathy and work. The children +were wretched no more, and many that had been blind could now see, and +Madeline had become to them a new and blessed virgin. + +Madeline looked abroad over these lands and likened the change in them +and those who lived by them to the change in her heart. It may have +been fancy, but the sun seemed to be brighter, the sky bluer, the wind +sweeter. Certain it was that the deep green of grass and garden was not +fancy, nor the white and pink of blossom, nor the blaze and perfume of +flower, nor the sheen of lake and the fluttering of new-born leaves. +Where there had been monotonous gray there was now vivid and changing +color. Formerly there had been silence both day and night; now during +the sunny hours there was music. The whistle of prancing stallions +pealed in from the grassy ridges. Innumerable birds had come and, like +the northward-journeying ducks, they had tarried to stay. The song +of meadow-lark and blackbird and robin, familiar to Madeline from +childhood, mingled with the new and strange heart-throbbing song +of mocking-bird and the piercing blast of the desert eagle and the +melancholy moan of turtle-dove. + + ***** + +One April morning Madeline sat in her office wrestling with a problem. +She had problems to solve every day. The majority of these were +concerned with the management of twenty-seven incomprehensible cowboys. +This particular problem involved Ambrose Mills, who had eloped with her +French maid, Christine. + +Stillwell faced Madeline with a smile almost as huge as his bulk. + +“Wal, Miss Majesty, we ketched them; but not before Padre Marcos had +married them. All thet speedin’ in the autoomoobile was jest a-scarin’ +of me to death fer nothin’. I tell you Link Stevens is crazy about +runnin’ thet car. Link never hed no sense even with a hoss. He ain’t +afraid of the devil hisself. If my hair hedn’t been white it ’d be white +now. No more rides in thet thing fer me! Wal, we ketched Ambrose an’ +the girl too late. But we fetched them back, an’ they’re out there now, +spoonin’, sure oblivious to their shameless conduct.” + +“Stillwell, what shall I say to Ambrose? How shall I punish him? He has +done wrong to deceive me. I never was so surprised in my life. Christine +did not seem to care any more for Ambrose than for any of the other +cowboys. What does my authority amount to? I must do something. +Stillwell, you must help me.” + +Whenever Madeline fell into a quandary she had to call upon the +old cattleman. No man ever held a position with greater pride than +Stillwell, but he had been put to tests that steeped him in humility. +Here he scratched his head in great perplexity. + +“Dog-gone the luck! What’s this elopin’ bizness to do with +cattle-raisin’? I don’t know nothin’ but cattle. Miss Majesty, it’s +amazin’ strange what these cowboys hev come to. I never seen no cowboys +like these we’ve got hyar now. I don’t know them any more. They dress +swell an’ read books, an’ some of them hev actooly stopped cussin’ an’ +drinkin’. I ain’t sayin’ all this is against them. Why, now, they’re +jest the finest bunch of cow-punchers I ever seen or dreamed of. But +managin’ them now is beyond me. When cowboys begin to play thet game +gol-lof an’ run off with French maids I reckon Bill Stillwell has got to +resign.” + +“Stillwell! Oh, you will not leave me? What in the world would I do?” + exclaimed Madeline, in great anxiety. + +“Wal, I sure won’t leave you, Miss Majesty. No, I never’ll do thet. I’ll +run the cattle bizness fer you an’ see after the hosses an’ other stock. +But I’ve got to hev a foreman who can handle this amazin’ strange bunch +of cowboys.” + +“You’ve tried half a dozen foremen. Try more until you find the man who +meets your requirements,” said Madeline. “Never mind that now. Tell me +how to impress Ambrose—to make him an example, so to speak. I must have +another maid. And I do not want a new one carried off in this summary +manner.” + +“Wal, if you fetch pretty maids out hyar you can’t expect nothin’ else. +Why, thet black-eyed little French girl, with her white skin an’ pretty +airs an’ smiles an’ shrugs, she had the cowboys crazy. It’ll be wuss +with the next one.” + +“Oh dear!” sighed Madeline. + +“An’ as fer impressin’ Ambrose, I reckon I can tell you how to do thet. +Jest give it to him good an’ say you’re goin’ to fire him. That’ll fix +Ambrose, an’ mebbe scare the other boys fer a spell.” + +“Very well, Stillwell, bring Ambrose in to see me, and tell Christine to +wait in my room.” + +It was a handsome debonair, bright-eyed cowboy that came tramping +into Madeline’s presence. His accustomed shyness and awkwardness had +disappeared in an excited manner. He was a happy boy. He looked straight +into Madeline’s face as if he expected her to wish him joy. And Madeline +actually found that expression trembling to her lips. She held it back +until she could be severe. But Madeline feared she would fail of much +severity. Something warm and sweet, like a fragrance, had entered the +room with Ambrose. + +“Ambrose, what have you done?” she asked. + +“Miss Hammond, I’ve been and gone and got married,” replied Ambrose, his +words tumbling over one another. His eyes snapped, and there was a kind +of glow upon his clean-shaven brown cheek. “I’ve stole a march on the +other boys. There was Frank Slade pushin’ me close, and I was havin’ +some runnin’ to keep Jim Bell back in my dust. Even old man Nels made +eyes at Christine! So I wasn’t goin’ to take any chances. I just packed +her off to El Cajon and married her.” + +“Oh, so I heard,” said Madeline, slowly, as she watched him. “Ambrose, +do you—love her?” + +He reddened under her clear gaze, dropped his head, and fumbled with +his new sombrero, and there was a catch in his breath. Madeline saw +his powerful brown hand tremble. It affected her strangely that this +stalwart cowboy, who could rope and throw and tie a wild steer in less +than one minute, should tremble at a mere question. Suddenly he raised +his head, and at the beautiful blase of his eyes Madeline turned her own +away. + +“Yes, Miss Hammond, I love her,” he said. “I think I love her in the +way you’re askin’ about. I know the first time I saw her I thought how +wonderful it’d be to have a girl like that for my wife. It’s all been +so strange—her comin’ an’ how she made me feel. Sure I never knew many +girls, and I haven’t seen any girls at all for years. But when she came! +A girl makes a wonderful difference in a man’s feelin’s and thoughts. +I guess I never had any before. Leastways, none like I have now. +My—it—well, I guess I have a little understandin’ now of Padre +Marcos’s blessin’.” + +“Ambrose, have you nothing to say to me?” asked Madeline. + +“I’m sure sorry I didn’t have time to tell you. But I was in some +hurry.” + +“What did you intend to do? Where were you going when Stillwell found +you?” + +“We’d just been married. I hadn’t thought of anything after that. +Suppose I’d have rustled back to my job. I’ll sure have to work now and +save my money.” + +“Oh, well, Ambrose, I am glad you realize your responsibilities. Do you +earn enough—is your pay sufficient to keep a wife?” + +“Sure it is! Why, Miss Hammond, I never before earned half the salary +I’m gettin’ now. It’s some fine to work for you. I’m goin’ to fire the +boys out of my bunk-house and fix it up for Christine and me. Say, won’t +they be jealous?” + +“Ambrose, I—I congratulate you. I wish you joy,” said Madeline. “I—I +shall make Christine a little wedding-present. I want to talk to her for +a few moments. You may go now.” + +It would have been impossible for Madeline to say one severe word +to that happy cowboy. She experienced difficulty in hiding her own +happiness at the turn of events. Curiosity and interest mingled with her +pleasure when she called to Christine. + +“Mrs. Ambrose Mills, please come in.” + +No sound came from the other room. + +“I should like very much to see the bride,” went on Madeline. + +Still there was no stir or reply + +“Christine!” called Madeline. + +Then it was as if a little whirlwind of flying feet and entreating +hands and beseeching eyes blew in upon Madeline. Christine was small, +graceful, plump, with very white skin and very dark hair. She had been +Madeline’s favorite maid for years and there was sincere affection +between the two. Whatever had been the blissful ignorance of Ambrose, it +was manifestly certain that Christine knew how she had transgressed. +Her fear and remorse and appeal for forgiveness were poured out in an +incoherent storm. Plain it was that the little French maid had been +overwhelmed. It was only after Madeline had taken the emotional girl in +her arms and had forgiven and soothed her that her part in the elopement +became clear. Christine was in a maze. But gradually, as she talked and +saw that she was forgiven, calmness came in some degree, and with it +a story which amused yet shocked Madeline. The unmistakable, shy, +marveling love, scarcely realized by Christine, gave Madeline relief +and joy. If Christine loved Ambrose there was no harm done. Watching the +girl’s eyes, wonderful with their changes of thought, listening to her +attempts to explain what it was evident she did not understand, Madeline +gathered that if ever a caveman had taken unto himself a wife, if ever +a barbarian had carried off a Sabine woman, then Ambrose Mills had acted +with the violence of such ancient forebears. Just how it all happened +seemed to be beyond Christine. + +“He say he love me,” repeated the girl, in a kind of rapt awe. “He ask +me to marry him—he kees me—he hug me—he lift me on ze horse—he ride +with me all night—he marry me.” + +And she exhibited a ring on the third finger of her left hand. Madeline +saw that, whatever had been the state of Christine’s feeling for Ambrose +before this marriage, she loved him now. She had been taken forcibly, +but she was won. + +After Christine had gone, comforted and betraying her shy eagerness +to get back to Ambrose, Madeline was haunted by the look in the girl’s +eyes, and her words. Assuredly the spell of romance was on this sunny +land. For Madeline there was a nameless charm, a nameless thrill +combating her sense of the violence and unfitness of Ambrose’s wooing. +Something, she knew not what, took arms against her intellectual +arraignment of the cowboy’s method of getting himself a wife. He had +said straight out that he loved the girl—he had asked her to marry +him—he kissed her—he hugged her—he lifted her upon his horse—he rode +away with her through the night—and he married her. In whatever light +Madeline reviewed this thing she always came back to her first natural +impression; it thrilled her, charmed her. It went against all the +precepts of her training; nevertheless, it was somehow splendid and +beautiful. She imagined it stripped another artificial scale from her +over-sophisticated eyes. + +Scarcely had she settled again to the task on her desk when Stillwell’s +heavy tread across the porch interrupted her. This time when he entered +he wore a look that bordered upon the hysterical; it was difficult to +tell whether he was trying to suppress grief or glee. + +“Miss Majesty, there’s another amazin’ strange thing sprung on me. +Hyars Jim Bell come to see you, an’, when I taxed him, sayin’ you was +tolerable busy, he up an’ says he was hungry an’ he ain’t a-goin’ to eat +any more bread made in a wash-basin! Says he’ll starve first. Says Nels +hed the gang over to big bunk an’ feasted them on bread you taught him +how to make in some new-fangled bucket-machine with a crank. Jim says +thet bread beat any cake he ever eat, an’ he wants you to show him how +to make some. Now, Miss Majesty, as superintendent of this ranch I ought +to know what’s goin’ on. Mebbe Jim is jest a-joshin’ me. Mebbe he’s gone +clean dotty. Mebbe I hev. An’ beggin’ your pardon, I want to know if +there’s any truth in what Jim says Nels says.” + +Whereupon it became necessary for Madeline to stifle her mirth and to +inform the sadly perplexed old cattleman that she had received from the +East a patent bread-mixer, and in view of the fact that her household +women had taken fright at the contrivance, she had essayed to operate +it herself. This had turned out to be so simple, so saving of time and +energy and flour, so much more cleanly than the old method of mixing +dough with the hands, and particularly it had resulted in such good +bread, that Madeline had been pleased. Immediately she ordered more +of the bread-mixers. One day she had happened upon Nels making biscuit +dough in his wash-basin, and she had delicately and considerately +introduced to him the idea of her new method. Nels, it appeared, had a +great reputation as a bread-maker, and he was proud of it. Moreover, +he was skeptical of any clap-trap thing with wheels and cranks. He +consented, however, to let her show how the thing worked and to sample +some of the bread. To that end she had him come up to the house, where +she won him over. Stillwell laughed loud and long. + +“Wal, wal, wal!” he exclaimed, at length. “Thet’s fine, an’ it’s +powerful funny. Mebbe you don’t see how funny? Wal, Nels has jest been +lordin’ it over the boys about how you showed him, an’ now you’ll hev +to show every last cowboy on the place the same thing. Cowboys are the +jealousest kind of fellers. They’re all crazy about you, anyway. Take +Jim out hyar. Why, thet lazy cowpuncher jest never would make bread. +He’s notorious fer shirkin’ his share of the grub deal. I’ve knowed Jim +to trade off washin’ the pots an’ pans fer a lonely watch on a rainy +night. All he wants is to see you show him the same as Nels is crowin’ +over. Then he’ll crow over his bunkie, Frank Slade, an’ then Frank’ll +get lonely to know all about this wonderful bread-machine. Cowboys are +amazin’ strange critters, Miss Majesty. An’ now thet you’ve begun with +them this way, you’ll hev to keep it up. I will say I never seen such a +bunch to work. You’ve sure put heart in them.” + +“Indeed, Stillwell, I am glad to hear that,” replied Madeline. “And I +shall be pleased to teach them all. But may I not have them all up here +at once—at least those off duty?” + +“Wal, I reckon you can’t onless you want to hev them scrappin’,” + rejoined Stillwell, dryly. “What you’ve got on your hands now, Miss +Majesty, is to let ’em come one by one, an’ make each cowboy think +you’re takin’ more especial pleasure in showin’ him than the feller who +came before him. Then mebbe we can go on with cattle-raisin’.” + +Madeline protested, and Stillwell held inexorably to what he said was +wisdom. Several times Madeline had gone against his advice, to her utter +discomfiture and rout. She dared not risk it again, and resigned herself +gracefully and with subdued merriment to her task. Jim Bell was ushered +into the great, light, spotless kitchen, where presently Madeline +appeared to put on an apron and roll up her sleeves. She explained the +use of the several pieces of aluminum that made up the bread-mixer and +fastened the bucket to the table-shelf. Jim’s life might have depended +upon this lesson, judging from his absorbed manner and his desire to +have things explained over and over, especially the turning of the +crank. When Madeline had to take Jim’s hand three times to show him the +simple mechanism and then he did not understand she began to have faint +misgivings as to his absolute sincerity. She guessed that as long as +she touched Jim’s hand he never would understand. Then as she began +to measure out flour and milk and lard and salt and yeast she saw with +despair that Jim was not looking at the ingredients, was not paying the +slightest attention to them. His eyes were covertly upon her. + +“Jim, I am not sure about you,” said Madeline, severely. “How can you +learn to make bread if you do not watch me mix it?” + +“I am a-watchin’ you,” replied Jim, innocently. + +Finally Madeline sent the cowboy on his way rejoicing with the +bread-mixer under his arm. Next morning, true to Stillwell’s prophecy, +Frank Slade, Jim’s bunkmate, presented himself cheerfully to Madeline +and unbosomed himself of a long-deferred and persistent desire to +relieve his overworked comrade of some of the house-keeping in their +bunk. + +“Miss Hammond,” said Frank, “Jim’s orful kind wantin’ to do it all +hisself. But he ain’t very bright, an’ I didn’t believe him. You see, +I’m from Missouri, an’ you’ll have to show me.” + +For a whole week Madeline held clinics where she expounded the +scientific method of modern bread-making. She got a good deal of +enjoyment out of her lectures. What boys these great hulking fellows +were! She saw through their simple ruses. Some of them were grave as +deacons; others wore expressions important enough to have fitted the +faces of statesmen signing government treaties. These cowboys were +children; they needed to be governed; but in order to govern them they +had to be humored. A more light-hearted, fun-loving crowd of boys could +not have been found. And they were grown men. Stillwell explained that +the exuberance of spirits lay in the difference in their fortunes. +Twenty-seven cowboys, in relays of nine, worked eight hours a day. That +had never been heard of before in the West. Stillwell declared that +cowboys from all points of the compass would head their horses toward +Her Majesty’s Rancho. + + + + +VIII. El Capitan + + +Stillwell’s interest in the revolution across the Mexican line had +manifestly increased with the news that Gene Stewart had achieved +distinction with the rebel forces. Thereafter the old cattleman sent +for El Paso and Douglas newspapers, wrote to ranchmen he knew on the big +bend of the Rio Grande, and he would talk indefinitely to any one +who would listen to him. There was not any possibility of Stillwell’s +friends at the ranch forgetting his favorite cowboy. Stillwell always +prefaced his eulogy with an apologetic statement that Stewart had gone +to the bad. Madeline liked to listen to him, though she was not always +sure which news was authentic and which imagination. + +There appeared to be no doubt, however, that the cowboy had performed +some daring feats for the rebels. Madeline found his name mentioned in +several of the border papers. When the rebels under Madero stormed and +captured the city of Juarez, Stewart did fighting that won him the +name of El Capitan. This battle apparently ended the revolution. The +capitulation of President Diaz followed shortly, and there was a feeling +of relief among ranchers on the border from Texas to California. Nothing +more was heard of Gene Stewart until April, when a report reached +Stillwell that the cowboy had arrived in El Cajon, evidently hunting +trouble. The old cattleman saddled a horse and started post-haste for +town. In two days he returned, depressed in spirit. Madeline happened to +be present when Stillwell talked to Alfred. + +“I got there too late, Al,” said the cattleman. “Gene was gone. An’ what +do you think of this? Danny Mains hed jest left with a couple of burros +packed. I couldn’t find what way he went, but I’m bettin’ he hit the +Peloncillo trail.” + +“Danny will show up some day,” replied Alfred. “What did you learn about +Stewart? Maybe he left with Danny.” + +“Not much,” said Stillwell, shortly. “Gene’s hell-bent fer election! No +mountains fer him.” + +“Well tell us about him.” + +Stillwell wiped his sweaty brow and squared himself to talk. + +“Wal, it’s sure amazin’ strange about Gene. Its got me locoed. He +arrived in El Cajon a week or so ago. He was trained down like as if +he’d been ridin’ the range all winter. He hed plenty of money—Mex, they +said. An’ all the Greasers was crazy about him. Called him El Capitan. +He got drunk an’ went roarin’ round fer Pat Hawe. You remember that +Greaser who was plugged last October—the night Miss Majesty arrived? +Wal, he’s daid. He’s daid, an’ people says thet Pat is a-goin’ to lay +thet killin’ onto Gene. I reckon thet’s jest talk, though Pat is mean +enough to do it, if he hed the nerve. Anyway, if he was in El Cajon he +kept mighty much to hisself. Gene walked up an’ down, up an’ down, all +day an’ night, lookin’ fer Pat. But he didn’t find him. An’, of course, +he kept gettin’ drunker. He jest got plumb bad. He made lots of trouble, +but there wasn’t no gun-play. Mebbe thet made him sore, so he went an’ +licked Flo’s brother-in-law. Thet wasn’t so bad. Jack sure needed a good +lickin’. Wal, then Gene met Danny an’ tried to get Danny drunk. An’ +he couldn’t! What do you think of that? Danny hedn’t been +drinkin’—wouldn’t touch a drop. I’m sure glad of thet, but it’s amazin’ +strange. Why, Danny was a fish fer red liquor. I guess he an’ Gene had +some pretty hard words, though I’m not sure about thet. Anyway, Gene +went down to the railroad an’ he got on an engine, an’ he was in the +engine when it pulled out. Lord, I hope he doesn’t hold up the train! If +he gets gay over in Arizona he’ll go to the pen at Yuma. An’ thet pen +is a graveyard fer cowboys. I wired to agents along the railroad to look +out fer Stewart, an’ to wire back to me if he’s located.” + +“Suppose you do find him, Stillwell, what can you do?” inquired Alfred. + +The old man nodded gloomily. + +“I straightened him up once. Mebbe I can do it again.” Then, brightening +somewhat, he turned to Madeline. “I jest hed an idee, Miss Majesty. If +I can get him, Gene Stewart is the cowboy I want fer my foreman. He +can manage this bunch of cow-punchers thet are drivin’ me dotty. What’s +more, since he’s fought fer the rebels an’ got that name El Capitan, +all the Greasers in the country will kneel to him. Now, Miss Majesty, we +hevn’t got rid of Don Carlos an’ his vaqueros yet. To be sure, he sold +you his house an’ ranch an’ stock. But you remember nothin’ was put +in black and white about when he should get out. An’ Don Carlos ain’t +gettin’ out. I don’t like the looks of things a little bit. I’ll tell +you now thet Don Carlos knows somethin’ about the cattle I lost, an’ +thet you’ve been losin’ right along. Thet Greaser is hand an’ glove with +the rebels. I’m willin’ to gamble thet when he does get out he an’ +his vaqueros will make another one of the bands of guerrillas thet +are harassin’ the border. This revolution ain’t over’ yet. It’s jest +commenced. An’ all these gangs of outlaws are goin’ to take advantage +of it. We’ll see some old times, mebbe. Wal, I need Gene Stewart. I +need him bad. Will you let me hire him, Miss Majesty, if I can get him +straightened up?” + +The old cattleman ended huskily. + +“Stillwell, by all means find Stewart, and do not wait to straighten him +up. Bring him to the ranch,” replied Madeline. + +Thanking her, Stillwell led his horse away. + +“Strange how he loves that cowboy!” murmured Madeline. + +“Not so strange, Majesty,” replied her brother. “Not when you know. +Stewart has been with Stillwell on some hard trips into the desert +alone. There’s no middle course of feeling between men facing death +in the desert. Either they hate each other or love each other. I don’t +know, but I imagine Stewart did something for Stillwell—saved us life, +perhaps. Besides, Stewart’s a lovable chap when he’s going straight. +I hope Stillwell brings him back. We do need him, Majesty. He’s a born +leader. Once I saw him ride into a bunch of Mexicans whom we suspected +of rustling. It was fine to see him. Well, I’m sorry to tell you that we +are worried about Don Carlos. Some of his vaqueros came into my yard the +other day when I had left Flo alone. She had a bad scare. These vaqueros +have been different since Don Carlos sold the ranch. For that matter, +I never would have trusted a white woman alone with them. But they are +bolder now. Something’s in the wind. They’ve got assurance. They can +ride off any night and cross the border.” + +During the succeeding week Madeline discovered that a good deal of +her sympathy for Stillwell in his hunt for the reckless Stewart had +insensibly grown to be sympathy for the cowboy. It was rather a paradox, +she thought, that opposed to the continual reports of Stewart’s wildness +as he caroused from town to town were the continual expressions of good +will and faith and hope universally given out by those near her at the +ranch. Stillwell loved the cowboy; Florence was fond of him; Alfred +liked and admired him, pitied him; the cowboys swore their regard for +him the more he disgraced himself. The Mexicans called him El Gran +Capitan. Madeline’s personal opinion of Stewart had not changed in the +least since the night it had been formed. But certain attributes of his, +not clearly defined in her mind, and the gift of his beautiful horse, +his valor with the fighting rebels, and all this strange regard for him, +especially that of her brother, made her exceedingly regret the cowboy’s +present behavior. + +Meanwhile Stillwell was so earnest and zealous that one not familiar +with the situation would have believed he was trying to find and reclaim +his own son. He made several trips to little stations in the valley, and +from these he returned with a gloomy face. Madeline got the details from +Alfred. Stewart was going from bad to worse—drunk, disorderly, savage, +sure to land in the penitentiary. Then came a report that hurried +Stillwell off to Rodeo. He returned on the third day, a crushed man. He +had been so bitterly hurt that no one, not even Madeline, could get +out of him what had happened. He admitted finding Stewart, failing to +influence him; and when the old cattleman got so far he turned purple in +the face and talked to himself, as if dazed: “But Gene was drunk. He was +drunk, or he couldn’t hev treated old Bill like thet!” + +Madeline was stirred with an anger toward the brutal cowboy that was +as strong as her sorrow for the loyal old cattleman. And it was when +Stillwell gave up that she resolved to take a hand. The persistent faith +of Stillwell, his pathetic excuses in the face of what must have been +Stewart’s violence, perhaps baseness, actuated her powerfully, gave +her new insight into human nature. She honored a faith that remained +unshaken. And the strange thought came to her that Stewart must somehow +be worthy of such a faith, or he never could have inspired it. Madeline +discovered that she wanted to believe that somewhere deep down in the +most depraved and sinful wretch upon earth there was some grain of good. +She yearned to have the faith in human nature that Stillwell had in +Stewart. + +She sent Nels, mounted upon his own horse, and leading Majesty, to Rodeo +in search of Stewart. Nels had instructions to bring Stewart back to the +ranch. In due time Nels returned, leading the roan without a rider. + +“Yep, I shore found him,” replied Nels, when questioned. “Found him half +sobered up. He’d been in a scrap, an’ somebody hed put him to sleep, I +guess. Wal, when he seen thet roan hoss he let out a yell an’ grabbed +him round the neck. The hoss knowed him, all right. Then Gene hugged the +hoss an’ cried—cried like—I never seen no one who cried like he did. I +waited awhile, an’ was jest goin’ to say somethin’ to him when he turned +on me red-eyed, mad as fire. ‘Nels,’ he said, ‘I care a hell of a lot +fer thet boss, an’ I liked you pretty well, but if you don’t take him +away quick I’ll shoot you both.’ Wal, I lit out. I didn’t even git to +say howdy to him.” + +“Nels, you think it useless—any attempt to see him—persuade him?” + asked Madeline. + +“I shore do, Miss Hammond,” replied Nels, gravely. “I’ve seen a few +sun-blinded an’ locoed an’ snake-poisoned an’ skunk-bitten cow-punchers +in my day, but Gene Stewart beats ’em all. He’s shore runnin’ wild fer +the divide.” + +Madeline dismissed Nels, but before he got out of earshot she heard him +speak to Stillwell, who awaited him on the porch. + +“Bill, put this in your pipe an’ smoke it—none of them scraps Gene has +hed was over a woman! It used to be thet when he was drank he’d scrap +over every pretty Greaser girl he’d run across. Thet’s why Pat Hawe +thinks Gene plugged the strange vaquero who was with little Bonita thet +night last fall. Wal, Gene’s scrappin’ now jest to git shot up hisself, +for some reason thet only God Almighty knows.” + +Nels’s story of how Stewart wept over his horse influenced Madeline +powerfully. Her next move was to persuade Alfred to see if he could not +do better with this doggedly bent cowboy. Alfred needed only a word +of persuasion, for he said he had considered going to Rodeo of his own +accord. He went, and returned alone. + +“Majesty, I can’t explain Stewart’s singular actions,” said Alfred. “I +saw him, talked with him. He knew me, but nothing I said appeared to get +to him. He has changed terribly. I fancy his once magnificent strength +is breaking. It—it actually hurt me to look at him. I couldn’t have +fetched him back here—not as he is now. I heard all about him, and +if he isn’t downright out of his mind he’s hell-bent, as Bill says, on +getting killed. Some of his escapades are—are not for your ears. +Bill did all any man could do for another. We’ve all done our best for +Stewart. If you’d been given a chance perhaps you could have saved him. +But it’s too late. Put it out of mind now, dear.” + +Madeline, however, did not forget nor give it up. If she had forgotten +or surrendered, she felt that she would have been relinquishing +infinitely more than hope to aid one ruined man. But she was at a loss +to know what further steps to take. Days passed, and each one brought +additional gossip of Stewart’s headlong career toward the Yuma +penitentiary. For he had crossed the line into Cochise County, Arizona, +where sheriffs kept a stricter observance of law. Finally a letter came +from a friend of Nels’s in Chiricahua saying that Stewart had been hurt +in a brawl there. His hurt was not serious, but it would probably +keep him quiet long enough to get sober, and this opportunity, Nels’s +informant said, would be a good one for Stewart’s friends to take him +home before he got locked up. This epistle inclosed a letter to Stewart +from his sister. Evidently, it had been found upon him. It told a story +of illness and made an appeal for aid. Nels’s friend forwarded this +letter without Stewart’s knowledge, thinking Stillwell might care to +help Stewart’s family. Stewart had no money, he said. + +The sister’s letter found its way to Madeline. She read it, tears in +her eyes. It told Madeline much more than its brief story of illness and +poverty and wonder why Gene had not written home for so long. It told of +motherly love, sisterly love, brotherly love—dear family ties that had +not been broken. It spoke of pride in this El Capitan brother who had +become famous. It was signed “your loving sister Letty.” + +Not improbably, Madeline revolved in mind, this letter was one reason +for Stewart’s headstrong, long-continued abasement. It had been received +too late—after he had squandered the money that would have meant so +much to mother and sister. Be that as it might, Madeline immediately +sent a bank-draft to Stewart’s sister with a letter explaining that +the money was drawn in advance on Stewart’s salary. This done, she +impulsively determined to go to Chiricahua herself. + +The horseback-rides Madeline had taken to this little Arizona hamlet had +tried her endurance to the utmost; but the journey by automobile, except +for some rocky bits of road and sandy stretches, was comfortable, and +a matter of only a few hours. The big touring-car was still a kind of +seventh wonder to the Mexicans and cowboys; not that automobiles were +very new and strange, but because this one was such an enormous machine +and capable of greater speed than an express-train. The chauffeur who +had arrived with the car found his situation among the jealous cowboys +somewhat far removed from a bed of roses. He had been induced to remain +long enough to teach the operating and mechanical technique of the car. +And choice fell upon Link Stevens, for the simple reason that of all the +cowboys he was the only one with any knack for mechanics. Now Link +had been a hard-riding, hard-driving cowboy, and that winter he had +sustained an injury to his leg, caused by a bad fall, and was unable to +sit his horse. This had been gall and wormwood to him. But when the big +white automobile came and he was elected to drive it, life was once more +worth living for him. But all the other cowboys regarded Link and his +machine as some correlated species of demon. They were deathly afraid of +both. + +It was for this reason that Nels, when Madeline asked him to accompany +her to Chiricahua, replied, reluctantly, that he would rather follow on +his horse. However, she prevailed over his hesitancy, and with Florence +also in the car they set out. For miles and miles the valley road +was smooth, hard-packed, and slightly downhill. And when speeding was +perfectly safe, Madeline was not averse to it. The grassy plain sailed +backward in gray sheets, and the little dot in the valley grew larger +and larger. From time to time Link glanced round at unhappy Nels, whose +eyes were wild and whose hands clutched his seat. While the car was +crossing the sandy and rocky places, going slowly, Nels appeared +to breathe easier. And when it stopped in the wide, dusty street of +Chiricahua Nels gladly tumbled out. + +“Nels, we shall wait here in the car while you find Stewart,” said +Madeline. + +“Miss Hammond, I reckon Gene’ll run when he sees us, if he’s able to +run,” replied Nels. “Wal, I’ll go find him an’ make up my mind then what +we’d better do.” + +Nels crossed the railroad track and disappeared behind the low, flat +houses. After a little time he reappeared and hurried up to the car. +Madeline felt his gray gaze searching her face. + +“Miss Hammond, I found him,” said Nels. “He was sleepin’. I woke him. +He’s sober an’ not bad hurt; but I don’t believe you ought to see him. +Mebbe Florence—” + +“Nels, I want to see him myself. Why not? What did he say when you told +him I was here?” + +“Shore I didn’t tell him that. I jest says, ‘Hullo, Gene!’ an’ he says, +‘My Gawd! Nels! mebbe I ain’t glad to see a human bein’.’ He asked me +who was with me, an’ I told him Link an’ some friends. I said I’d fetch +them in. He hollered at thet. But I went, anyway. Now, if you really +will see him, Miss Hammond, it’s a good chance. But shore it’s a touchy +matter, an’ you’ll be some sick at sight of him. He’s layin’ in a +Greaser hole over here. Likely the Greasers hev been kind to him. But +they’re shore a poor lot.” + +Madeline did not hesitate a moment. + +“Thank you, Nels. Take me at once. Come, Florence.” + +They left the car, now surrounded by gaping-eyed Mexican children, +and crossed the dusty space to a narrow lane between red adobe walls. +Passing by several houses, Nels stopped at the door of what appeared to +be an alleyway leading back. It was filthy. + +“He’s in there, around thet first corner. It’s a patio, open an’ sunny. +An’, Miss Hammond, if you don’t mind, I’ll wait here for you. I reckon +Gene wouldn’t like any fellers around when he sees you girls.” + +It was that which made Madeline hesitate then and go forward slowly. +She had given no thought at all to what Stewart might feel when suddenly +surprised by her presence. + +“Florence, you wait also,” said Madeline, at the doorway, and turned in +alone. + +And she had stepped into a broken-down patio littered with alfalfa straw +and debris, all clear in the sunlight. Upon a bench, back toward her, +sat a man looking out through the rents in the broken wall. He had +not heard her. The place was not quite so filthy and stifling as the +passages Madeline had come through to get there. Then she saw that it +had been used as a corral. A rat ran boldly across the dirt floor. +The air swarmed with flies, which the man brushed at with weary hand. +Madeline did not recognize Stewart. The side of his face exposed to her +gaze was black, bruised, bearded. His clothes were ragged and soiled. +There were bits of alfalfa in his hair. His shoulders sagged. He made a +wretched and hopeless figure sitting there. Madeline divined something +of why Nels shrank from being present. + +“Mr. Stewart. It is I, Miss Hammond, come to see you,” she said. + +He grew suddenly perfectly motionless, as if he had been changed to +stone. She repeated her greeting. + +His body jerked. He moved violently as if instinctively to turn and face +this intruder; but a more violent movement checked him. + +Madeline waited. How singular that this ruined cowboy had pride which +kept him from showing his face! And was it not shame more than pride? + +“Mr. Stewart, I have come to talk with you, if you will let me.” + +“Go away,” he muttered. + +“Mr. Stewart!” she began, with involuntary hauteur. But instantly she +corrected herself, became deliberate and cool, for she saw that she +might fail to be even heard by this man. “I have come to help you. Will +you let me?” + +“For God’s sake! You—you—” he choked over the words. “Go away!” + +“Stewart, perhaps it was for God’s sake that I came,” said Madeline, +gently. “Surely it was for yours—and your sister’s—” Madeline bit her +tongue, for she had not meant to betray her knowledge of Letty. + +He groaned, and, staggering up to the broken wall, he leaned there with +his face hidden. Madeline reflected that perhaps the slip of speech had +been well. + +“Stewart, please let me say what I have to say?” + +He was silent. And she gathered courage and inspiration. + +“Stillwell is deeply hurt, deeply grieved that he could not turn you +back from this—this fatal course. My brother is also. They wanted to +help you. And so do I. I have come, thinking somehow I might succeed +where they have failed. Nels brought your sister’s letter. I—I read it. +I was only the more determined to try to help you, and indirectly +help your mother and Letty. Stewart, we want you to come to the ranch. +Stillwell needs you for his foreman. The position is open to you, and +you can name your salary. Both Al and Stillwell are worried about Don +Carlos, the vaqueros, and the raids down along the border. My cowboys +are without a capable leader. Will you come?” + +“No,” he answered. + +“But Stillwell wants you so badly.” + +“No.” + +“Stewart, I want you to come.” + +“No.” + +His replies had been hoarse, loud, furious. They disconcerted Madeline, +and she paused, trying to think of a way to proceed. Stewart staggered +away from the wall, and, falling upon the bench, he hid his face in his +hands. All his motions, like his speech, had been violent. + +“Will you please go away?” he asked. + +“Stewart, certainly I cannot remain here longer if you insist upon my +going. But why not listen to me when I want so much to help you? Why?” + +“I’m a damned blackguard,” he burst out. “But I was a gentleman once, +and I’m not so low that I can stand for you seeing me here.” + +“When I made up my mind to help you I made it up to see you wherever you +were. Stewart, come away, come back with us to the ranch. You are in a +bad condition now. Everything looks black to you. But that will pass. +When you are among friends again you will get well. You will be your +old self. The very fact that you were once a gentleman, that you come of +good family, makes you owe so much more to yourself. Why, Stewart, think +how young you are! It is a shame to waste your life. Come back with me.” + +“Miss Hammond, this was my last plunge,” he replied, despondently. “It’s +too late.” + +“Oh no, it is not so bad as that.” + +“It’s too late.” + +“At least make an effort, Stewart. Try!” + +“No. There’s no use. I’m done for. Please leave me—thank you for—” + +He had been savage, then sullen, and now he was grim. Madeline all but +lost power to resist his strange, deadly, cold finality. No doubt he +knew he was doomed. Yet something halted her—held her even as she took +a backward step. And she became conscious of a subtle change in her own +feeling. She had come into that squalid hole, Madeline Hammond, earnest +enough, kind enough in her own intentions; but she had been almost +imperious—a woman habitually, proudly used to being obeyed. She divined +that all the pride, blue blood, wealth, culture, distinction, all the +impersonal condescending persuasion, all the fatuous philanthropy on +earth would not avail to turn this man a single hair’s-breadth from his +downward career to destruction. Her coming had terribly augmented +his bitter hate of himself. She was going to fail to help him. She +experienced a sensation of impotence that amounted almost to distress. +The situation assumed a tragic keenness. She had set forth to reverse +the tide of a wild cowboy’s fortunes; she faced the swift wasting of his +life, the damnation of his soul. The subtle consciousness of change in +her was the birth of that faith she had revered in Stillwell. And all at +once she became merely a woman, brave and sweet and indomitable. + +“Stewart, look at me,” she said. + +He shuddered. She advanced and laid a hand on his bent shoulder. Under +the light touch he appeared to sink. + +“Look at me,” she repeated. + +But he could not lift his head. He was abject, crushed. He dared not +show his swollen, blackened face. His fierce, cramped posture revealed +more than his features might have shown; it betrayed the torturing shame +of a man of pride and passion, a man who had been confronted in his +degradation by the woman he had dared to enshrine in his heart. It +betrayed his love. + +“Listen, then,” went on Madeline, and her voice was unsteady. “Listen to +me, Stewart. The greatest men are those who have fallen deepest into +the mire, sinned most, suffered most, and then have fought their evil +natures and conquered. I think you can shake off this desperate mood and +be a man.” + +“No!” he cried. + +“Listen to me again. Somehow I know you’re worthy of Stillwell’s love. +Will you come back with us—for his sake?” + +“No. It’s too late, I tell you.” + +“Stewart, the best thing in life is faith in human nature. I have faith +in you. I believe you are worth it.” + +“You’re only kind and good—saying that. You can’t mean it.” + +“I mean it with all my heart,” she replied, a sudden rich warmth +suffusing her body as she saw the first sign of his softening. “Will you +come back—if not for your own sake or Stillwell’s—then for mine?” + +“What am I to such a woman as you?” + +“A man in trouble, Stewart. But I have come to help you, to show my +faith in you.” + +“If I believed that I might try,” he said. + +“Listen,” she began, softly, hurriedly. “My word is not lightly given. +Let it prove my faith in you. Look at me now and say you will come.” + +He heaved up his big frame as if trying to cast off a giant’s burden, +and then slowly he turned toward her. His face was a blotched and +terrible thing. The physical brutalizing marks were there, and at that +instant all that appeared human to Madeline was the dawning in dead, +furnace-like eyes of a beautiful light. + +“I’ll come,” he whispered, huskily. “Give me a few days to straighten +up, then I’ll come.” + + + + +IX. The New Foreman + + +Toward the end of the week Stillwell informed Madeline that Stewart had +arrived at the ranch and had taken up quarters with Nels. + +“Gene’s sick. He looks bad,” said the old cattleman. “He’s so weak an’ +shaky he can’t lift a cup. Nels says that Gene has hed some bad spells. +A little liquor would straighten him up now. But Nels can’t force him +to drink a drop, an’ has hed to sneak some liquor in his coffee. Wal, I +think we’ll pull Gene through. He’s forgotten a lot. I was goin’ to tell +him what he did to me up at Rodeo. But I know if he’d believe it he’d +be sicker than he is. Gene’s losin’ his mind, or he’s got somethin’ +powerful strange on it.” + +From that time Stillwell, who evidently found Madeline his most +sympathetic listener, unburdened himself daily of his hopes and fears +and conjectures. + +Stewart was really ill. It became necessary to send Link Stevens for a +physician. Then Stewart began slowly to mend and presently was able to +get up and about. Stillwell said the cowboy lacked interest and seemed +to be a broken man. This statement, however, the old cattleman modified +as Stewart continued to improve. Then presently it was a good augury +of Stewart’s progress that the cowboys once more took up the teasing +relation which had been characteristic of them before his illness. A +cowboy was indeed out of sorts when he could not vent his peculiar humor +on somebody or something. Stewart had evidently become a broad target +for their badinage. + +“Wal, the boys are sure after Gene,” said Stillwell, with his huge +smile. “Joshin’ him all the time about how he sits around an’ hangs +around an’ loafs around jest to get a glimpse of you, Miss Majesty. Sure +all the boys hev a pretty bad case over their pretty boss, but none +of them is a marker to Gene. He’s got it so bad, Miss Majesty, thet he +actooly don’t know they are joshin’ him. It’s the amazin’est strange +thing I ever seen. Why, Gene was always a feller thet you could josh. +An’ he’d laugh an’ get back at you. But he was never before deaf to +talk, an’ there was a certain limit no feller cared to cross with him. +Now he takes every word an’ smiles dreamy like, an’ jest looks an’ +looks. Why, he’s beginnin’ to make me tired. He’ll never run thet bunch +of cowboys if he doesn’t wake up quick.” + +Madeline smiled her amusement and expressed a belief that Stillwell +wanted too much in such short time from a man who had done body and mind +a grievous injury. + +It had been impossible for Madeline to fail to observe Stewart’s +singular behavior. She never went out to take her customary walks and +rides without seeing him somewhere in the distance. She was aware that +he watched for her and avoided meeting her. When she sat on the porch +during the afternoon or at sunset Stewart could always be descried at +some point near. He idled listlessly in the sun, lounged on the porch +of his bunk-house, sat whittling the top bar of the corral fence, and +always it seemed to Madeline he was watching her. Once, while going +the rounds with her gardener, she encountered Stewart and greeted +him kindly. He said little, but he was not embarrassed. She did not +recognize in his face any feature that she remembered. In fact, on each +of the few occasions when she had met Stewart he had looked so different +that she had no consistent idea of his facial appearance. He was now +pale, haggard, drawn. His eyes held a shadow through which shone a soft, +subdued light; and, once having observed this, Madeline fancied it was +like the light in Majesty’s eyes, in the dumb, worshiping eyes of her +favorite stag-hound. She told Stewart that she hoped he would soon be in +the saddle again, and passed on her way. + +That Stewart loved her Madeline could not help but see. She endeavored +to think of him as one of the many who, she was glad to know, liked +her. But she could not regulate her thoughts to fit the order her +intelligence prescribed. Thought of Stewart dissociated itself from +thought of the other cowboys. When she discovered this she felt a little +surprise and annoyance. Then she interrogated herself, and concluded +that it was not that Stewart was so different from his comrades, but +that circumstances made him stand out from them. She recalled her +meeting with him that night when he had tried to force her to marry him. +This was unforgettable in itself. She called subsequent mention of him, +and found it had been peculiarly memorable. The man and his actions +seemed to hinge on events. Lastly, the fact standing clear of all others +in its relation to her interest was that he had been almost ruined, +almost lost, and she had saved him. That alone was sufficient to explain +why she thought of him differently. She had befriended, uplifted the +other cowboys; she had saved Stewart’s life. To be sure, he had been a +ruffian, but a woman could not save the life of even a ruffian without +remembering it with gladness. Madeline at length decided her interest in +Stewart was natural, and that her deeper feeling was pity. Perhaps the +interest had been forced from her; however, she gave the pity as she +gave everything. + +Stewart recovered his strength, though not in time to ride at the spring +round-up; and Stillwell discussed with Madeline the advisability of +making the cowboy his foreman. + +“Wal, Gene seems to be gettin’ along,” said Stillwell. “But he ain’t +like his old self. I think more of him at thet. But where’s his spirit? +The boys’d ride rough-shod all over him. Mebbe I’d do best to wait +longer now, as the slack season is on. All the same, if those vaquero of +Don Carlos’s don’t lay low I’ll send Gene over there. Thet’ll wake him +up.” + +A few days afterward Stillwell came to Madeline, rubbing his big hands +in satisfaction and wearing a grin that was enormous. + +“Miss Majesty, I reckon before this I’ve said things was amazin’ +strange. But now Gene Stewart has gone an’ done it! Listen to me. Them +Greasers down on our slope hev been gettin’ prosperous. They’re growin’ +like bad weeds. An’ they got a new padre—the little old feller from +El Cajon, Padre Marcos. Wal, this was all right, all the boys thought, +except Gene. An’ he got blacker ’n thunder an’ roared round like a +dehorned bull. I was sure glad to see he could get mad again. Then Gene +haids down the slope fer the church. Nels an’ me follered him, thinkin’ +he might hev been took sudden with a crazy spell or somethin’. He hasn’t +never been jest right yet since he left off drinkin’. Wal, we run into +him comin’ out of the church. We never was so dumfounded in our lives. +Gene was crazy, all right—he sure hed a spell. But it was the kind of +a spell he hed thet paralyzed us. He ran past us like a streak, an’ we +follered. We couldn’t ketch him. We heerd him laugh—the strangest laugh +I ever heerd! You’d thought the feller was suddenly made a king. He was +like thet feller who was tied in a bunyin’-sack an’ throwed into the +sea, an’ cut his way out, an’ swam to the island where the treasures +was, an’ stood up yellin’, ‘The world is mine.’ Wal, when we got up to +his bunk-house he was gone. He didn’t come back all day an’ all night. +Frankie Slade, who has a sharp tongue, says Gene hed gone crazy for +liquor an’ thet was his finish. Nels was some worried. An’ I was sick. + +“Wal’ this mawnin’ I went over to Nels’s bunk. Some of the fellers was +there, all speculatin’ about Gene. Then big as life Gene struts round +the corner. He wasn’t the same Gene. His face was pale an’ his eyes +burned like fire. He had thet old mockin’, cool smile, an’ somethin’ +besides thet I couldn’t understand. Frankie Slade up an’ made a +remark—no wuss than he’d been makin’ fer days—an’ Gene tumbled him out +of his chair, punched him good, walked all over him. Frankie wasn’t hurt +so much as he was bewildered. ‘Gene,’ he says, ‘what the hell struck +you?’ An’ Gene says, kind of sweet like, ‘Frankie, you may be a nice +feller when you’re alone, but your talk’s offensive to a gentleman.’ + +“After thet what was said to Gene was with a nice smile. Now, Miss +Majesty, it’s beyond me what to allow for Gene’s sudden change. First +off, I thought Padre Marcos had converted him. I actooly thought thet. +But I reckon it’s only Gene Stewart come back—the old Gene Stewart an’ +some. Thet’s all I care about. I’m rememberin’ how I once told you thet +Gene was the last of the cowboys. Perhaps I should hev said he’s the +last of my kind of cowboys. Wal, Miss Majesty, you’ll be apprecatin’ of +what I meant from now on.” + +It was also beyond Madeline to account for Gene Stewart’s antics, and, +making allowance for the old cattleman’s fancy, she did not weigh his +remarks very heavily. She guessed why Stewart might have been angry at +the presence of Padre Marcos. Madeline supposed that it was rather an +unusual circumstance for a cowboy to be converted to religious belief. +But it was possible. And she knew that religious fervor often manifested +itself in extremes of feeling and action. Most likely, in Stewart’s +case, his real manner had been both misunderstood and exaggerated. +However, Madeline had a curious desire, which she did not wholly admit +to herself, to see the cowboy and make her own deductions. + +The opportunity did not present itself for nearly two weeks. Stewart had +taken up his duties as foreman, and his activities were ceaseless. He +was absent most of the time, ranging down toward the Mexican line. When +he returned Stillwell sent for him. + +This was late in the afternoon of a day in the middle of April. Alfred +and Florence were with Madeline on the porch. They saw the cowboy turn +his horse over to one of the Mexican boys at the corral and then come +with weary step up to the house, beating the dust out of his gauntlets. +Little streams of gray sand trickled from his sombrero as he removed it +and bowed to the women. + +Madeline saw the man she remembered, but with a singularly different +aspect. His skin was brown; his eyes were piercing and dark and steady; +he carried himself erect; he seemed preoccupied, and there was not a +trace of embarrassment in his manner. + +“Wal, Gene, I’m sure glad to see you,” Stillwell was saying. “Where do +you hail from?” + +“Guadaloupe Canyon,” replied the cowboy. + +Stillwell whistled. + +“Way down there! You don’t mean you follered them hoss tracks thet far?” + +“All the way from Don Carlos’s rancho across the Mexican line. I took +Nick Steele with me. Nick is the best tracker in the outfit. This trail +we were on led along the foothill valleys. First we thought whoever made +it was hunting for water. But they passed two ranches without watering. +At Seaton’s Wash they dug for water. Here they met a pack-train of +burros that came down the mountain trail. The burros were heavily +loaded. Horse and burro tracks struck south from Seaton’s to the old +California emigrant road. We followed the trail through Guadelope Canyon +and across the border. On the way back we stopped at Slaughter’s ranch, +where the United States cavalry are camping. There we met foresters from +the Peloncillo forest reserve. If these fellows knew anything they kept +it to themselves. So we hit the trail home.” + +“Wal, I reckon you know enough?” inquired Stillwell, slowly. + +“I reckon,” replied Stewart. + +“Wal, out with it, then,” said Stillwell, gruffly. “Miss Hammond can’t +be kept in the dark much longer. Make your report to her.” + +The cowboy shifted his dark gaze to Madeline. He was cool and slow. + +“We’re losing a few cattle on the open range. Night-drives by the +vaqueros. Some of these cattle are driven across the valley, others up +to the foothills. So far as I can find out no cattle are being driven +south. So this raiding is a blind to fool the cowboys. Don Carlos is a +Mexican rebel. He located his rancho here a few years ago and pretended +to raise cattle. All that time he has been smuggling arms and ammunition +across the border. He was for Madero against Diaz. Now he is against +Madero because he and all the rebels think Madero failed to keep his +promises. There will be another revolution. And all the arms go from +the States across the border. Those burros I told about were packed with +contraband goods.” + +“That’s a matter for the United States cavalry. They are patrolling the +border,” said Alfred. + +“They can’t stop the smuggling of arms, not down in that wild corner,” + replied Stewart. + +“What is my—my duty? What has it to do with me?” inquired Madeline, +somewhat perturbed. + +“Wal, Miss Majesty, I reckon it hasn’t nothing to do with you,” put in +Stillwell. “Thet’s my bizness an’ Stewart’s. But I jest wanted you to +know. There might be some trouble follerin’ my orders.” + +“Your orders?” + +“I want to send Stewart over to fire Don Carlos an’ his vaqueros off the +range. They’ve got to go. Don Carlos is breakin’ the law of the United +States, an’ doin’ it on our property an’ with our hosses. Hev I your +permission, Miss Hammond?” + +“Why, assuredly you have! Stillwell, you know what to do. Alfred, what +do you think best?” + +“It’ll make trouble, Majesty, but it’s got to be done,” replied Alfred. +“Here you have a crowd of Eastern friends due next month. We want the +range to ourselves then. But, Stillwell, if you drive those vaqueros +off, won’t they hang around in the foothills? I declare they are a bad +lot.” + +Stillwell’s mind was not at ease. He paced the porch with a frown +clouding his brow. + +“Gene, I reckon you got this Greaser deal figgered better’n me,” said +Stillwell. “Now what do you say?” + +“He’ll have to be forced off,” replied Stewart, quietly. “The Don’s +pretty slick, but his vaqueros are bad actors. It’s just this way. Nels +said the other day to me, ‘Gene, I haven’t packed a gun for years +until lately, and it feels good whenever I meet any of those strange +Greasers.’ You see, Stillwell, Don Carlos has vaqueros coming and going +all the time. They’re guerrilla bands, that’s all. And they’re getting +uglier. There have been several shooting-scrapes lately. A rancher named +White, who lives up the valley, was badly hurt. It’s only a matter of +time till something stirs up the boys here. Stillwell, you know Nels and +Monty and Nick.” + +“Sure I know ’em. An’ you’re not mentionin’ one more particular cowboy +in my outfit,” said Stillwell, with a dry chuckle and a glance at +Stewart. + +Madeline divined the covert meaning, and a slight chill passed over her, +as if a cold wind had blown in from the hills. + +“Stewart, I see you carry a gun,” she said, pointing to a black handle +protruding from a sheath swinging low along his leather chaps. + +“Yes, ma’am.” + +“Why do you carry it?” she asked. + +“Well,” he said, “it’s not a pretty gun—and it’s heavy.” She caught +the inference. The gun was not an ornament. His keen, steady, dark gaze +caused her vague alarm. What had once seemed cool and audacious about +this cowboy was now cold and powerful and mystical. Both her instinct +and her intelligence realized the steel fiber of the man’s nature. As +she was his employer, she had the right to demand that he should not do +what was so chillingly manifest that he might do. But Madeline could +not demand. She felt curiously young and weak, and the five months of +Western life were as if they had never been. She now had to do with a +question involving human life. And the value she placed upon human +life and its spiritual significance was a matter far from her cowboy’s +thoughts. A strange idea flashed up. Did she place too much value +upon all human life? She checked that, wondering, almost horrified +at herself. And then her intuition told her that she possessed a far +stronger power to move these primitive men than any woman’s stern rule +or order. + +“Stewart, I do not fully understand what you hint that Nels and his +comrades might do. Please be frank with me. Do you mean Nels would shoot +upon little provocation?” + +“Miss Hammond, as far as Nels is concerned, shooting is now just a +matter of his meeting Don Carlos’s vaqueros. It’s wonderful what Nels +has stood from them, considering the Mexicans he’s already killed.” + +“Already killed! Stewart, you are not in earnest?” cried Madeline, +shocked. + +“I am. Nels has seen hard life along the Arizona border. He likes peace +as well as any man. But a few years of that doesn’t change what the +early days made of him. As for Nick Steele and Monty, they’re just bad +men, and looking for trouble.” + +“How about yourself, Stewart? Stillwell’s remark was not lost upon me,” + said Madeline, prompted by curiosity. + +Stewart did not reply. He looked at her in respectful silence. In her +keen earnestness Madeline saw beneath his cool exterior and was all +the more baffled. Was there a slight, inscrutable, mocking light in his +eyes, or was it only her imagination? However, the cowboy’s face was as +hard as flint. + +“Stewart, I have come to love my ranch,” said Madeline, slowly, “and I +care a great deal for my—my cowboys. It would be dreadful if they were +to kill anybody, or especially if one of them should be killed.” + +“Miss Hammond, you’ve changed things considerable out here, but you +can’t change these men. All that’s needed to start them is a little +trouble. And this Mexican revolution is bound to make rough times along +some of the wilder passes across the border. We’re in line, that’s all. +And the boys are getting stirred up.” + +“Very well, then, I must accept the inevitable. I am facing a rough +time. And some of my cowboys cannot be checked much longer. But, +Stewart, whatever you have been in the past, you have changed.” She +smiled at him, and her voice was singularly sweet and rich. “Stillwell +has so often referred to you as the last of his kind of cowboy. I have +just a faint idea of what a wild life you have led. Perhaps that fits +you to be a leader of such rough men. I am no judge of what a leader +should do in this crisis. My cowboys are entailing risk in my employ; my +property is not safe; perhaps my life even might be endangered. I want +to rely upon you, since Stillwell believes, and I, too, that you are the +man for this place. I shall give you no orders. But is it too much to +ask that you be my kind of a cowboy?” + +Madeline remembered Stewart’s former brutality and shame and abject +worship, and she measured the great change in him by the contrast +afforded now in his dark, changeless, intent face. + +“Miss Hammond, what kind of a cowboy is that?” he asked. + +“I—I don’t exactly know. It is that kind which I feel you might be. But +I do know that in the problem at hand I want your actions to be governed +by reason, not passion. Human life is not for any man to sacrifice +unless in self-defense or in protecting those dependent upon him. What +Stillwell and you hinted makes me afraid of Nels and Nick Steele and +Monty. Cannot they be controlled? I want to feel that they will not go +gunning for Don Carlos’s men. I want to avoid all violence. And yet +when my guests come I want to feel that they will be safe from danger or +fright or even annoyance. May I not rely wholly upon you, Stewart? Just +trust you to manage these obstreperous cowboys and protect my property +and Alfred’s, and take care of us—of me, until this revolution is +ended? I have never had a day’s worry since I bought the ranch. It is +not that I want to shirk my responsibilities; it is that I like being +happy. May I put so much faith in you?” + +“I hope so, Miss Hammond,” replied Stewart. It was an instant response, +but none the less fraught with consciousness of responsibility. He +waited a moment, and then, as neither Stillwell nor Madeline offered +further speech, he bowed and turned down the path, his long spurs +clinking in the gravel. + +“Wal, wal,” exclaimed Stillwell, “thet’s no little job you give him, +Miss Majesty.” + +“It was a woman’s cunning, Stillwell,” said Alfred. “My sister used to +be a wonder at getting her own way when we were kids. Just a smile +or two, a few sweet words or turns of thought, and she had what she +wanted.” + +“Al, what a character to give me!” protested Madeline. “Indeed, I was +deeply in earnest with Stewart. I do not understand just why, but I +trust him. He seems like iron and steel. Then I was a little frightened +at the prospect of trouble with the vaqueros. Both you and Stillwell +have influenced me to look upon Stewart as invaluable. I thought it best +to confess my utter helplessness and to look to him for support.” + +“Majesty, whatever actuated you, it was a stroke of diplomacy,” replied +her brother. “Stewart has got good stuff in him. He was down and out. +Well, he’s made a game fight, and it looks as if he’d win. Trusting +him, giving him responsibility, relying upon him, was the surest way to +strengthen his hold upon himself. Then that little touch of sentiment +about being your kind of cowboy and protecting you—well, if Gene +Stewart doesn’t develop into an Argus-eyed knight I’ll say I don’t know +cowboys. But, Majesty, remember, he’s a composite of tiger breed and +forked lightning, and don’t imagine he has failed you if he gets into a +fight. + +“I’ll sure tell you what Gene Stewart will do,” said Florence. “Don’t I +know cowboys? Why, they used to take me up on their horses when I was a +baby. Gene Stewart will be the kind of cowboy your sister said he might +be, whatever that is. She may not know and we may not guess, but he +knows.” + +“Wal, Flo, there you hit plumb center,” replied the old cattleman. “An’ +I couldn’t be gladder if he was my own son.” + + + + +X. Don Carlos’s Vaqueros + + +Early the following morning Stewart, with a company of cowboys, departed +for Don Carlos’s rancho. As the day wore on without any report from +him, Stillwell appeared to grow more at ease; and at nightfall he told +Madeline that he guessed there was now no reason for concern. + +“Wal, though it’s sure amazin’ strange,” he continued, “I’ve been +worryin’ some about how we was goin’ to fire Don Carlos. But Gene has a +way of doin’ things.” + +Next day Stillwell and Alfred decided to ride over Don Carlos’s place, +taking Madeline and Florence with them, and upon the return trip to stop +at Alfred’s ranch. They started in the cool, gray dawn, and after three +hours’ riding, as the sun began to get bright, they entered a mesquite +grove, surrounding corrals and barns, and a number of low, squat +buildings and a huge, rambling structure, all built of adobe and mostly +crumbling to ruin. Only one green spot relieved the bald red of grounds +and walls; and this evidently was made by the spring which had given +both value and fame to Don Carlos’s range. The approach to the house was +through a wide courtyard, bare, stony, hard packed, with hitching-rails +and watering-troughs in front of a long porch. Several dusty, tired +horses stood with drooping heads and bridles down, their wet flanks +attesting to travel just ended. + +“Wal, dog-gone it, Al, if there ain’t Pat Hawe’s hoss I’ll eat it,” + exclaimed Stillwell. + +“What’s Pat want here, anyhow?” growled Alfred. + +No one was in sight; but Madeline heard loud voices coming from the +house. Stillwell dismounted at the porch and stalked in at the door. +Alfred leaped off his horse, helped Florence and Madeline down, and, +bidding them rest and wait on the porch, he followed Stillwell. + +“I hate these Greaser places,” said Florence, with a grimace. “They’re +so mysterious and creepy. Just watch now! They’ll be dark-skinned, +beady-eyed, soft-footed Greasers slip right up out of the ground! +There’ll be an ugly face in every door and window and crack.” + +“It’s like a huge barn with its characteristic odor permeated by tobacco +smoke,” replied Madeline, sitting down beside Florence. “I don’t think +very much of this end of my purchase. Florence, isn’t that Don Carlos’s +black horse over there in the corral?” + +“It sure is. Then the Don’s heah yet. I wish we hadn’t been in such a +hurry to come over. There! that doesn’t sound encouraging.” + +From the corridor came the rattling of spurs, tramping of boots, and +loud voices. Madeline detected Alfred’s quick notes when he was annoyed: +“We’ll rustle back home, then,” he said. The answer came, “No!” Madeline +recognized Stewart’s voice, and she quickly straightened up. “I won’t +have them in here,” went on Alfred. + +“Outdoors or in, they’ve got to be with us!” replied Stewart, sharply. +“Listen, Al,” came the boom of Stillwell’s big voice, “now that we’ve +butted in over hyar with the girls, you let Stewart run things.” + +Then a crowd of men tramped pell-mell out upon the porch. Stewart, +dark-browed and somber, was in the lead. Nels hung close to him, and +Madeline’s quick glance saw that Nels had undergone some indescribable +change. The grinning, brilliant-eyed Don Carlos came jostling out beside +a gaunt, sharp-featured man wearing a silver shield. This, no doubt, +was Pat Hawe. In the background behind Stillwell and Alfred stood Nick +Steele, head and shoulders over a number of vaqueros and cowboys. + +“Miss Hammond, I’m sorry you came,” said Stewart, bluntly. “We’re in a +muddle here. I’ve insisted that you and Flo be kept close to us. I’ll +explain later. If you can’t stop your ears I beg you to overlook rough +talk.” + +With that he turned to the men behind him: “Nick, take Booly, go back to +Monty and the boys. Fetch out that stuff. All of it. Rustle, now!” + +Stillwell and Alfred disengaged themselves from the crowd to take up +positions in front of Madeline and Florence. Pat Hawe leaned against a +post and insolently ogled Madeline and then Florence. Don Carlos pressed +forward. His whole figure filled Madeline’s reluctant but fascinated +eyes. He wore tight velveteen breeches, with a heavy fold down the +outside seam, which was ornamented with silver buttons. Round his waist +was a sash, and a belt with fringed holster, from which protruded a +pearl-handled gun. A vest or waistcoat, richly embroidered, partly +concealed a blouse of silk and wholly revealed a silken scarf round his +neck. His swarthy face showed dark lines, like cords, under the surface. +His little eyes were exceedingly prominent and glittering. To Madeline +his face seemed to be a bold, handsome mask through which his eyes +piercingly betrayed the evil nature of the man. + +He bowed low with elaborate and sinuous grace. His smile revealed +brilliant teeth, enhanced the brilliance of his eyes. He slowly spread +deprecatory hands. + +“Senoritas, I beg a thousand pardons,” he said. How strange it was for +Madeline to hear English spoken in a soft, whiningly sweet accent! “The +gracious hospitality of Don Carlos has passed with his house.” + +Stewart stepped forward and, thrusting Don Carlos aside, he called, +“Make way, there!” + +The crowd fell back to the tramp of heavy boots. Cowboys appeared +staggering out of the corridor with long boxes. These they placed side +by side upon the floor of the porch. + +“Now, Hawe, we’ll proceed with our business,” said Stewart. “You see +these boxes, don’t you?” + +“I reckon I see a good many things round hyar,” replied Hawe, meaningly. + +“Well, do you intend to open these boxes upon my say-so?” + +“No!” retorted Hawe. “It’s not my place to meddle with property as come +by express an’ all accounted fer regular.” + +“You call yourself a sheriff!” exclaimed Stewart, scornfully. + +“Mebbe you’ll think so before long,” rejoined Hawe, sullenly. + +“I’ll open them. Here, one of you boys, knock the tops off these boxes,” + ordered Stewart. “No, not you, Monty. You use your eyes. Let Booly +handle the ax. Rustle, now!” + +Monty Price had jumped out of the crowd into the middle of the porch. +The manner in which he gave way to Booly and faced the vaqueros was not +significant of friendliness or trust. + +“Stewart, you’re dead wrong to bust open them boxes. Thet’s ag’in’ the +law,” protested Hawe, trying to interfere. + +Stewart pushed him back. Then Don Carlos, who had been stunned by the +appearance of the boxes, suddenly became active in speech and person. +Stewart thrust him back also. The Mexican’s excitement increased. He +wildly gesticulated; he exclaimed shrilly in Spanish. When, however, the +lids were wrenched open and an inside packing torn away he grew rigid +and silent. Madeline raised herself behind Stillwell to see that the +boxes were full of rifles and ammunition. + +“There, Hawe! What did I tell you?” demanded Stewart. “I came over here +to take charge of this ranch. I found these boxes hidden in an unused +room. I suspected what they were. Contraband goods!” + +“Wal, supposin’ they are? I don’t see any call fer sech all-fired fuss +as you’re makin’. Stewart, I calkilate you’re some stuck on your new job +an’ want to make a big show before—” + +“Hawe, stop slinging that kind of talk,” interrupted Stewart. “You +got too free with your mouth once before! Now here, I’m supposed to +be consulting an officer of the law. Will you take charge of these +contraband goods?” + +“Say, you’re holdin’ on high an’ mighty,” replied Hawe, in astonishment +that was plainly pretended. “What ‘re you drivin’ at?” + +Stewart muttered an imprecation. He took several swift strides across +the porch; he held out his hands to Stillwell as if to indicate the +hopelessness of intelligent and reasonable arbitration; he looked at +Madeline with a glance eloquent of his regret that he could not handle +the situation to please her. Then as he wheeled he came face to face +with Nels, who had slipped forward out of the crowd. + +Madeline gathered serious import from the steel-blue meaning flash +of eyes whereby Nels communicated something to Stewart. Whatever that +something was, it dispelled Stewart’s impatience. A slight movement of +his hand brought Monty Price forward with a jump. In these sudden jumps +of Monty’s there was a suggestion of restrained ferocity. Then Nels +and Monty lined up behind Stewart. It was a deliberate action, even to +Madeline, unmistakably formidable. Pat Hawe’s face took on an ugly look; +his eyes had a reddish gleam. Don Carlos added a pale face and extreme +nervousness to his former expressions of agitation. The cowboys edged +away from the vaqueros and the bronzed, bearded horsemen who were +evidently Hawe’s assistants. + +“I’m driving at this,” spoke up Stewart, presently; and now he was slow +and caustic. “Here’s contraband of war! Hawe, do you get that? Arms and +ammunition for the rebels across the border! I charge you as an officer +to confiscate these goods and to arrest the smuggler—Don Carlos.” + +These words of Stewart’s precipitated a riot among Don Carlos and his +followers, and they surged wildly around the sheriff. There was an +upflinging of brown, clenching hands, a shrill, jabbering babel of +Mexican voices. The crowd around Don Carlos grew louder and denser +with the addition of armed vaqueros and barefooted stable-boys and +dusty-booted herdsmen and blanketed Mexicans, the last of whom suddenly +slipped from doors and windows and round comers. It was a motley +assemblage. The laced, fringed, ornamented vaqueros presented a sharp +contrast to the bare-legged, sandal-footed boys and the ragged herders. +Shrill cries, evidently from Don Carlos, somewhat quieted the commotion. +Then Don Carlos could be heard addressing Sheriff Hawe in an exhortation +of mingled English and Spanish. He denied, he avowed, he proclaimed, +and all in rapid, passionate utterance. He tossed his black hair in +his vehemence; he waved his fists and stamped the floor; he rolled +his glittering eyes; he twisted his thin lips into a hundred different +shapes, and like a cornered wolf showed snarling white teeth. + +It seemed to Madeline that Don Carlos denied knowledge of the boxes of +contraband goods, then knowledge of their real contents, then knowledge +of their destination, and, finally, everything except that they were +there in sight, damning witnesses to somebody’s complicity in the +breaking of neutrality laws. Passionate as had been his denial of all +this, it was as nothing compared to his denunciation of Stewart. + +“Senor Stewart, he keel my Vaquero!” shouted Don Carlos, as, sweating +and spent, he concluded his arraignment of the cowboy. “Him you must +arrest! Senor Stewart a bad man! He keel my vaquero!” + +“Do you hear thet?” yelled Hawe. “The Don’s got you figgered fer thet +little job at El Cajon last fall.” + +The clamor burst into a roar. Hawe began shaking his finger in Stewart’s +face and hoarsely shouting. Then a lithe young vaquero, swift as +an Indian, glided under Hawe’s uplifted arm. Whatever the action he +intended, he was too late for its execution. Stewart lunged out, +struck the vaquero, and knocked him off the porch. As he fell a dagger +glittered in the sunlight and rolled clinking over the stones. The man +went down hard and did not move. With the same abrupt violence, and a +manner of contempt, Stewart threw Hawe off the porch, then Don Carlos, +who, being less supple, fell heavily. Then the mob backed before +Stewart’s rush until all were down in the courtyard. + +The shuffling of feet ceased, the clanking of spurs, and the shouting. +Nels and Monty, now reinforced by Nick Steele, were as shadows of +Stewart, so closely did they follow him. Stewart waved them back and +stepped down into the yard. He was absolutely fearless; but what struck +Madeline so keenly was his magnificent disdain. Manifestly, he knew the +nature of the men with whom he was dealing. From the look of him it was +natural for Madeline to expect them to give way before him, which they +did, even Hawe and his attendants sullenly retreating. + +Don Carlos got up to confront Stewart. The prostrate vaquero stirred and +moaned, but did not rise. + +“You needn’t jibber Spanish to me,” said Stewart. “You can talk +American, and you can understand American. If you start a rough-house +here you and your Greasers will be cleaned up. You’ve got to leave this +ranch. You can have the stock, the packs and traps in the second corral. +There’s grub, too. Saddle up and hit the trail. Don Carlos, I’m dealing +more than square with you. You’re lying about these boxes of guns and +cartridges. You’re breaking the laws of my country, and you’re doing +it on property in my charge. If I let smuggling go on here I’d be +implicated myself. Now you get off the range. If you don’t I’ll have the +United States cavalry here in six hours, and you can gamble they’ll get +what my cowboys leave of you.” + +Don Carlos was either a capital actor and gratefully relieved at +Stewart’s leniency or else he was thoroughly cowed by references to the +troops. “Si, Senor! Gracias, Senor!” he exclaimed; and then, turning +away, he called to his men. They hurried after him, while the fallen +vaquero got to his feet with Stewart’s help and staggered across the +courtyard. In a moment they were gone, leaving Hawe and his several +comrades behind. + +Hawe was spitefully ejecting a wad of tobacco from his mouth and +swearing in an undertone about “white-livered Greasers.” He cocked his +red eye speculatively at Stewart. + +“Wal, I reckon as you’re so hell-bent on doin’ it up brown thet you’ll +try to fire me off’n the range, too?” + +“If I ever do, Pat, you’ll need to be carried off,” replied Stewart. +“Just now I’m politely inviting you and your deputy sheriffs to leave.” + +“We’ll go; but we’re comin’ back one of these days, an’ when we do we’ll +put you in irons.” + +“Hawe, if you’ve got it in that bad for me, come over here in the corral +and let’s fight it out.” + +“I’m an officer, an’ I don’t fight outlaws an’ sich except when I hev to +make arrests.” + +“Officer! You’re a disgrace to the county. If you ever did get irons on +me you’d take me some place out of sight, shoot me, and then swear you +killed me in self-defense. It wouldn’t be the first time you pulled that +trick, Pat Hawe.” + +“Ho, ho!” laughed Hawe, derisively. Then he started toward the horses. + +Stewart’s long arm shot out, his hand clapped on Hawe’s shoulder, +spinning him round like a top. + +“You’re leaving, Pat, but before you leave you’ll come out with your +play or you’ll crawl,” said Stewart. “You’ve got it in for me, man to +man. Speak up now and prove you’re not the cowardly skunk I’ve always +thought you. I’ve called your hand.” + +Pat Hawe’s face turned a blackish-purple hue. + +“You can jest bet thet I’ve got it in fer you,” he shouted, hoarsely. +“You’re only a low-down cow-puncher. You never hed a dollar or a decent +job till you was mixed up with thet Hammond woman—” + +Stewart’s hand flashed out and hit Hawe’s face in a ringing slap. The +sheriff’s head jerked back, his sombrero fell to the ground. As he bent +over to reach it his hand shook, his arm shook, his whole body shook. + +Monty Price jumped straight forward and crouched down with a strange, +low cry. + +Stewart seemed all at once rigid, bending a little. + +“Say Miss Hammond, if there’s occasion to use her name,” said Stewart, +in a voice that seemed coolly pleasant, yet had a deadly undernote. + +Hawe did a moment’s battle with strangling fury, which he conquered in +some measure. + +“I said you was a low-down, drunken cow-puncher, a tough as damn near a +desperado as we ever hed on the border,” went on Hawe, deliberately. His +speech appeared to be addressed to Stewart, although his flame-pointed +eyes were riveted upon Monty Price. “I know you plugged that vaquero +last fall, an’ when I git my proof I’m comin’ after you.” + +“That’s all right, Hawe. You can call me what you like, and you can come +after me when you like,” replied Stewart. “But you’re going to get in +bad with me. You’re in bad now with Monty and Nels. Pretty soon you’ll +queer yourself with all the cowboys and the ranchers, too. If that don’t +put sense into you—Here, listen to this. You knew what these boxes +contained. You know Don Carlos has been smuggling arms and ammunition +across the border. You know he is hand and glove with the rebels. You’ve +been wearing blinders, and it has been to your interest. Take a hunch +from me. That’s all. Light out now, and the less we see of your handsome +mug the better we’ll like you.” + +Muttering, cursing, pallid of face, Hawe climbed astride his horse. +His comrades followed suit. Certain it appeared that the sheriff +was contending with more than fear and wrath. He must have had an +irresistible impulse to fling more invective and threat upon Stewart, +but he was speechless. Savagely he spurred his horse, and as it snorted +and leaped he turned in his saddle, shaking his fist. His comrades led +the way, with their horses clattering into a canter. They disappeared +through the gate. + + * * * + +When, later in the day, Madeline and Florence, accompanied by Alfred and +Stillwell, left Don Carlos’s ranch it was not any too soon for +Madeline. The inside of the Mexican’s home was more unprepossessing and +uncomfortable than the outside. The halls were dark, the rooms huge, +empty, and musty; and there was an air of silence and secrecy and +mystery about them most fitting to the character Florence had bestowed +upon the place. + +On the other hand, Alfred’s ranch-house, where the party halted to spend +the night, was picturesquely located, small and cozy, camplike in its +arrangement, and altogether agreeable to Madeline. + +The day’s long rides and the exciting events had wearied her. She rested +while Florence and the two men got supper. During the meal Stillwell +expressed satisfaction over the good riddance of the vaqueros, and with +his usual optimism trusted he had seen the last of them. Alfred, too, +took a decidedly favorable view of the day’s proceedings. However, it +was not lost upon Madeline that Florence appeared unusually quiet and +thoughtful. Madeline wondered a little at the cause. She remembered +that Stewart had wanted to come with them, or detail a few cowboys to +accompany them, but Alfred had laughed at the idea and would have none +of it. + +After supper Alfred monopolized the conversation by describing what he +wanted to do to improve his home before he and Florence were married. + +Then at an early hour they all retired. + +Madeline’s deep slumbers were disturbed by a pounding upon the wall, and +then by Florence’s crying out in answer to a call: + +“Get up! Throw some clothes on and come out!” + +It was Alfred’s voice. + +“What’s the matter?” asked Florence, as she slipped out of bed. + +“Alfred, is there anything wrong?” added Madeline, sitting up. + +The room was dark as pitch, but a faint glow seemed to mark the position +of the window. + +“Oh, nothing much,” replied Alfred. “Only Don Carlos’s rancho going up +in smoke.” + +“Fire!” cried Florence, sharply. + +“You’ll think so when you see it. Hurry out. Majesty, old girl, now you +won’t have to tear down that heap of adobe, as you threatened. I don’t +believe a wall will stand after that fire.” + +“Well, I’m glad of it,” said Madeline. “A good healthy fire will purify +the atmosphere over there and save me expense. Ugh! that haunted rancho +got on my nerves! Florence, I do believe you’ve appropriated part of my +riding-habit. Doesn’t Alfred have lights in this house?” + +Florence laughingly helped Madeline to dress. Then they hurriedly +stumbled over chairs, and, passing through the dining-room, went out +upon the porch. + +Away to the westward, low down along the horizon, she saw leaping red +flames and wind-swept columns of smoke. + +Stillwell appeared greatly perturbed. + +“Al, I’m lookin’ fer that ammunition to blow up,” he said. “There was +enough of it to blow the roof off the rancho.” + +“Bill, surely the cowboys would get that stuff out the first thing,” + replied Alfred, anxiously. + +“I reckon so. But all the same, I’m worryin’. Mebbe there wasn’t time. +Supposin’ thet powder went off as the boys was goin’ fer it or carryin’ +it out! We’ll know soon. If the explosion doesn’t come quick now we can +figger the boys got the boxes out.” + +For the next few moments there was a silence of sustained and painful +suspense. Florence gripped Madeline’s arm. Madeline felt a fullness in +her throat and a rapid beating of her heart. Presently she was relieved +with the others when Stillwell declared the danger of an explosion +needed to be feared no longer. + +“Sure you can gamble on Gene Stewart,” he added. + +The night happened to be partly cloudy, with broken rifts showing the +moon, and the wind blew unusually strong. The brightness of the fire +seemed subdued. It was like a huge bonfire smothered by some great +covering, penetrated by different, widely separated points of flame. +These corners of flame flew up, curling in the wind, and then died down. +Thus the scene was constantly changing from dull light to dark. +There came a moment when a blacker shade overspread the wide area of +flickering gleams and then obliterated them. Night enfolded the scene. +The moon peeped a curved yellow rim from under broken clouds. To all +appearances the fire had burned itself out. But suddenly a pinpoint of +light showed where all had been dense black. It grew and became long and +sharp. It moved. It had life. It leaped up. Its color warmed from white +to red. Then from all about it burst flame on flame, to leap into a +great changing pillar of fire that climbed high and higher. Huge funnels +of smoke, yellow, black, white, all tinged with the color of fire, +slanted skyward, drifting away on the wind. + +“Wal, I reckon we won’t hev the good of them two thousand tons of +alfalfa we was figgerin’ on,” remarked Stillwell. + +“Ah! Then that last outbreak of fire was burning hay,” said Madeline. +“I do not regret the rancho. But it’s too bad to lose such a quantity of +good feed for the stock.” + +“It’s lost, an’ no mistake. The fire’s dyin’ as quick as she flared +up. Wal, I hope none of the boys got risky to save a saddle or blanket. +Monty—he’s hell on runnin’ the gantlet of fire. He’s like a hoss that’s +jest been dragged out of a burnin’ stable an’ runs back sure locoed. +There! She’s smolderin’ down now. Reckon we-all might jest as well turn +in again. It’s only three o’clock.” + +“I wonder how the fire originated?” remarked Alfred. “Some careless +cowboy’s cigarette, I’ll bet.” + +Stillwell rolled out his laugh. + +“Al, you sure are a free-hearted, trustin’ feller. I’m some doubtin’ the +cigarette idee; but you can gamble if it was a cigarette it belonged to +a cunnin’ vaquero, an’ wasn’t dropped accident-like.” + +“Now, Bill, you don’t mean Don Carlos burned the rancho?” ejaculated +Alfred, in mingled amaze and anger. + +Again the old cattleman laughed. + +“Powerful strange to say, my friend, ole Bill means jest thet.” + +“Of course Don Carlos set that fire,” put in Florence, with spirit. “Al, +if you live out heah a hundred years you’ll never learn that Greasers +are treacherous. I know Gene Stewart suspected something underhand. +That’s why he wanted us to hurry away. That’s why he put me on the black +horse of Don Carlos’s. He wants that horse for himself, and feared the +Don would steal or shoot him. And you, Bill Stillwell, you’re as bad as +Al. You never distrust anybody till it’s too late. You’ve been singing +ever since Stewart ordered the vaqueros off the range. But you sure +haven’t been thinking.” + +“Wal, now, Flo, you needn’t pitch into me jest because I hev a natural +Christian spirit,” replied Stillwell, much aggrieved. “I reckon I’ve +hed enough trouble in my life so’s not to go lookin’ fer more. Wal, I’m +sorry about the hay burnin’. But mebbe the boys saved the stock. An’ +as fer that ole adobe house of dark holes an’ under-ground passages, so +long’s Miss Majesty doesn’t mind, I’m darn glad it burned. Come, let’s +all turn in again. Somebody’ll ride over early an’ tell us what’s what.” + +Madeline awakened early, but not so early as the others, who were up and +had breakfast ready when she went into the dining-room. Stillwell was +not in an amiable frame of mind. The furrows of worry lined his broad +brow and he continually glanced at his watch, and growled because +the cowboys were so late in riding over with the news. He gulped his +breakfast, and while Madeline and the others ate theirs he tramped +up and down the porch. Madeline noted that Alfred grew nervous and +restless. Presently he left the table to join Stillwell outside. + +“They’ll slope off to Don Carlos’s rancho and leave us to ride home +alone,” observed Florence. + +“Do you mind?” questioned Madeline. + +“No, I don’t exactly mind; we’ve got the fastest horses in this country. +I’d like to run that big black devil off his legs. No, I don’t mind; but +I’ve no hankering for a situation Gene Stewart thinks—” + +Florence began disconnectedly, and she ended evasively. Madeline did +not press the point, although she had some sense of misgiving. Stillwell +tramped in, shaking the floor with his huge boots; Alfred followed him, +carrying a field-glass. + +“Not a hoss in sight,” complained Stillwell. “Some-thin’ wrong over Don +Carlos’s way. Miss Majesty, it’ll be jest as well fer you an’ Flo to hit +the home trail. We can telephone over an’ see that the boys know you’re +comin’.” + +Alfred, standing in the door, swept the gray valley with his +field-glass. + +“Bill, I see running stock-horses or cattle; I can’t make out which. I +guess we’d better rustle over there.” + +Both men hurried out, and while the horses were being brought up and +saddled Madeline and Florence put away the breakfast-dishes, then +speedily donned spurs, sombreros, and gauntlets. + +“Here are the horses ready,” called Alfred. “Flo, that black Mexican +horse is a prince.” + +The girls went out in time to hear Stillwell’s good-by as he mounted and +spurred away. Alfred went through the motions of assisting Madeline and +Florence to mount, which assistance they always flouted, and then he, +too, swung up astride. + +“I guess it’s all right,” he said, rather dubiously. “You really must +not go over toward Don Carlos’s. It’s only a few miles home.” + +“Sure it’s all right. We can ride, can’t we?” retorted Florence. “Better +have a care for yourself, going off over there to mix in goodness knows +what.” + +Alfred said good-by, spurred his horse, and rode away. + +“If Bill didn’t forget to telephone!” exclaimed Florence. “I declare he +and Al were sure rattled.” + +Florence dismounted and went into the house. She left the door open. +Madeline had some difficulty in holding Majesty. It struck Madeline that +Florence stayed rather long indoors. Presently she came out with sober +face and rather tight lips. + +“I couldn’t get anybody on the ’phone. No answer. I tried a dozen +times.” + +“Why, Florence!” Madeline was more concerned by the girl’s looks than by +the information she imparted. + +“The wire’s been cut,” said Florence. Her gray glance swept swiftly +after Alfred, who was now far out of earshot. “I don’t like this a +little bit. Heah’s where I’ve got to ‘figger,’ as Bill says.” + +She pondered a moment, then hurried into the house, to return presently +with the field-glass that Alfred had used. With this she took a survey +of the valley, particularly in the direction of Madeline’s ranch-house. +This was hidden by low, rolling ridges which were quite close by. + +“Anyway, nobody in that direction can see us leave heah,” she mused. +“There’s mesquite on the ridges. We’ve got cover long enough to save us +till we can see what’s ahead.” + +“Florence, what—what do you expect?” asked Madeline, nervously. + +“I don’t know. There’s never any telling about Greasers. I wish Bill and +Al hadn’t left us. Still, come to think of that, they couldn’t help us +much in case of a chase. We’d run right away from them. Besides, they’d +shoot. I guess I’m as well as satisfied that we’ve got the job of +getting home on our own hands. We don’t dare follow Al toward Don +Carlos’s ranch. We know there’s trouble over there. So all that’s left +is to hit the trail for home. Come, let’s ride. You stick like a Spanish +needle to me.” + +A heavy growth of mesquite covered the top of the first ridge, and the +trail went through it. Florence took the lead, proceeding cautiously, +and as soon as she could see over the summit she used the field-glass. +Then she went on. Madeline, following closely, saw down the slope of the +ridge to a bare, wide, grassy hollow, and onward to more rolling land, +thick with cactus and mesquite. Florence appeared cautious, deliberate, +yet she lost no time. She was ominously silent. Madeline’s misgivings +took definite shape in the fear of vaqueros in ambush. + +Upon the ascent of the third ridge, which Madeline remembered was the +last uneven ground between the point she had reached and home, Florence +exercised even more guarded care in advancing. Before she reached the +top of this ridge she dismounted, looped her bridle round a dead snag, +and, motioning Madeline to wait, she slipped ahead through the mesquite +out of sight. Madeline waited, anxiously listening and watching. Certain +it was that she could not see or hear anything alarming. The sun began +to have a touch of heat; the morning breeze rustled the thin mesquite +foliage; the deep magenta of a cactus flower caught her eye; a +long-tailed, cruel-beaked, brown bird sailed so close to her she could +have touched it with her whip. But she was only vaguely aware of these +things. She was watching for Florence, listening for some sound fraught +with untoward meaning. All of a sudden she saw Majesty’s ears were held +straight up. Then Florence’s face, now strangely white, showed round the +turn of the trail. + +“’S-s-s-sh!” whispered Florence, holding up a warning finger. She +reached the black horse and petted him, evidently to still an uneasiness +he manifested. “We’re in for it,” she went on. “A whole bunch of +vaqueros hiding among the mesquite over the ridge! They’ve not seen or +heard us yet. We’d better risk riding ahead, cut off the trail, and beat +them to the ranch. Madeline, you’re white as death! Don’t faint now!” + +“I shall not faint. But you frighten me. Is there danger? What shall we +do?” + +“There’s danger. Madeline, I wouldn’t deceive you,” went on Florence, in +an earnest whisper. “Things have turned out just as Gene Stewart hinted. +Oh, we should—Al should have listened to Gene! I believe—I’m afraid +Gene knew!” + +“Knew what?” asked Madeline. + +“Never mind now. Listen. We daren’t take the back trail. We’ll go +on. I’ve a scheme to fool that grinning Don Carlos. Get down, +Madeline—hurry.” + +Madeline dismounted. + +“Give me your white sweater. Take it off—And that white hat! Hurry, +Madeline.” + +“Florence, what on earth do you mean?” cried Madeline. + +“Not so loud,” whispered the other. Her gray eyes snapped. She had +divested herself of sombrero and jacket, which she held out to Madeline. +“Heah. Take these. Give me yours. Then get up on the black. I’ll ride +Majesty. Rustle now, Madeline. This is no time to talk.” + +“But, dear, why—why do you want—? Ah! You’re going to make the +vaqueros take you for me!” + +“You guessed it. Will you—” + +“I shall not allow you to do anything of the kind,” returned Madeline. + +It was then that Florence’s face, changing, took on the hard, stern +sharpness so typical of a cowboy’s. Madeline had caught glimpses of that +expression in Alfred’s face, and on Stewart’s when he was silent, and +on Stillwell’s always. It was a look of iron and fire—unchangeable, +unquenchable will. There was even much of violence in the swift action +whereby Florence compelled Madeline to the change of apparel. + +“It ’d been my idea, anyhow, if Stewart hadn’t told me to do it,” + said Florence, her words as swift as her hands. “Don Carlos is after +you—you, Miss Madeline Hammond! He wouldn’t ambush a trail for any one +else. He’s not killing cowboys these days. He wants you for some reason. +So Gene thought, and now I believe him. Well, we’ll know for sure in +five minutes. You ride the black; I’ll ride Majesty. We’ll slip round +through the brush, out of sight and sound, till we can break out into +the open. Then we’ll split. You make straight for the ranch. I’ll cut +loose for the valley where Gene said positively the cowboys were with +the cattle. The vaqueros will take me for you. They all know those +striking white things you wear. They’ll chase me. They’ll never get +anywhere near me. And you’ll be on a fast horse. He can take you home +ahead of any vaqueros. But you won’t be chased. I’m staking all on that. +Trust me, Madeline. If it were only my calculation, maybe I’d—It’s +because I remember Stewart. That cowboy knows things. Come, this heah’s +the safest and smartest way to fool Don Carlos.” Madeline felt herself +more forced than persuaded into acquiescence. She mounted the black and +took up the bridle. In another moment she was guiding her horse off +the trail in the tracks of Majesty. Florence led off at right angles, +threading a slow passage through the mesquite. She favored sandy patches +and open aisles between the trees, and was careful not to break a +branch. Often she stopped to listen. This detour of perhaps half a mile +brought Madeline to where she could see open ground, the ranch-house +only a few miles off, and the cattle dotting the valley. She had not +lost her courage, but it was certain that these familiar sights somewhat +lightened the pressure upon her breast. Excitement gripped her. The +shrill whistle of a horse made both the black and Majesty jump. Florence +quickened the gait down the slope. Soon Madeline saw the edge of the +brush, the gray-bleached grass and level ground. + +Florence waited at the opening between the low trees. She gave Madeline +a quick, bright glance. + +“All over but the ride! That’ll sure be easy. Bolt now and keep your +nerve!” + +When Florence wheeled the fiery roan and screamed in his ear Madeline +seemed suddenly to grow lax and helpless. The big horse leaped into +thundering action. This was memorable of Bonita of the flying hair and +the wild night ride. Florence’s hair streamed on the wind and shone gold +in the sunlight. Yet Madeline saw her with the same thrill with which +she had seen the wild-riding Bonita. Then hoarse shouts unclamped +Madeline’s power of movement, and she spurred the black into the open. + +He wanted to run and he was swift. Madeline loosened the reins—laid +them loose upon his neck. His action was strange to her. He was hard +to ride. But he was fast, and she cared for nothing else. Madeline knew +horses well enough to realize that the black had found he was free and +carrying a light weight. A few times she took up the bridle and pulled +to right or left, trying to guide him. He kept a straight course, +however, and crashed through small patches of mesquite and jumped the +cracks and washes. Uneven ground offered no perceptible obstacle to his +running. To Madeline there was now a thrilling difference in the lash of +wind and the flash of the gray ground underneath. She was running away +from something; what that was she did not know. But she remembered +Florence, and she wanted to look back, yet hated to do so for fear of +the nameless danger Florence had mentioned. + +Madeline listened for the pounding of pursuing hoofs in her rear. +Involuntarily she glanced back. On the mile or more of gray level +between her and the ridge there was not a horse, a man, or anything +living. She wheeled to look back on the other side, down the valley +slope. + +The sight of Florence riding Majesty in zigzag flight before a whole +troop of vaqueros blanched Madeline’s cheek and made her grip the pommel +of her saddle in terror. That strange gait of her roan was not his +wonderful stride. Could Majesty be running wild? Madeline saw one +vaquero draw closer, whirling his lasso round his head, but he did not +get near enough to throw. So it seemed to Madeline. Another vaquero +swept across in front of the first one. Then, when Madeline gasped in +breathless expectancy, the roan swerved to elude the attack. It flashed +over Madeline that Florence was putting the horse to some such awkward +flight as might have been expected of an Eastern girl frightened out of +her wits. Madeline made sure of this when, after looking again, she saw +that Florence, in spite of the horse’s breaking gait and the irregular +course, was drawing slowly and surely down the valley. + +Madeline had not lost her head to the extent of forgetting her own mount +and the nature of the ground in front. When, presently, she turned again +to watch Florence, uncertainty ceased in her mind. The strange features +of that race between girl and vaqueros were no longer in evidence. +Majesty was in his beautiful, wonderful stride, low down along the +ground, stretching, with his nose level and straight for the valley. +Between him and the lean horses in pursuit lay an ever-increasing space. +He was running away from the vaqueros. Florence was indeed “riding the +wind,” as Stewart had aptly expressed his idea of flight upon the fleet +roan. + +A dimness came over Madeline’s eyes, and it was not all owing to the +sting of the wind. She rubbed it away, seeing Florence as a flying +dot in a strange blur. What a daring, intrepid girl! This kind of +strength—and aye, splendid thought for a weaker sister—was what the +West inculcated in a woman. + +The next time Madeline looked back Florence was far ahead of her +pursuers and going out of sight behind a low knoll. Assured of +Florence’s safety, Madeline put her mind to her own ride and the +possibilities awaiting at the ranch. She remembered the failure to +get any of her servants or cowboys on the telephone. To be sure, a +wind-storm had once broken the wire. But she had little real hope of +such being the case in this instance. She rode on, pulling the black as +she neared the ranch. Her approach was from the south and off the usual +trail, so that she went up the long slope of the knoll toward the back +of the house. Under these circumstances she could not consider it out of +the ordinary that she did not see any one about the grounds. + +It was perhaps fortunate for her, she thought, that the climb up the +slope cut the black’s speed so she could manage him. He was not very +hard to stop. The moment she dismounted, however, he jumped and trotted +off. At the edge of the slope, facing the corrals, he halted to lift +his head and shoot up his ears. Then he let out a piercing whistle and +dashed down the lane. + +Madeline, prepared by that warning whistle, tried to fortify herself for +a new and unexpected situation; but as she espied an unfamiliar company +of horsemen rapidly riding down a hollow leading from the foothills she +felt the return of fears gripping at her like cold hands, and she fled +precipitously into the house. + + + + +XI. A Band of Guerrillas + + +Madeline bolted the door, and, flying into the kitchen, she told the +scared servants to shut themselves in. Then she ran to her own rooms. +It was only a matter of a few moments for her to close and bar the heavy +shutters, yet even as she was fastening the last one in the room she +used as an office a clattering roar of hoofs seemed to swell up to the +front of the house. She caught a glimpse of wild, shaggy horses and +ragged, dusty men. She had never seen any vaqueros that resembled these +horsemen. Vaqueros had grace and style; they were fond of lace and +glitter and fringe; they dressed their horses in silvered trappings. But +the riders now trampling into the driveway were uncouth, lean, savage. +They were guerrillas, a band of the raiders who had been harassing the +border since the beginning of the revolution. A second glimpse assured +Madeline that they were not all Mexicans. + +The presence of outlaws in that band brought home to Madeline her real +danger. She remembered what Stillwell had told her about recent outlaw +raids along the Rio Grande. These flying bands, operating under the +excitement of the revolution, appeared here and there, everywhere, in +remote places, and were gone as quickly as they came. Mostly they wanted +money and arms, but they would steal anything, and unprotected women had +suffered at their hands. + +Madeline, hurriedly collecting her securities and the considerable money +she had in her desk, ran out, closed and locked the door, crossed the +patio to the opposite side of the house, and, entering again, went down +a long corridor, trying to decide which of the many unused rooms would +be best to hide in. And before she made up her mind she came to the last +room. Just then a battering on door or window in the direction of the +kitchen and shrill screams from the servant women increased Madeline’s +alarm. + +She entered the last room. There was no lock or bar upon the door. But +the room was large and dark, and it was half full of bales of alfalfa +hay. Probably it was the safest place in the house; at least time would +be necessary to find any one hidden there. She dropped her valuables in +a dark corner and covered them with loose hay. That done, she felt +her way down a narrow aisle between the piled-up bales and presently +crouched in a niche. + +With the necessity of action over for the immediate present, Madeline +became conscious that she was quivering and almost breathless. Her skin +felt tight and cold. There was a weight on her chest; her mouth was dry, +and she had a strange tendency to swallow. Her listening faculty seemed +most acute. Dull sounds came from parts of the house remote from her. +In the intervals of silence between these sounds she heard the squeaking +and rustling of mice in the hay. A mouse ran over her hand. + +She listened, waiting, hoping yet dreading to hear the clattering +approach of her cowboys. There would be fighting—blood—men injured, +perhaps killed. Even the thought of violence of any kind hurt her. But +perhaps the guerrillas would run in time to avoid a clash with her men. +She hoped for that, prayed for it. Through her mind flitted what she +knew of Nels, of Monty, of Nick Steele; and she experienced a sensation +that left her somewhat chilled and sick. Then she thought of the +dark-browed, fire-eyed Stewart. She felt a thrill drive away the cold +nausea. And her excitement augmented. + +Waiting, listening increased all her emotions. Nothing appeared to +be happening. Yet hours seemed to pass while she crouched there. Had +Florence been overtaken? Could any of those lean horses outrun Majesty? +She doubted it; she knew it could not be true. Nevertheless, the strain +of uncertainty was torturing. + +Suddenly the bang of the corridor door pierced her through and through +with the dread of uncertainty. Some of the guerrillas had entered the +east wing of the house. She heard a babel of jabbering voices, the +shuffling of boots and clinking of spurs, the slamming of doors and +ransacking of rooms. + +Madeline lost faith in her hiding-place. Moreover, she found it +impossible to take the chance. The idea of being caught in that dark +room by those ruffians filled her with horror. She must get out into the +light. Swiftly she rose and went to the window. It was rather more of a +door than window, being a large aperture closed by two wooden doors on +hinges. The iron hook yielded readily to her grasp, and one door stuck +fast, while the other opened a few inches. She looked out upon a green +slope covered with flowers and bunches of sage and bushes. Neither man +nor horse showed in the narrow field of her vision. She believed she +would be safer hidden out there in the shrubbery than in the house. The +jump from the window would be easy for her. And with her quick decision +came a rush and stir of spirit that warded off her weakness. + +She pulled at the door. It did not budge. It had caught at the bottom. +Pulling with all her might proved to be in vain. Pausing, with palms hot +and bruised, she heard a louder, closer approach of the invaders of her +home. Fear, wrath, and impotence contested for supremacy over her and +drove her to desperation. She was alone here, and she must rely on +herself. And as she strained every muscle to move that obstinate door +and heard the quick, harsh voices of men and the sounds of a hurried +search she suddenly felt sure that they were hunting for her. She +knew it. She did not wonder at it. But she wondered if she were really +Madeline Hammond, and if it were possible that brutal men would harm +her. Then the tramping of heavy feet on the floor of the adjoining room +lent her the last strength of fear. Pushing with hands and shoulders, +she moved the door far enough to permit the passage of her body. Then +she stepped up on the sill and slipped through the aperture. She saw no +one. Lightly she jumped down and ran in among the bushes. But these +did not afford her the cover she needed. She stole from one clump to +another, finding too late that she had chosen with poor judgment. The +position of the bushes had drawn her closer to the front of the house +rather than away from it, and just before her were horses, and beyond +a group of excited men. With her heart in her throat Madeline crouched +down. + +A shrill yell, followed by running and mounting guerrillas, roused her +hope. They had sighted the cowboys and were in flight. Rapid thumping of +boots on the porch told of men hurrying from the house. Several horses +dashed past her, not ten feet distant. One rider saw her, for he turned +to shout back. This drove Madeline into a panic. Hardly knowing what she +did, she began to run away from the house. Her feet seemed leaden. She +felt the same horrible powerlessness that sometimes came over her when +she dreamed of being pursued. Horses with shouting riders streaked +past her in the shrubbery. There was a thunder of hoofs behind her. She +turned aside, but the thundering grew nearer. She was being run down. + +As Madeline shut her eyes and, staggering, was about to fall, apparently +right under pounding hoofs, a rude, powerful hand clapped round her +waist, clutched deep and strong, and swung her aloft. She felt a heavy +blow when the shoulder of the horse struck her, and then a wrenching of +her arm as she was dragged up. A sudden blighting pain made sight and +feeling fade from her. + +But she did not become unconscious to the extent that she lost the sense +of being rapidly borne away. She seemed to hold that for a long time. +When her faculties began to return the motion of the horse was no +longer violent. For a few moments she could not determine her position. +Apparently she was upside down. Then she saw that she was facing the +ground, and must be lying across a saddle with her head hanging down. +She could not move a hand; she could not tell where her hands were. Then +she felt the touch of soft leather. She saw a high-topped Mexican boot, +wearing a huge silver spur, and the reeking flank and legs of a horse, +and a dusty, narrow trail. Soon a kind of red darkness veiled her eyes, +her head swam, and she felt motion and pain only dully. + +After what seemed a thousand weary hours some one lifted her from the +horse and laid her upon the ground, where, gradually, as the blood +left her head and she could see, she began to get the right relation of +things. + +She lay in a sparse grove of firs, and the shadows told of late +afternoon. She smelled wood smoke, and she heard the sharp crunch of +horses’ teeth nipping grass. Voices caused her to turn her face. A group +of men stood and sat round a camp-fire eating like wolves. The looks of +her captors made Madeline close her eyes, and the fascination, the +fear they roused in her made her open them again. Mostly they were +thin-bodied, thin-bearded Mexicans, black and haggard and starved. +Whatever they might be, they surely were hunger-stricken and squalid. +Not one had a coat. A few had scarfs. Some wore belts in which were +scattered cartridges. Only a few had guns, and these were of diverse +patterns. Madeline could see no packs, no blankets, and only a few +cooking-utensils, all battered and blackened. Her eyes fastened upon +men she believed were white men; but it was from their features and not +their color that she judged. Once she had seen a band of nomad robbers +in the Sahara, and somehow was reminded of them by this motley outlaw +troop. + +They divided attention between the satisfying of ravenous appetites +and a vigilant watching down the forest aisles. They expected some one, +Madeline thought, and, manifestly, if it were a pursuing posse, they +did not show anxiety. She could not understand more than a word here +and there that they uttered. Presently, however, the name of Don Carlos +revived keen curiosity in her and realization of her situation, and then +once more dread possessed her breast. + +A low exclamation and a sweep of arm from one of the guerrillas caused +the whole band to wheel and concentrate their attention in the opposite +direction. They heard something. They saw some one. Grimy hands sought +weapons, and then every man stiffened. Madeline saw what hunted men +looked like at the moment of discovery, and the sight was terrible. She +closed her eyes, sick with what she saw, fearful of the moment when the +guns would leap out. + +There were muttered curses, a short period of silence followed by +whisperings, and then a clear voice rang out, “El Capitan!” + +A strong shock vibrated through Madeline, and her eyelids swept +open. Instantly she associated the name El Capitan with Stewart and +experienced a sensation of strange regret. It was not pursuit or rescue +she thought of then, but death. These men would kill Stewart. But surely +he had not come alone. The lean, dark faces, corded and rigid, told her +in what direction to look. She heard the slow, heavy thump of hoofs. +Soon into the wide aisle between the trees moved the form of a man, +arms flung high over his head. Then Madeline saw the horse, and she +recognized Majesty, and she knew it was really Stewart who rode the +roan. When doubt was no longer possible she felt a suffocating sense of +gladness and fear and wonder. + +Many of the guerrillas leaped up with drawn weapons. Still Stewart +approached with his hands high, and he rode right into the camp-fire +circle. Then a guerrilla, evidently the chief, waved down the +threatening men and strode up to Stewart. He greeted him. There was +amaze and pleasure and respect in the greeting. Madeline could tell +that, though she did not know what was said. At the moment Stewart +appeared to her as cool and careless as if he were dismounting at her +porch steps. But when he got down she saw that his face was white. He +shook hands with the guerrilla, and then his glittering eyes roved over +the men and around the glade until they rested upon Madeline. Without +moving from his tracks he seemed to leap, as if a powerful current had +shocked him. Madeline tried to smile to assure him she was alive and +well; but the intent in his eyes, the power of his controlled spirit +telling her of her peril and his, froze the smile on her lips. + +With that he faced the chief and spoke rapidly in the Mexican jargon +Madeline had always found so difficult to translate. The chief answered, +spreading wide his hands, one of which indicated Madeline as she lay +there. Stewart drew the fellow a little aside and said something for +his ear alone. The chief’s hands swept up in a gesture of surprise and +acquiescence. Again Stewart spoke swiftly. His hearer then turned to +address the band. Madeline caught the words “Don Carlos” and “pesos.” + There was a brief muttering protest which the chief thundered down. +Madeline guessed her release had been given by this guerrilla and bought +from the others of the band. + +Stewart strode to her side, leading the roan. Majesty reared and snorted +when he saw his mistress prostrate. Stewart knelt, still holding the +bridle. + +“Are you all right?” he asked. + +“I think so,” she replied, essaying a laugh that was rather a failure. +“My feet are tied.” + +Dark blood blotted out all the white from his face, and lightning shot +from his eyes. She felt his hands, like steel tongs, loosening the bonds +round her ankles. Without a word he lifted her upright and then upon +Majesty. Madeline reeled a little in the saddle, held hard to the pommel +with one hand, and tried to lean on Stewart’s shoulder with the other. + +“Don’t give up,” he said. + +She saw him gaze furtively into the forest on all sides. And it +surprised her to see the guerrillas riding away. Putting the two facts +together, Madeline formed an idea that neither Stewart nor the others +desired to meet with some one evidently due shortly in the glade. +Stewart guided the roan off to the right and walked beside Madeline, +steadying her in the saddle. At first Madeline was so weak and dizzy +that she could scarcely retain her seat. The dizziness left her +presently, and then she made an effort to ride without help. Her +weakness, however, and a pain in her wrenched arm made the task +laborsome. + +Stewart had struck off the trail, if there were one, and was keeping +to denser parts of the forest. The sun sank low, and the shafts of gold +fell with a long slant among the firs. Majesty’s hoofs made no sound +on the soft ground, and Stewart strode on without speaking. Neither his +hurry nor vigilance relaxed until at least two miles had been covered. +Then he held to a straighter course and did not send so many glances +into the darkening woods. The level of the forest began to be cut up +by little hollows, all of which sloped and widened. Presently the soft +ground gave place to bare, rocky soil. The horse snorted and tossed his +head. A sound of splashing water broke the silence. The hollow opened +into a wider one through which a little brook murmured its way over the +stones. Majesty snorted again and stopped and bent his head. + +“He wants a drink,” said Madeline. “I’m thirsty, too, and very tired.” + +Stewart lifted her out of the saddle, and as their hands parted she felt +something moist and warm. Blood was running down her arm and into the +palm of her hand. + +“I’m—bleeding,” she said, a little unsteadily. “Oh, I remember. My arm +was hurt.” + +She held it out, the blood making her conscious of her weakness. +Stewart’s fingers felt so firm and sure. Swiftly he ripped the wet +sleeve. Her forearm had been cut or scratched. He washed off the blood. + +“Why, Stewart, it’s nothing. I was only a little nervous. I guess that’s +the first time I ever saw my own blood.” + +He made no reply as he tore her handkerchief into strips and bound her +arm. His swift motions and his silence gave her a hint of how he might +meet a more serious emergency. She felt safe. And because of that +impression, when he lifted his head and she saw that he was pale and +shaking, she was surprised. He stood before her folding his scarf, +which was still wet, and from which he made no effort to remove the red +stains. + +“Miss Hammond,” he said, hoarsely, “it was a man’s hands—a Greaser’s +finger-nails—that cut your arm. I know who he was. I could have killed +him. But I mightn’t have got your freedom. You understand? I didn’t +dare.” + +Madeline gazed at Stewart, astounded more by his speech than his +excessive emotion. + +“My dear boy!” she exclaimed. And then she paused. She could not find +words. + +He was making an apology to her for not killing a man who had laid a +rough hand upon her person. He was ashamed and seemed to be in a torture +that she would not understand why he had not killed the man. There +seemed to be something of passionate scorn in him that he had not been +able to avenge her as well as free her. + +“Stewart, I understand. You were being my kind of cowboy. I thank you.” + +But she did not understand so much as she implied. She had heard many +stories of this man’s cool indifference to peril and death. He had +always seemed as hard as granite. Why should the sight of a little blood +upon her arm pale his cheek and shake his hand and thicken his voice? +What was there in his nature to make him implore her to see the only +reason he could not kill an outlaw? The answer to the first question +was that he loved her. It was beyond her to answer the second. But the +secret of it lay in the same strength from which his love sprang—an +intensity of feeling which seemed characteristic of these Western men of +simple, lonely, elemental lives. All at once over Madeline rushed a tide +of realization of how greatly it was possible for such a man as Stewart +to love her. The thought came to her in all its singular power. All her +Eastern lovers who had the graces that made them her equals in the sight +of the world were without the only great essential that a lonely, hard +life had given to Stewart. Nature here struck a just balance. Something +deep and dim in the future, an unknown voice, called to Madeline and +disturbed her. And because it was not a voice to her intelligence she +deadened the ears of her warm and throbbing life and decided never to +listen. + +“Is it safe to rest a little?” she asked. “I am so tired. Perhaps I’ll +be stronger if I rest.” + +“We’re all right now,” he said. “The horse will be better, too. I ran +him out. And uphill, at that.” + +“Where are we?” + +“Up in the mountains, ten miles and more from the ranch. There’s a trail +just below here. I can get you home by midnight. They’ll be some worried +down there.” + +“What happened?” + +“Nothing much to any one but you. That’s the—the hard luck of it. +Florence caught us out on the slope. We were returning from the fire. We +were dead beat. But we got to the ranch before any damage was done. We +sure had trouble in finding a trace of you. Nick spotted the prints of +your heels under the window. And then we knew. I had to fight the boys. +If they’d come after you we’d never have gotten you without a fight. I +didn’t want that. Old Bill came out packing a dozen guns. He was crazy. +I had to rope Monty. Honest, I tied him to the porch. Nels and Nick +promised to stay and hold him till morning. That was the best I could +do. I was sure lucky to come up with the band so soon. I had figured +right. I knew that guerrilla chief. He’s a bandit in Mexico. It’s a +business with him. But he fought for Madero, and I was with him a good +deal. He may be a Greaser, but he’s white.” + +“How did you effect my release?” + +“I offered them money. That’s what the rebels all want. They need money. +They’re a lot of poor, hungry devils.” + +“I gathered that you offered to pay ransom. How much?” + +“Two thousand dollars Mex. I gave my word. I’ll have to take the money. +I told them when and where I’d meet them.” + +“Certainly. I’m glad I’ve got the money.” Madeline laughed. “What a +strange thing to happen to me! I wonder what dad would say to that? +Stewart, I’m afraid he’d say two thousand dollars is more than I’m +worth. But tell me. That rebel chieftain did not demand money?” + +“No. The money is for his men.” + +“What did you say to him? I saw you whisper in his ear.” + +Stewart dropped his head, averting her direct gaze. + +“We were comrades before Juarez. One day I dragged him out of a ditch. I +reminded him. Then I—I told him something I—I thought—” + +“Stewart, I know from the way he looked at me that you spoke of me.” + +Her companion did not offer a reply to this, and Madeline did not press +the point. + +“I heard Don Carlos’s name several times. That interests me. What have +Don Carlos and his vaqueros to do with this?” + +“That Greaser has all to do with it,” replied Stewart, grimly. “He +burned his ranch and corrals to keep us from getting them. But he also +did it to draw all the boys away from your home. They had a deep plot, +all right. I left orders for some one to stay with you. But Al and +Stillwell, who’re both hot-headed, rode off this morning. Then the +guerrillas came down.” + +“Well, what was the idea—the plot—as you call it?” + +“To get you,” he said, bluntly. + +“Me! Stewart, you do not mean my capture—whatever you call it—was +anything more than mere accident?” + +“I do mean that. But Stillwell and your brother think the guerrillas +wanted money and arms, and they just happened to make off with you +because you ran under a horse’s nose.” + +“You do not incline to that point of view?” + +“I don’t. Neither does Nels nor Nick Steele. And we know Don Carlos and +the Greasers. Look how the vaqueros chased Flo for you!” + +“What do you think, then?” + +“I’d rather not say.” + +“But, Stewart, I would like to know. If it is about me, surely I ought +to know,” protested Madeline. “What reason have Nels and Nick to suspect +Don Carlos of plotting to abduct me?” + +“I suppose they’ve no reason you’d take. Once I heard Nels say he’d seen +the Greaser look at you, and if he ever saw him do it again he’d shoot +him.” + +“Why, Stewart, that is ridiculous. To shoot a man for looking at a +woman! This is a civilized country.” + +“Well, maybe it would be ridiculous in a civilized country. There’s some +things about civilization I don’t care for.” + +“What, for instance?” + +“For one thing, I can’t stand for the way men let other men treat +women.” + +“But, Stewart, this is strange talk from you, who, that night I came—” + +She broke off, sorry that she had spoken. His shame was not pleasant to +see. Suddenly he lifted his head, and she felt scorched by flaming eyes. + +“Suppose I was drunk. Suppose I had met some ordinary girl. Suppose I +had really made her marry me. Don’t you think I would have stopped being +a drunkard and have been good to her?” + +“Stewart, I do not know what to think about you,” replied Madeline. + +Then followed a short silence. Madeline saw the last bright rays of the +setting sun glide up over a distant crag. Stewart rebridled the horse +and looked at the saddle-girths. + +“I got off the trail. About Don Carlos I’ll say right out, not what Nels +and Nick think, but what I know. Don Carlos hoped to make off with you +for himself, the same as if you had been a poor peon slave-girl down in +Sonora. Maybe he had a deeper plot than my rebel friend told me. Maybe +he even went so far as to hope for American troops to chase him. +The rebels are trying to stir up the United States. They’d welcome +intervention. But, however that may be, the Greaser meant evil to you, +and has meant it ever since he saw you first. That’s all.” + +“Stewart, you have done me and my family a service we can never hope to +repay.” + +“I’ve done the service. Only don’t mention pay to me. But there’s one +thing I’d like you to know, and I find it hard to say. It’s prompted, +maybe, by what I know you think of me and what I imagine your family and +friends would think if they knew. It’s not prompted by pride or conceit. +And it’s this: Such a woman as you should never have come to this +God-forsaken country unless she meant to forget herself. But as you did +come, and as you were dragged away by those devils, I want you to know +that all your wealth and position and influence—all that power behind +you—would never have saved you from hell to-night. Only such a man as +Nels or Nick Steele or I could have done that.” + +Madeline Hammond felt the great leveling force of the truth. Whatever +the difference between her and Stewart, or whatever the imagined +difference set up by false standards of class and culture, the truth +was that here on this wild mountain-side she was only a woman and he was +simply a man. It was a man that she needed, and if her choice could have +been considered in this extremity it would have fallen upon him who had +just faced her in quiet, bitter speech. Here was food for thought. + +“I reckon we’d better start now,” he said, and drew the horse close to a +large rock. “Come.” + +Madeline’s will greatly exceeded her strength. For the first time she +acknowledged to herself that she had been hurt. Still, she did not feel +much pain except when she moved her shoulder. Once in the saddle, where +Stewart lifted her, she drooped weakly. The way was rough; every step +the horse took hurt her; and the slope of the ground threw her forward +on the pommel. Presently, as the slope grew rockier and her discomfort +increased, she forgot everything except that she was suffering. + +“Here is the trail,” said Stewart, at length. + +Not far from that point Madeline swayed, and but for Stewart’s support +would have fallen from the saddle. She heard him swear under his breath. + +“Here, this won’t do,” he said. “Throw your leg over the pommel. The +other one—there.” + +Then, mounting, he slipped behind her and lifted and turned her, and +then held her with his left arm so that she lay across the saddle and +his knees, her head against his shoulder. + +As the horse started into a rapid walk Madeline gradually lost all pain +and discomfort when she relaxed her muscles. Presently she let herself +go and lay inert, greatly to her relief. For a little while she seemed +to be half drunk with the gentle swaying of a hammock. Her mind became +at once dreamy and active, as if it thoughtfully recorded the slow, soft +impressions pouring in from all her senses. + +A red glow faded in the west. She could see out over the foothills, +where twilight was settling gray on the crests, dark in the hollows. +Cedar and pinyon trees lined the trail, and there were no more firs. At +intervals huge drab-colored rocks loomed over her. The sky was clear +and steely. A faint star twinkled. And lastly, close to her, she saw +Stewart’s face, once more dark and impassive, with the inscrutable eyes +fixed on the trail. + +His arm, like a band of iron, held her, yet it was flexible and yielded +her to the motion of the horse. One instant she felt the brawn, +the bone, heavy and powerful; the next the stretch and ripple, the +elasticity of muscles. He held her as easily as if she were a child. The +roughness of his flannel shirt rubbed her cheek, and beneath that she +felt the dampness of the scarf he had used to bathe her arm, and deeper +still the regular pound of his heart. Against her ear, filling it with +strong, vibrant beat, his heart seemed a mighty engine deep within a +great cavern. Her head had never before rested on a man’s breast, and +she had no liking for it there; but she felt more than the physical +contact. The position was mysterious and fascinating, and something +natural in it made her think of life. Then as the cool wind blew down +from the heights, loosening her tumbled hair, she was compelled to see +strands of it curl softly into Stewart’s face, before his eyes, across +his lips. She was unable to reach it with her free hand, and therefore +could not refasten it. And when she shut her eyes she felt those +loosened strands playing against his cheeks. + +In the keener press of such sensations she caught the smell of dust and +a faint, wild, sweet tang on the air. There was a low, rustling sigh of +wind in the brush along the trail. Suddenly the silence ripped apart to +the sharp bark of a coyote, and then, from far away, came a long wail. +And then Majesty’s metal-rimmed hoof rang on a stone. + +These later things lent probability to that ride for Madeline. Otherwise +it would have seemed like a dream. Even so it was hard to believe. Again +she wondered if this woman who had begun to think and feel so much was +Madeline Hammond. Nothing had ever happened to her. And here, playing +about her like her hair played about Stewart’s face, was adventure, +perhaps death, and surely life. She could not believe the evidence of +the day’s happenings. Would any of her people, her friends, ever believe +it? Could she tell it? How impossible to think that a cunning Mexican +might have used her to further the interests of a forlorn revolution. +She remembered the ghoulish visages of those starved rebels, and +marveled at her blessed fortune in escaping them. She was safe, and now +self-preservation had some meaning for her. Stewart’s arrival in the +glade, the courage with which he had faced the outlawed men, grew +as real to her now as the iron arm that clasped her. Had it been an +instinct which had importuned her to save this man when he lay ill and +hopeless in the shack at Chiricahua? In helping him had she hedged round +her forces that had just operated to save her life, or if not that, more +than life was to her? She believed so. + +Madeline opened her eyes after a while and found that night had fallen. +The sky was a dark, velvety blue blazing with white stars. The cool +wind tugged at her hair, and through waving strands she saw Stewart’s +profile, bold and sharp against the sky. + +Then, as her mind succumbed to her bodily fatigue, again her situation +became unreal and wild. A heavy languor, like a blanket, began to steal +upon her. She wavered and drifted. With the last half-conscious sense +of a muffled throb at her ear, a something intangibly sweet, deep-toned, +and strange, like a distant calling bell, she fell asleep with her head +on Stewart’s breast. + + + + +XII. Friends from the East + + +Three days after her return to the ranch Madeline could not discover any +physical discomfort as a reminder of her adventurous experiences. This +surprised her, but not nearly so much as the fact that after a few weeks +she found she scarcely remembered the adventures at all. If it had not +been for the quiet and persistent guardianship of her cowboys she might +almost have forgotten Don Carlos and the raiders. Madeline was assured +of the splendid physical fitness to which this ranch life had developed +her, and that she was assimilating something of the Western disregard +of danger. A hard ride, an accident, a day in the sun and dust, an +adventure with outlaws—these might once have been matters of large +import, but now for Madeline they were in order with all the rest of her +changed life. + +There was never a day that something interesting was not brought to her +notice. Stillwell, who had ceaselessly reproached himself for riding +away the morning Madeline was captured, grew more like an anxious parent +than a faithful superintendent. He was never at ease regarding her +unless he was near the ranch or had left Stewart there, or else Nels and +Nick Steele. Naturally, he trusted more to Stewart than to any one else. + +“Miss Majesty, it’s sure amazin’ strange about Gene,” said the old +cattleman, as he tramped into Madeline’s office. + +“What’s the matter now?” she inquired. + +“Wal, Gene has rustled off into the mountains again.” + +“Again? I did not know he had gone. I gave him money for that band of +guerrillas. Perhaps he went to take it to them.” + +“No. He took that a day or so after he fetched you back home. Then in +about a week he went a second time. An’ he packed some stuff with him. +Now he’s sneaked off, an’ Nels, who was down to the lower trail, saw +him meet somebody that looked like Padre Marcos. Wal, I went down to +the church, and, sure enough, Padre Marcos is gone. What do you think of +that, Miss Majesty?” + +“Maybe Stewart is getting religious,” laughed Madeline. You told me so +once. + +Stillwell puffed and wiped his red face. + +“If you’d heerd him cuss Monty this mawnin’ you’d never guess it was +religion. Monty an’ Nels hev been givin’ Gene a lot of trouble lately. +They’re both sore an’ in fightin’ mood ever since Don Carlos hed you +kidnapped. Sure they’re goin’ to break soon, an’ then we’ll hev a couple +of wild Texas steers ridin’ the range. I’ve a heap to worry me.” + +“Let Stewart take his mysterious trips into the mountains. Here, +Stillwell, I have news for you that may give you reason for worry. +I have letters from home. And my sister, with a party of friends, is +coming out to visit me. They are society folk, and one of them is an +English lord.” + +“Wal, Miss Majesty, I reckon we’ll all be glad to see them,” said +Stillwell. “Onless they pack you off back East.” + +“That isn’t likely,” replied Madeline, thoughtfully. “I must go back +some time, though. Well, let me read you a few extracts from my mail.” + +Madeline took up her sister’s letter with a strange sensation of how +easily sight of a crested monogram and scent of delicately perfumed +paper could recall the brilliant life she had given up. She scanned +the pages of beautiful handwriting. Helen’s letter was in turn gay and +brilliant and lazy, just as she was herself; but Madeline detected more +of curiosity in it than of real longing to see the sister and brother in +the Far West. Much of what Helen wrote was enthusiastic anticipation of +the fun she expected to have with bashful cowboys. Helen seldom wrote +letters, and she never read anything, not even popular novels of the +day. She was as absolutely ignorant of the West as the Englishman, who, +she said, expected to hunt buffalo and fight Indians. Moreover, there +was a satiric note in the letter that Madeline did not like, and which +roused her spirit. Manifestly, Helen was reveling in the prospect of new +sensation. + +When she finished reading aloud a few paragraphs the old cattleman +snorted and his face grew redder. + +“Did your sister write that?” he asked. + +“Yes.” + +“Wal, I—I beg pawdin, Miss Majesty. But it doesn’t seem like you. Does +she think we’re a lot of wild men from Borneo?” + +“Evidently she does. I rather think she is in for a surprise. Now, +Stillwell, you are clever and you can see the situation. I want my +guests to enjoy their stay here, but I do not want that to be at the +expense of the feelings of all of us, or even any one. Helen will bring +a lively crowd. They’ll crave excitement—the unusual. Let us see that +they are not disappointed. You take the boys into your confidence. Tell +them what to expect, and tell them how to meet it. I shall help you in +that. I want the boys to be on dress-parade when they are off duty. I +want them to be on their most elegant behavior. I do not care what they +do, what measures they take to protect themselves, what tricks they +contrive, so long as they do not overstep the limit of kindness and +courtesy. I want them to play their parts seriously, naturally, as if +they had lived no other way. My guests expect to have fun. Let us meet +them with fun. Now what do you say?” + +Stillwell rose, his great bulk towering, his huge face beaming. + +“Wal, I say it’s the most amazin’ fine idee I ever heerd in my life.” + +“Indeed, I am glad you like it,” went on Madeline. + +“Come to me again, Stillwell, after you have spoken to the boys. But, +now that I have suggested it, I am a little afraid. You know what cowboy +fun is. Perhaps—” + +“Don’t you go back on that idee,” interrupted Stillwell. He was assuring +and bland, but his hurry to convince Madeline betrayed him. “Leave the +boys to me. Why, don’t they all swear by you, same as the Mexicans do +to the Virgin? They won’t disgrace you, Miss Majesty. They’ll be simply +immense. It’ll beat any show you ever seen.” + +“I believe it will,” replied Madeline. She was still doubtful of +her plan, but the enthusiasm of the old cattleman was infectious and +irresistible. “Very well, we will consider it settled. My guests will +arrive on May ninth. Meanwhile let us get Her Majesty’s Rancho in shape +for this invasion.” + + * * * + +On the afternoon of the ninth of May, perhaps half an hour after +Madeline had received a telephone message from Link Stevens announcing +the arrival of her guests at El Cajon, Florence called her out upon the +porch. Stillwell was there with his face wrinkled by his wonderful smile +and his eagle eyes riveted upon the distant valley. Far away, perhaps +twenty miles, a thin streak of white dust rose from the valley floor and +slanted skyward. + +“Look!” said Florence, excitedly. + +“What is that?” asked Madeline. + +“Link Stevens and the automobile!” + +“Oh no! Why, it’s only a few minutes since he telephoned saying the +party had just arrived.” + +“Take a look with the glasses,” said Florence. + +One glance through the powerful binoculars convinced Madeline that +Florence was right. And another glance at Stillwell told her that he was +speechless with delight. She remembered a little conversation she had +had with Link Stevens a short while previous. + +“Stevens, I hope the car is in good shape,” she had said. “Now, Miss +Hammond, she’s as right as the best-trained hoss I ever rode,” he had +replied. + +“The valley road is perfect,” she had gone on, musingly. “I never saw +such a beautiful road, even in France. No fences, no ditches, no rocks, +no vehicles. Just a lonely road on the desert.” + +“Shore, it’s lonely,” Stevens had answered, with slowly brightening +eyes. “An’ safe, Miss Hammond.” + +“My sister used to like fast riding. If I remember correctly, all of +my guests were a little afflicted with the speed mania. It is a common +disease with New-Yorkers. I hope, Stevens, that you will not give them +reason to think we are altogether steeped in the slow, dreamy manana +languor of the Southwest.” + +Link doubtfully eyed her, and then his bronze face changed its dark +aspect and seemed to shine. + +“Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Hammond, thet’s shore tall talk fer Link +Stevens to savvy. You mean—as long as I drive careful an’ safe I can +run away from my dust, so to say, an’ get here in somethin’ less than +the Greaser’s to-morrow?” + +Madeline had laughed her assent. And now, as she watched the thin +streak of dust, at that distance moving with snail pace, she reproached +herself. She trusted Stevens; she had never known so skilful, daring, +and iron-nerved a driver as he was. If she had been in the car herself +she would have had no anxiety. But, imagining what Stevens would do on +forty miles and more of that desert road, Madeline suffered a prick of +conscience. + +“Oh, Stillwell!” she exclaimed. “I am afraid I will go back on my +wonderful idea. What made me do it?” + +“Your sister wanted the real thing, didn’t she? Said they all wanted it. +Wal, I reckon they’ve begun gettin’ it,” replied Stillwell. + +That statement from the cattleman allayed Madeline’s pangs of +conscience. She understood just what she felt, though she could not have +put it in words. She was hungry for a sight of well-remembered faces; +she longed to hear the soft laughter and gay repartee of old +friends; she was eager for gossipy first-hand news of her old world. +Nevertheless, something in her sister’s letter, in messages from the +others who were coming, had touched Madeline’s pride. In one sense the +expected guests were hostile, inasmuch as they were scornful and curious +about the West that had claimed her. She imagined what they would +expect in a Western ranch. They would surely get the real thing, too, as +Stillwell said; and in that certainty was satisfaction for a small grain +of something within Madeline which approached resentment. She wistfully +wondered, however, if her sister or friends would come to see the West +even a little as she saw it. That, perhaps, would he hoping too much. +She resolved once for all to do her best to give them the sensation +their senses craved, and equally to show them the sweetness and beauty +and wholesomeness and strength of life in the Southwest. + +“Wal, as Nels says, I wouldn’t be in that there ottomobile right now for +a million pesos,” remarked Stillwell. + +“Why? Is Stevens driving fast?” + +“Good Lord! Fast? Miss Majesty, there hain’t ever been anythin’ except a +streak of lightnin’ run so fast in this country. I’ll bet Link for once +is in heaven. I can jest see him now, the grim, crooked-legged little +devil, hunchin’ down over that wheel as if it was a hoss’s neck.” + +“I told him not to let the ride be hot or dusty,” remarked Madeline. + +“Haw, haw!” roared Stillwell. “Wal, I’ll be goin’. I reckon I’d like to +be hyar when Link drives up, but I want to be with the boys down by the +bunks. It’ll be some fun to see Nels an’ Monty when Link comes flyin’ +along.” + +“I wish Al had stayed to meet them,” said Madeline. + +Her brother had rather hurried a shipment of cattle to California: and +it was Madeline’s supposition that he had welcomed the opportunity to +absent himself from the ranch. + +“I am sorry he wouldn’t stay,” replied Florence. “But Al’s all business +now. And he’s doing finely. It’s just as well, perhaps.” + +“Surely. That was my pride speaking. I would like to have all my family +and all my old friends see what a man Al has become. Well, Link Stevens +is running like the wind. The car will be here before we know it. +Florence, we’ve only a few moments to dress. But first I want to order +many and various and exceedingly cold refreshments for that approaching +party.” + +Less than a half-hour later Madeline went again to the porch and found +Florence there. + +“Oh, you look just lovely!” exclaimed Florence, impulsively, as she +gazed wide-eyed up at Madeline. “And somehow so different!” + +Madeline smiled a little sadly. Perhaps when she had put on that +exquisite white gown something had come to her of the manner which +befitted the wearing of it. She could not resist the desire to look fair +once more in the eyes of these hypercritical friends. The sad smile had +been for the days that were gone. For she knew that what society had +once been pleased to call her beauty had trebled since it had last been +seen in a drawing-room. Madeline wore no jewels, but at her waist she +had pinned two great crimson roses. Against the dead white they had the +life and fire and redness of the desert. + +“Link’s hit the old round-up trail,” said Florence, “and oh, isn’t he +riding that car!” + +With Florence, as with most of the cowboys, the car was never driven, +but ridden. + +A white spot with a long trail of dust showed low down in the valley. +It was now headed almost straight for the ranch. Madeline watched +it growing larger moment by moment, and her pleasurable emotion grew +accordingly. Then the rapid beat of a horse’s hoofs caused her to turn. + +Stewart was riding in on his black horse. He had been absent on an +important mission, and his duty had taken him to the international +boundary-line. His presence home long before he was expected was +particularly gratifying to Madeline, for it meant that his mission had +been brought to a successful issue. Once more, for the hundredth time, +the man’s reliability struck Madeline. He was a doer of things. The +black horse halted wearily without the usual pound of hoofs on the +gravel, and the dusty rider dismounted wearily. Both horse and rider +showed the heat and dust and wind of many miles. + +Madeline advanced to the porch steps. And Stewart, after taking a parcel +of papers from a saddle-bag, turned toward her. + +“Stewart, you are the best of couriers,” she said. “I am pleased.” + +Dust streamed from his sombrero as he doffed it. His dark face seemed to +rise as he straightened weary shoulders. + +“Here are the reports, Miss Hammond,” he replied. + +As he looked up to see her standing there, dressed to receive her +Eastern guests, he checked his advance with a violent action which +recalled to Madeline the one he had made on the night she had met him, +when she disclosed her identity. It was not fear nor embarrassment nor +awkwardness. And it was only momentary. Yet, slight as had been his +pause, Madeline received from it an impression of some strong halting +force. A man struck by a bullet might have had an instant jerk of +muscular control such as convulsed Stewart. In that instant, as her keen +gaze searched his dust-caked face, she met the full, free look of +his eyes. Her own did not fall, though she felt a warmth steal to her +cheeks. Madeline very seldom blushed. And now, conscious of her sudden +color a genuine blush flamed on her face. It was irritating because it +was incomprehensible. She received the papers from Stewart and thanked +him. He bowed, then led the black down the path toward the corrals. + +“When Stewart looks like that he’s been riding,” said Florence. “But +when his horse looks like that he’s sure been burning the wind.” + +Madeline watched the weary horse and rider limp down the path. What +had made her thoughtful? Mostly it was something new or sudden or +inexplicable that stirred her mind to quick analysis. In this instance +the thing that had struck Madeline was Stewart’s glance. He had looked +at her, and the old burning, inscrutable fire, the darkness, had left +his eyes. Suddenly they had been beautiful. The look had not been one of +surprise or admiration; nor had it been one of love. She was familiar, +too familiar with all three. It had not been a gaze of passion, for +there was nothing beautiful in that. Madeline pondered. And presently +she realized that Stewart’s eyes had expressed a strange joy of pride. +That expression Madeline had never before encountered in the look of any +man. Probably its strangeness had made her notice it and accounted for +her blushing. The longer she lived among these outdoor men the more +they surprised her. Particularly, how incomprehensible was this cowboy +Stewart! Why should he have pride or joy at sight of her? + +Florence’s exclamation made Madeline once more attend to the approaching +automobile. It was on the slope now, some miles down the long gradual +slant. Two yellow funnel-shaped clouds of dust seemed to shoot out from +behind the car and roll aloft to join the column that stretched down the +valley. + +“I wonder what riding a mile a minute would be like,” said Florence. +“I’ll sure make Link take me. Oh, but look at him come!” + +The giant car resembled a white demon, and but for the dust would have +appeared to be sailing in the air. Its motion was steadily forward, +holding to the road as if on rails. And its velocity was astounding. +Long, gray veils, like pennants, streamed in the wind. A low rushing +sound became perceptible, and it grew louder, became a roar. The car +shot like an arrow past the alfalfa-field, by the bunk-houses, where the +cowboys waved and cheered. The horses and burros in the corrals began to +snort and tramp and race in fright. At the base of the long slope of +the foothill Link cut the speed more than half. Yet the car roared up, +rolling the dust, flying capes and veils and ulsters, and crashed and +cracked to a halt in the yard before the porch. + +Madeline descried a gray, disheveled mass of humanity packed inside the +car. Besides the driver there were seven occupants, and for a moment +they appeared to be coming to life, moving and exclaiming under the +veils and wraps and dust-shields. + +Link Stevens stepped out and, removing helmet and goggles, coolly looked +at his watch. + +“An hour an’ a quarter, Miss Hammond,” he said. “It’s sixty-three miles +by the valley road, an’ you know there’s a couple of bad hills. I reckon +we made fair time, considerin’ you wanted me to drive slow an’ safe.” + +From the mass of dusty-veiled humanity in the car came low exclamations +and plaintive feminine wails. + +Madeline stepped to the front of the porch. Then the deep voices of +men and softer voices of women united in one glad outburst, as much a +thanksgiving as a greeting, “MAJESTY!” + + ***** + +Helen Hammond was three years younger than Madeline, and a slender, +pretty girl. She did not resemble her sister, except in whiteness and +fineness of skin, being more of a brown-eyed, brown-haired type. Having +recovered her breath soon after Madeline took her to her room, she began +to talk. + +“Majesty, old girl, I’m here; but you can bet I would never have gotten +here if I had known about that ride from the railroad. You never wrote +that you had a car. I thought this was out West—stage-coach, and +all that sort of thing. Such a tremendous car! And the road! And that +terrible little man with the leather trousers! What kind of a chauffeur +is he?” + +“He’s a cowboy. He was crippled by falling under his horse, so I had him +instructed to run the car. He can drive, don’t you think?” + +“Drive? Good gracious! He scared us to death, except Castleton. Nothing +could scare that cold-blooded little Englishman. I am dizzy yet. Do +you know, Majesty, I was delighted when I saw the car. Then your cowboy +driver met us at the platform. What a queer-looking individual! He had +a big pistol strapped to those leather trousers. That made me nervous. +When he piled us all in with our grips, he put me in the seat beside +him, whether I liked it or not. I was fool enough to tell him I loved +to travel fast. What do you think he said? Well, he eyed me in a +rather cool and speculative way and said, with a smile, ‘Miss, I reckon +anything you love an’ want bad will be coming to you out here!’ I didn’t +know whether it was delightful candor or impudence. Then he said to all +of us: ‘Shore you had better wrap up in the veils an’ dusters. It’s a +long, slow, hot, dusty ride to the ranch, an’ Miss Hammond’s order was +to drive safe.’ He got our baggage checks and gave them to a man with +a huge wagon and a four-horse team. Then he cranked the car, jumped in, +wrapped his arms round the wheel, and sank down low in his seat. There +was a crack, a jerk, a kind of flash around us, and that dirty little +town was somewhere on the map behind. For about five minutes I had a +lovely time. Then the wind began to tear me to pieces. I couldn’t hear +anything but the rush of wind and roar of the car. I could see only +straight ahead. What a road! I never saw a road in my life till to-day. +Miles and miles and miles ahead, with not even a post or tree. That big +car seemed to leap at the miles. It hummed and sang. I was fascinated, +then terrified. We went so fast I couldn’t catch my breath. The wind +went through me, and I expected to be disrobed by it any minute. I was +afraid I couldn’t hold any clothes on. Presently all I could see was +a flashing gray wall with a white line in the middle. Then my eyes +blurred. My face burned. My ears grew full of a hundred thousand howling +devils. I was about ready to die when the car stopped. I looked and +looked, and when I could see, there you stood!” + +“Helen, I thought you were fond of speeding,” said Madeline, with a +laugh. + +“I was. But I assure you I never before was in a fast car; I never saw a +road; I never met a driver.” + +“Perhaps I may have a few surprises for you out here in the wild and +woolly West.” + +Helen’s dark eyes showed a sister’s memory of possibilities. + +“You’ve started well,” she said. “I am simply stunned. I expected to +find you old and dowdy. Majesty, you’re the handsomest thing I ever +laid eyes on. You’re so splendid and strong, and your skin is like white +gold. What’s happened to you? What’s changed you? This beautiful +room, those glorious roses out there, the cool, dark sweetness of this +wonderful house! I know you, Majesty, and, though you never wrote it, I +believe you have made a home out here. That’s the most stunning surprise +of all. Come, confess. I know I’ve always been selfish and not much of +a sister; but if you are happy out here I am glad. You were not happy at +home. Tell me about yourself and about Alfred. Then I shall give you all +the messages and news from the East.” + +It afforded Madeline exceeding pleasure to have from one and all of +her guests varied encomiums of her beautiful home, and a real and warm +interest in what promised to be a delightful and memorable visit. + +Of them all Castleton was the only one who failed to show surprise. He +greeted her precisely as he had when he had last seen her in London. +Madeline, rather to her astonishment, found meeting him again +pleasurable. She discovered she liked this imperturbable Englishman. +Manifestly her capacity for liking any one had immeasurably enlarged. +Quite unexpectedly her old girlish love for her younger sister sprang +into life, and with it interest in these half-forgotten friends, and a +warm regard for Edith Wayne, a chum of college days. + +Helen’s party was smaller than Madeline had expected it to be. Helen had +been careful to select a company of good friends, all of whom were well +known to Madeline. Edith Wayne was a patrician brunette, a serious, +soft-voiced woman, sweet and kindly, despite a rather bitter experience +that had left her worldly wise. Mrs. Carrollton Beck, a plain, lively +person, had chaperoned the party. The fourth and last of the feminine +contingent was Miss Dorothy Coombs—Dot, as they called her—a young +woman of attractive blond prettiness. + +For a man Castleton was of very small stature. He had a pink-and-white +complexion, a small golden mustache, and his heavy eyelids, always +drooping, made him look dull. His attire, cut to what appeared to be an +exaggerated English style, attracted attention to his diminutive size. +He was immaculate and fastidious. Robert Weede was a rather large florid +young man, remarkable only for his good nature. Counting Boyd Harvey, a +handsome, pale-faced fellow, with the careless smile of the man for whom +life had been easy and pleasant, the party was complete. + +Dinner was a happy hour, especially for the Mexican women who served it +and who could not fail to note its success. The mingling of low voices +and laughter, the old, gay, superficial talk, the graciousness of a +class which lived for the pleasure of things and to make time pass +pleasurably for others—all took Madeline far back into the past. She +did not care to return to it, but she saw that it was well she had not +wholly cut herself off from her people and friends. + +When the party adjourned to the porch the heat had markedly decreased +and the red sun was sinking over the red desert. An absence of spoken +praise, a gradually deepening silence, attested to the impression on +the visitors of that noble sunset. Just as the last curve of red rim +vanished beyond the dim Sierra Madres and the golden lightning began to +flare brighter Helen broke the silence with an exclamation. + +“It wants only life. Ah, there’s a horse climbing the hill! See, he’s +up! He has a rider!” + +Madeline knew before she looked the identity of the man riding up the +mesa. But she did not know until that moment how the habit of watching +for him at this hour had grown upon her. He rode along the rim of the +mesa and out to the point, where, against the golden background, horse +and rider stood silhouetted in bold relief. + +“What’s he doing there? Who is he?” inquired the curious Helen. + +“That is Stewart, my right-hand man,” replied Madeline. “Every day when +he is at the ranch he rides up there at sunset. I think he likes the +ride and the scene; but he goes to take a look at the cattle in the +valley.” + +“Is he a cowboy?” asked Helen. + +“Indeed yes!” replied Madeline, with a little laugh. “You will think so +when Stillwell gets hold of you and begins to talk.” + +Madeline found it necessary to explain who Stillwell was, and what he +thought of Stewart, and, while she was about it, of her own accord she +added a few details of Stewart’s fame. + +“El Capitan. How interesting!” mused Helen. “What does he look like?” + +“He is superb.” + +Florence handed the field-glass to Helen and bade her look. + +“Oh, thank you!” said Helen, as she complied. “There. I see him. Indeed, +he is superb. What a magnificent horse! How still he stands! Why, he +seems carved in stone.” + +“Let me look?” said Dorothy Coombs, eagerly. + +Helen gave her the glass. + +“You can look, Dot, but that’s all. He’s mine. I saw him first.” + +Whereupon Madeline’s feminine guests held a spirited contest over +the field-glass, and three of them made gay, bantering boasts not to +consider Helen’s self-asserted rights. Madeline laughed with the others +while she watched the dark figure of Stewart and his black outline +against the sky. There came over her a thought not by any means new or +strange—she wondered what was in Stewart’s mind as he stood there in +the solitude and faced the desert and the darkening west. Some day she +meant to ask him. Presently he turned the horse and rode down into the +shadow creeping up the mesa. + +“Majesty, have you planned any fun, any excitement for us?” asked Helen. +She was restless, nervous, and did not seem to be able to sit still a +moment. + +“You will think so when I get through with you,” replied Madeline. + +“What, for instance?” inquired Helen and Dot and Mrs. Beck, in unison. +Edith Wayne smiled her interest. + +“Well, I am not counting rides and climbs and golf; but these are +necessary to train you for trips over into Arizona. I want to show you +the desert and the Aravaipa Canyon. We have to go on horseback and pack +our outfit. If any of you are alive after those trips and want more we +shall go up into the mountains. I should like very much to know what you +each want particularly.” + +“I’ll tell you,” replied Helen, promptly. “Dot will be the same out here +as she was in the East. She wants to look bashfully down at her hand—a +hand imprisoned in another, by the way—and listen to a man talk poetry +about her eyes. If cowboys don’t make love that way Dot’s visit will +be a failure. Now Elsie Beck wants solely to be revenged upon us for +dragging her out here. She wants some dreadful thing to happen to us. I +don’t know what’s in Edith’s head, but it isn’t fun. Bobby wants to be +near Elsie, and no more. Boyd wants what he has always wanted—the +only thing he ever wanted that he didn’t get. Castleton has a horrible +bloodthirsty desire to kill something.” + +“I declare now, I want to ride and camp out, also,” protested Castleton. + +“As for myself,” went on Helen, “I want—Oh, if I only knew what it is +that I want! Well, I know I want to be outdoors, to get into the open, +to feel sun and wind, to burn some color into my white face. I want some +flesh and blood and life. I am tired out. Beyond all that I don’t know +very well. I’ll try to keep Dot from attaching all the cowboys to her +train.” + +“What a diversity of wants!” said Madeline. + +“Above all, Majesty, we want something to happen,” concluded Helen, with +passionate finality. + +“My dear sister, maybe you will have your wish fulfilled,” replied +Madeline, soberly. “Edith, Helen has made me curious about your especial +yearning.” + +“Majesty, it is only that I wanted to be with you for a while,” replied +this old friend. + +There was in the wistful reply, accompanied by a dark and eloquent +glance of eyes, what told Madeline of Edith’s understanding, of her +sympathy, and perhaps a betrayal of her own unquiet soul. It saddened +Madeline. How many women might there not be who had the longing to break +down the bars of their cage, but had not the spirit! + + + + +XIII. Cowboy Golf + + +In the whirl of the succeeding days it was a mooted question whether +Madeline’s guests or her cowboys or herself got the keenest enjoyment +out of the flying time. Considering the sameness of the cowboys’ +ordinary life, she was inclined to think they made the most of the +present. Stillwell and Stewart, however, had found the situation trying. +The work of the ranch had to go on, and some of it got sadly neglected. +Stillwell could not resist the ladies any more than he could resist the +fun in the extraordinary goings-on of the cowboys. Stewart alone kept +the business of cattle-raising from a serious setback. Early and late +he was in the saddle, driving the lazy Mexicans whom he had hired to +relieve the cowboys. + +One morning in June Madeline was sitting on the porch with her merry +friends when Stillwell appeared on the corral path. He had not come +to consult Madeline for several days—an omission so unusual as to be +remarked. + +“Here comes Bill—in trouble,” laughed Florence. + +Indeed, he bore some faint resemblance to a thundercloud as he +approached the porch; but the greetings he got from Madeline’s party, +especially from Helen and Dorothy, chased away the blackness from his +face and brought the wonderful wrinkling smile. + +“Miss Majesty, sure I’m a sad demoralized old cattleman,” he said, +presently. “An’ I’m in need of a heap of help.” + +“What’s wrong now?” asked Madeline, with her encouraging smile. + +“Wal, it’s so amazin’ strange what cowboys will do. I jest am about to +give up. Why, you might say my cowboys were all on strike for vacations. +What do you think of that? We’ve changed the shifts, shortened hours, +let one an’ another off duty, hired Greasers, an’, in fact, done +everythin’ that could be thought of. But this vacation idee growed +worse. When Stewart set his foot down, then the boys begin to get sick. +Never in my born days as a cattleman have I heerd of so many diseases. +An’ you ought to see how lame an’ crippled an’ weak many of the boys +have got all of a sudden. The idee of a cowboy comin’ to me with a +sore finger an’ askin’ to be let off for a day! There’s Booly. Now I’ve +knowed a hoss to fall all over him, an’ onct he rolled down a canyon. +Never bothered him at all. He’s got a blister on his heel, a ridin’ +blister, an’ he says it’s goin’ to blood-poisonin’ if he doesn’t rest. +There’s Jim Bell. He’s developed what he says is spinal mengalootis, +or some such like. There’s Frankie Slade. He swore he had scarlet fever +because his face burnt so red, I guess, an’ when I hollered that scarlet +fever was contagious an’ he must be put away somewhere, he up an’ says +he guessed it wasn’t that. But he was sure awful sick an’ needed to loaf +around an’ be amused. Why, even Nels doesn’t want to work these days. If +it wasn’t for Stewart, who’s had Greasers with the cattle, I don’t know +what I’d do.” + +“Why all this sudden illness and idleness?” asked Madeline. + +“Wal, you see, the truth is every blamed cowboy on the range except +Stewart thinks it’s his bounden duty to entertain the ladies.” + +“I think that is just fine!” exclaimed Dorothy Coombs; and she joined in +the general laugh. + +“Stewart, then, doesn’t care to help entertain us?” inquired Helen, in +curious interest. “Wal, Miss Helen, Stewart is sure different from the +other cowboys,” replied Stillwell. “Yet he used to be like them. There +never was a cowboy fuller of the devil than Gene. But he’s changed. He’s +foreman here, an’ that must be it. All the responsibility rests on him. +He sure has no time for amusin’ the ladies.” + +“I imagine that is our loss,” said Edith Wayne, in her earnest way. “I +admire him.” + +“Stillwell, you need not be so distressed with what is only gallantry in +the boys, even if it does make a temporary confusion in the work,” said +Madeline. + +“Miss Majesty, all I said is not the half, nor the quarter, nor nuthin’ +of what’s troublin’ me,” answered he, sadly. + +“Very well; unburden yourself.” + +“Wal, the cowboys, exceptin’ Gene, have gone plumb batty, jest plain +crazy over this heah game of gol-lof.” + +A merry peal of mirth greeted Stillwell’s solemn assertion. + +“Oh, Stillwell, you are in fun,” replied Madeline. + +“I hope to die if I’m not in daid earnest,” declared the cattleman. +“It’s an amazin’ strange fact. Ask Flo. She’ll tell you. She knows +cowboys, an’ how if they ever start on somethin’ they ride it as they +ride a hoss.” + +Florence being appealed to, and evidently feeling all eyes upon her, +modestly replied that Stillwell had scarcely misstated the situation. + +“Cowboys play like they work or fight,” she added. “They give their +whole souls to it. They are great big simple boys.” + +“Indeed they are,” said Madeline. “Oh, I’m glad if they like the game of +golf. They have so little play.” + +“Wal, somethin’s got to be did if we’re to go on raisin’ cattle at Her +Majesty’s Rancho,” replied Stillwell. He appeared both deliberate and +resigned. + +Madeline remembered that despite Stillwell’s simplicity he was as deep +as any of his cowboys, and there was absolutely no gaging him where +possibilities of fun were concerned. Madeline fancied that his +exaggerated talk about the cowboys’ sudden craze for golf was in line +with certain other remarkable tales that had lately emanated from him. +Some very strange things had occurred of late, and it was impossible to +tell whether or not they were accidents, mere coincidents, or deep-laid, +skilfully worked-out designs of the fun-loving cowboys. Certainly there +had been great fun, and at the expense of her guests, particularly +Castleton. So Madeline was at a loss to know what to think about +Stillwell’s latest elaboration. From mere force of habit she sympathized +with him and found difficulty in doubting his apparent sincerity. + +“To go back a ways,” went on Stillwell, as Madeline looked up +expectantly, “you recollect what pride the boys took in fixin’ up that +gol-lof course out on the mesa? Wal, they worked on that job, an’ though +I never seen any other course, I’ll gamble yours can’t be beat. The boys +was sure curious about that game. You recollect also how they all wanted +to see you an’ your brother play, an’ be caddies for you? Wal, whenever +you’d quit they’d go to work tryin’ to play the game. Monty Price, he +was the leadin’ spirit. Old as I am, Miss Majesty, an’ used as I am to +cowboy excentrikities, I nearly dropped daid when I heered that little +hobble-footed, burned-up Montana cow-puncher say there wasn’t any +game too swell for him, an’ gol-lof was just his speed. Serious as a +preacher, mind you, he was. An’ he was always practisin’. When Stewart +gave him charge of the course an’ the club-house an’ all them funny +sticks, why, Monty was tickled to death. You see, Monty is sensitive +that he ain’t much good any more for cowboy work. He was glad to have a +job that he didn’t feel he was hangin’ to by kindness. Wal, he practised +the game, an’ he read the books in the club-house, an’ he got the boys +to doin’ the same. That wasn’t very hard, I reckon. They played early +an’ late an’ in the moonlight. For a while Monty was coach, an’ the boys +stood it. But pretty soon Frankie Slade got puffed on his game, an’ he +had to have it out with Monty. Wal, Monty beat him bad. Then one after +another the other boys tackled Monty. He beat them all. After that they +split up an’ begin to play matches, two on a side. For a spell this +worked fine. But cowboys can’t never be satisfied long onless they win +all the time. Monty an’ Link Stevens, both cripples, you might say, +joined forces an’ elected to beat all comers. Wal, they did, an’ that’s +the trouble. Long an’ patient the other cowboys tried to beat them two +game legs, an’ hevn’t done it. Mebbe if Monty an’ Link was perfectly +sound in their legs like the other cowboys there wouldn’t hev been such +a holler. But no sound cowboys’ll ever stand for a disgrace like that. +Why, down at the bunks in the evenin’s it’s some mortifyin’ the way +Monty an’ Link crow over the rest of the outfit. They’ve taken on +superior airs. You couldn’t reach up to Monty with a trimmed spruce +pole. An’ Link—wal, he’s just amazin’ scornful. + +“‘It’s a swell game, ain’t it?’ says Link, powerful sarcastic. ‘Wal, +what’s hurtin’ you low-down common cowmen? You keep harpin’ on Monty’s +game leg an’ on my game leg. If we hed good legs we’d beat you all the +wuss. It’s brains that wins in gol-lof. Brains an’ airstoocratik blood, +which of the same you fellers sure hev little.’ + +“An’ then Monty he blows smoke powerful careless an’ superior, an’ he +says: + +“‘Sure it’s a swell game. You cow-headed gents think beef an’ brawn +ought to hev the call over skill an’ gray matter. You’ll all hev to back +up an’ get down. Go out an’ learn the game. You don’t know a baffy from +a Chinee sandwich. All you can do is waggle with a club an’ fozzle the +ball.’ + +“Whenever Monty gets to usin’ them queer names the boys go round kind of +dotty. Monty an’ Link hev got the books an’ directions of the game, an’ +they won’t let the other boys see them. They show the rules, but +that’s all. An’, of course, every game ends in a row almost before it’s +started. The boys are all turrible in earnest about this gol-lof. An’ I +want to say, for the good of ranchin’, not to mention a possible fight, +that Monty an’ Link hev got to be beat. There’ll be no peace round this +ranch till that’s done.” + +Madeline’s guests were much amused. As for herself, in spite of her +scarcely considered doubt, Stillwell’s tale of woe occasioned her +anxiety. However, she could hardly control her mirth. + +“What in the world can I do?” + +“Wal, I reckon I couldn’t say. I only come to you for advice. It seems +that a queer kind of game has locoed my cowboys, an’ for the time bein’ +ranchin’ is at a standstill. Sounds ridiculous, I know, but cowboys are +as strange as wild cattle. All I’m sure of is that the conceit has got +to be taken out of Monty an’ Link. Onct, just onct, will square it, an’ +then we can resoome our work.” + +“Stillwell, listen,” said Madeline, brightly. “We’ll arrange a match +game, a foursome, between Monty and Link and your best picked team. +Castleton, who is an expert golfer, will umpire. My sister, and friends, +and I will take turns as caddies for your team. That will be fair, +considering yours is the weaker. Caddies may coach, and perhaps expert +advice is all that is necessary for your team to defeat Monty’s.” + +“A grand idee,” declared Stillwell, with instant decision. “When can we +have this match game?” + +“Why, to-day—this afternoon. We’ll all ride out to the links.” + +“Wal, I reckon I’ll be some indebted to you, Miss Majesty, an’ all your +guests,” replied Stillwell, warmly. He rose with sombrero in hand, and a +twinkle in his eye that again prompted Madeline to wonder. “An’ now I’ll +be goin’ to fix up for the game of cowboy gol-lof. Adios.” + +The idea was as enthusiastically received by Madeline’s guests as it had +been by Stillwell. They were highly amused and speculative to the +point of taking sides and making wagers on their choice. Moreover, this +situation so frankly revealed by Stillwell had completed their deep +mystification. They were now absolutely nonplussed by the singular +character of American cowboys. Madeline was pleased to note how +seriously they had taken the old cattleman’s story. She had a little +throb of wild expectancy that made her both fear and delight in the +afternoon’s prospect. + +The June days had set in warm; in fact, hot during the noon hours: and +this had inculcated in her insatiable visitors a tendency to profit +by the experience of those used to the Southwest. They indulged in the +restful siesta during the heated term of the day. + +Madeline was awakened by Majesty’s well-known whistle and pounding on +the gravel. Then she heard the other horses. When she went out she found +her party assembled in gala golf attire, and with spirits to match their +costumes. Castleton, especially, appeared resplendent in a golf coat +that beggared description. Madeline had faint misgivings when she +reflected on what Monty and Nels and Nick might do under the influence +of that blazing garment. + +“Oh. Majesty,” cried Helen, as Madeline went up to her horse, “don’t +make him kneel! Try that flying mount. We all want to see it. It’s so +stunning.” + +“But that way, too, I must have him kneel,” said Madeline, “or I can’t +reach the stirrup. He’s so tremendously high.” + +Madeline had to yield to the laughing insistence of her friends, and +after all of them except Florence were up she made Majesty go down on +one knee. Then she stood on his left side, facing back, and took a good +firm grip on the bridle and pommel and his mane. After she had slipped +the toe of her boot firmly into the stirrup she called to Majesty. He +jumped and swung her up into the saddle. + +“Now just to see how it ought to be done watch Florence,” said Madeline. + +The Western girl was at her best in riding-habit and with her horse. It +was beautiful to see the ease and grace with which she accomplished the +cowboys’ flying mount. Then she led the party down the slope and across +the flat to climb the mesa. + +Madeline never saw a group of her cowboys without looking them over, +almost unconsciously, for her foreman, Gene Stewart. This afternoon, as +usual, he was not present. However, she now had a sense—of which she +was wholly conscious—that she was both disappointed and irritated. He +had really not been attentive to her guests, and he, of all her +cowboys, was the one of whom they wanted most to see something. Helen, +particularly, had asked to have him attend the match. But Stewart was +with the cattle. Madeline thought of his faithfulness, and was ashamed +of her momentary lapse into that old imperious habit of desiring things +irrespective of reason. + +Stewart, however, immediately slipped out of her mind as she surveyed +the group of cowboys on the links. By actual count there were sixteen, +not including Stillwell. And the same number of splendid horses, all +shiny and clean, grazed on the rim in the care of Mexican lads. The +cowboys were on dress-parade, looking very different in Madeline’s eyes, +at least, from the way cowboys usually appeared. But they were real and +natural to her guests; and they were so picturesque that they might have +been stage cowboys instead of real ones. Sombreros with silver +buckles and horsehair bands were in evidence; and bright silk scarfs, +embroidered vests, fringed and ornamented chaps, huge swinging guns, and +clinking silver spurs lent a festive appearance. + +Madeline and her party were at once eagerly surrounded by the cowboys, +and she found it difficult to repress a smile. If these cowboys were +still remarkable to her, what must they be to her guests? + +“Wal, you-all raced over, I seen,” said Stillwell, taking Madeline’s +bridle. “Get down—get down. We’re sure amazin’ glad an’ proud. An’, +Miss Majesty, I’m offerin’ to beg pawdin for the way the boys are +packin’ guns. Mebbe it ain’t polite. But it’s Stewart’s orders.” + +“Stewart’s orders!” echoed Madeline. Her friends were suddenly silent. + +“I reckon he won’t take no chances on the boys bein’ surprised sudden +by raiders. An’ there’s raiders operatin’ in from the Guadalupes. That’s +all. Nothin’ to worry over. I was just explainin’.” + +Madeline, with several of her party, expressed relief, but Helen showed +excitement and then disappointment. + +“Oh, I want something to happen!” she cried. + +Sixteen pairs of keen cowboy eyes fastened intently upon her pretty, +petulant face; and Madeline divined, if Helen did not, that the desired +consummation was not far off. + +“So do I,” said Dot Coombs. “It would be perfectly lovely to have a real +adventure.” + +The gaze of the sixteen cowboys shifted and sought the demure face of +this other discontented girl. Madeline laughed, and Stillwell wore his +strange, moving smile. + +“Wal, I reckon you ladies sure won’t have to go home unhappy,” he said. +“Why, as boss of this heah outfit I’d feel myself disgraced forever if +you didn’t have your wish. Just wait. An’ now, ladies, the matter on +hand may not be amusin’ or excitin’ to you; but to this heah cowboy +outfit it’s powerful important. An’ all the help you can give us will +sure be thankfully received. Take a look across the links. Do you-all +see them two apologies for human bein’s prancin’ like a couple of +hobbled broncs? Wal, you’re gazin’ at Monty Price an’ Link Stevens, +who have of a sudden got too swell to associate with their old bunkies. +They’re practisin’ for the toornament. They don’t want my boys to see +how they handle them crooked clubs.” + +“Have you picked your team?” inquired Madeline. + +Stillwell mopped his red face with an immense bandana, and showed +something of confusion and perplexity. + +“I’ve sixteen boys, an’ they all want to play,” he replied. “Pickin’ the +team ain’t goin’ to be an easy job. Mebbe it won’t be healthy, either. +There’s Nels and Nick. They just stated cheerful-like that if they +didn’t play we won’t have any game at all. Nick never tried before, an’ +Nels, all he wants is to get a crack at Monty with one of them crooked +clubs.” + +“I suggest you let all your boys drive from the tee and choose the two +who drive the farthest,” said Madeline. + +Stillwell’s perplexed face lighted up. + +“Wal, that’s a plumb good idee. The boys’ll stand for that.” + +Wherewith he broke up the admiring circle of cowboys round the ladies. + +“Grap a rope—I mean a club—all you cow-punchers, an’ march over hyar +an’ take a swipe at this little white bean.” + +The cowboys obeyed with alacrity. There was considerable difficulty over +the choice of clubs and who should try first. The latter question had +to be adjusted by lot. However, after Frankie Slade made several +ineffectual attempts to hit the ball from the teeing-ground, at last to +send it only a few yards, the other players were not so eager to follow. +Stillwell had to push Booly forward, and Booly executed a most miserable +shot and retired to the laughing comments of his comrades. The efforts +of several succeeding cowboys attested to the extreme difficulty of +making a good drive. + +“Wal, Nick, it’s your turn,” said Stillwell. + +“Bill, I ain’t so all-fired particular about playin’,” replied Nick. + +“Why? You was roarin’ about it a little while ago. Afraid to show how +bad you’ll play?” + +“Nope, jest plain consideration for my feller cow-punchers,” answered +Nick, with spirit. “I’m appreciatin’ how bad they play, an’ I’m not mean +enough to show them up.” + +“Wal, you’ve got to show me,” said Stillwell. “I know you never seen +a gol-lof stick in your life. What’s more, I’ll bet you can’t hit that +little ball square—not in a dozen cracks at it.” + +“Bill, I’m also too much of a gent to take your money. But you know I’m +from Missouri. Gimme a club.” + +Nick’s angry confidence seemed to evaporate as one after another he took +up and handled the clubs. It was plain that he had never before wielded +one. But, also, it was plain that he was not the kind of a man to give +in. Finally he selected a driver, looked doubtfully at the small knob, +and then stepped into position on the teeing-ground. + +Nick Steele stood six feet four inches in height. He had the rider’s +wiry slenderness, yet he was broad of shoulder. His arms were long. +Manifestly he was an exceedingly powerful man. He swung the driver +aloft and whirled it down with a tremendous swing. Crack! The white ball +disappeared, and from where it had been rose a tiny cloud of dust. + +Madeline’s quick sight caught the ball as it lined somewhat to the +right. It was shooting low and level with the speed of a bullet. It went +up and up in swift, beautiful flight, then lost its speed and began to +sail, to curve, to drop; and it fell out of sight beyond the rim of the +mesa. Madeline had never seen a drive that approached this one. It was +magnificent, beyond belief except for actual evidence of her own eyes. + +The yelling of the cowboys probably brought Nick Steele out of the +astounding spell with which he beheld his shot. Then Nick, suddenly +alive to the situation, recovered from his trance and, resting +nonchalantly upon his club, he surveyed Stillwell and the boys. After +their first surprised outburst they were dumb. + +“You-all seen thet?” Nick grandly waved his hand. “Thaught I was +joshin’, didn’t you? Why, I used to go to St. Louis an’ Kansas City to +play this here game. There was some talk of the golf clubs takin’ me +down East to play the champions. But I never cared fer the game. Too +easy fer me! Them fellers back in Missouri were a lot of cheap dubs, +anyhow, always kickin’ because whenever I hit a ball hard I always lost +it. Why, I hed to hit sort of left-handed to let ’em stay in my class. +Now you-all can go ahead an’ play Monty an’ Link. I could beat ’em both, +playin’ with one hand, if I wanted to. But I ain’t interested. I jest +hit thet ball off the mesa to show you. I sure wouldn’t be seen playin’ +on your team.” + +With that Nick sauntered away toward the horses. Stillwell appeared +crushed. And not a scornful word was hurled after Nick, which fact +proved the nature of his victory. Then Nels strode into the limelight. +As far as it was possible for this iron-faced cowboy to be so, he was +bland and suave. He remarked to Stillwell and the other cowboys that +sometimes it was painful for them to judge of the gifts of superior +cowboys such as belonged to Nick and himself. He picked up the club +Nick had used and called for a new ball. Stillwell carefully built up +a little mound of sand and, placing the ball upon it, squared away to +watch. He looked grim and expectant. + +Nels was not so large a man as Nick, and did not look so formidable +as he waved his club at the gaping cowboys. Still he was lithe, +tough, strong. Briskly, with a debonair manner, he stepped up and then +delivered a mighty swing at the ball. He missed. The power and momentum +of his swing flung him off his feet, and he actually turned upside down +and spun round on his head. The cowboys howled. Stillwell’s stentorian +laugh rolled across the mesa. Madeline and her guests found it +impossible to restrain their mirth. And when Nels got up he cast a +reproachful glance at Madeline. His feelings were hurt. + +His second attempt, not by any means so violent, resulted in as clean a +miss as the first, and brought jeers from the cowboys. Nels’s red face +flamed redder. Angrily he swung again. The mound of sand spread over the +teeing-ground and the exasperating little ball rolled a few inches. This +time he had to build up the sand mound and replace the ball himself. +Stillwell stood scornfully by, and the boys addressed remarks to Nels. + +“Take off them blinders,” said one. + +“Nels, your eyes are shore bad,” said another. + +“You don’t hit where you look.” + +“Nels, your left eye has sprung a limp.” + +“Why, you dog-goned old fule, you cain’t hit thet bawl.” + +Nels essayed again, only to meet ignominious failure. Then carefully +he gathered himself together, gaged distance, balanced the club, swung +cautiously. And the head of the club made a beautiful curve round the +ball. + +“Shore it’s jest thet crooked club,” he declared. + +He changed clubs and made another signal failure. Rage suddenly +possessing him, he began to swing wildly. Always, it appeared, the +illusive little ball was not where he aimed. Stillwell hunched his huge +bulk, leaned hands on knees, and roared his riotous mirth. The cowboys +leaped up and down in glee. + +“You cain’t hit thet bawl,” sang out one of the noisiest. A few more +whirling, desperate lunges on the part of Nels, all as futile as if +the ball had been thin air, finally brought to the dogged cowboy a +realization that golf was beyond him. + +Stillwell bawled: “Oh, haw, haw, haw! Nels, you’re—too old—eyes no +good!” + +Nels slammed down the club, and when he straightened up with the red +leaving his face, then the real pride and fire of the man showed. +Deliberately he stepped off ten paces and turned toward the little mound +upon which rested the ball. His arm shot down, elbow crooked, hand like +a claw. + +“Aw, Nels, this is fun!” yelled Stillwell. + +But swift as a gleam of light Nels flashed his gun, and the report came +with the action. Chips flew from the golf-ball as it tumbled from the +mound. Nels had hit it without raising the dust. Then he dropped the +gun back in its sheath and faced the cowboys. + +“Mebbe my eyes ain’t so orful bad,” he said, coolly, and started to walk +off. + +“But look ah-heah, Nels,” yelled Stillwell, “we come out to play +gol-lof! We can’t let you knock the ball around with your gun. What’d +you want to get mad for? It’s only fun. Now you an’ Nick hang round +heah an’ be sociable. We ain’t depreciatin’ your company none, nor your +usefulness on occasions. An’ if you just hain’t got inborn politeness +sufficient to do the gallant before the ladies, why, remember Stewart’s +orders.” + +“Stewart’s orders?” queried Nels, coming to a sudden halt. + +“That’s what I said,” replied Stillwell, with asperity. “His orders. +Are you forgettin’ orders? Wal, you’re a fine cowboy. You an’ Nick an’ +Monty, ’specially, are to obey orders.” + +Nels took off his sombrero and scratched his head. “Bill, I reckon I’m +some forgetful. But I was mad. I’d ‘a’ remembered pretty soon, an’ mebbe +my manners.” + +“Sure you would,” replied Stillwell. “Wal, now, we don’t seem to be +proceedin’ much with my gol-lof team. Next ambitious player step up.” + +In Ambrose, who showed some skill in driving, Stillwell found one of +his team. The succeeding players, however, were so poor and so evenly +matched that the earnest Stillwell was in despair. He lost his temper +just as speedily as Nels had. Finally Ed Linton’s wife appeared riding +up with Ambrose’s wife, and perhaps this helped, for Ed suddenly +disclosed ability that made Stillwell single him out. + +“Let me coach you a little,” said Bill. + +“Sure, if you like,” replied Ed. “But I know more about this game than +you do.” + +“Wal, then, let’s see you hit a ball straight. Seems to me you got +good all-fired quick. It’s amazin’ strange,” ere Bill looked around to +discover the two young wives modestly casting eyes of admiration upon +their husbands. “Haw, haw! It ain’t so darned strange. Mebbe that’ll +help some. Now, Ed, stand up and don’t sling your club as if you was +ropin’ a steer. Come round easy-like an’ hit straight.” + +Ed made several attempts which, although better than those of his +predecessors, were rather discouraging to the exacting coach. Presently, +after a particularly atrocious shot, Stillwell strode in distress here +and there, and finally stopped a dozen paces or more in front of the +teeing-ground. Ed, who for a cowboy was somewhat phlegmatic, calmly made +ready for another attempt. + +“Fore!” he called. + +Stillwell stared. + +“Fore!” yelled Ed. + +“Why’re you hollerin’ that way at me?” demanded Bill. + +“I mean for you to lope off the horizon. Get back from in front.” + +“Oh, that was one of them durned crazy words Monty is always hollerin’. +Wal, I reckon I’m safe enough hyar. You couldn’t hit me in a million +years.” + +“Bill, ooze away,” urged Ed. + +“Didn’t I say you couldn’t hit me? What am I coachin’ you for? It’s +because you hit crooked, ain’t it? Wal, go ahaid an’ break your back.” + +Ed Linton was a short, heavy man, and his stocky build gave evidence +of considerable strength. His former strokes had not been made at the +expense of exertion, but now he got ready for a supreme effort. A sudden +silence clamped down upon the exuberant cowboys. It was one of those +fateful moments when the air was charged with disaster. As Ed swung the +club it fairly whistled. + +Crack! Instantly came a thump. But no one saw the ball until it dropped +from Stillwell’s shrinking body. His big hands went spasmodically to the +place that hurt, and a terrible groan rumbled from him. + +Then the cowboys broke into a frenzy of mirth that seemed to find +adequate expression only in dancing and rolling accompaniment to their +howls. Stillwell recovered his dignity as soon as he caught his breath, +and he advanced with a rueful face. + +“Wal, boys, it’s on Bill,” he said. “I’m a livin’ proof of the +pig-headedness of mankind. Ed, you win. You’re captain of the team. You +hit straight, an’ if I hadn’t been obstructin’ the general atmosphere +that ball would sure have gone clear to the Chiricahuas.” + +Then making a megaphone of his huge hands, he yelled a loud blast of +defiance at Monty and Link. + +“Hey, you swell gol-lofers! We’re waitin’. Come on if you ain’t scared.” + +Instantly Monty and Link quit practising, and like two emperors came +stalking across the links. + +“Guess my bluff didn’t work much,” said Stillwell. Then he turned to +Madeline and her friends. “Sure I hope, Miss Majesty, that you-all won’t +weaken an’ go over to the enemy. Monty is some eloquent, an’, besides, +he has a way of gettin’ people to agree with him. He’ll be plumb wild +when he heahs what he an’ Link are up against. But it’s a square deal, +because he wouldn’t help us or lend the book that shows how to play. +An’, besides, it’s policy for us to beat him. Now, if you’ll elect who’s +to be caddies an’ umpire I’ll be powerful obliged.” + +Madeline’s friends were hugely amused over the prospective match; but, +except for Dorothy and Castleton, they disclaimed any ambition for +active participation. Accordingly, Madeline appointed Castleton to judge +the play, Dorothy to act as caddie for Ed Linton, and she herself to be +caddie for Ambrose. While Stillwell beamingly announced this momentous +news to his team and supporters Monty and Link were striding up. + +Both were diminutive in size, bow-legged, lame in one foot, and +altogether unprepossessing. Link was young, and Monty’s years, more than +twice Link’s, had left their mark. But it would have been impossible to +tell Monty’s age. As Stillwell said, Monty was burned to the color and +hardness of a cinder. He never minded the heat, and always wore heavy +sheepskin chaps with the wool outside. This made him look broader than +he was long. Link, partial to leather, had, since he became Madeline’s +chauffeur, taken to leather altogether. He carried no weapon, but Monty +wore a huge gun-sheath and gun. Link smoked a cigarette and looked +coolly impudent. Monty was dark-faced, swaggering, for all the world +like a barbarian chief. + +“That Monty makes my flesh creep,” said Helen, low-voiced. “Really, +Mr. Stillwell, is he so bad—desperate—as I’ve heard? Did he ever kill +anybody?” + +“Sure. ’Most as many as Nels,” replied Stillwell, cheerfully. + +“Oh! And is that nice Mr. Nels a desperado, too? I wouldn’t have thought +so. He’s so kind and old-fashioned and soft-voiced.” + +“Nels is sure an example of the dooplicity of men, Miss Helen. Don’t +you listen to his soft voice. He’s really as bad as a side-winder +rattlesnake.” + +At this juncture Monty and Link reached the teeing-ground, and Stillwell +went out to meet them. The other cowboys pressed forward to surround the +trio. Madeline heard Stillwell’s voice, and evidently he was explaining +that his team was to have skilled advice during the play. Suddenly there +came from the center of the group a loud, angry roar that broke off as +suddenly. Then followed excited voices all mingled together. Presently +Monty appeared, breaking away from restraining hands, and he strode +toward Madeline. + +Monty Price was a type of cowboy who had never been known to speak to +a woman unless he was first addressed, and then he answered in blunt, +awkward shyness. Upon this great occasion, however, it appeared that +he meant to protest or plead with Madeline, for he showed stress of +emotion. Madeline had never gotten acquainted with Monty. She was a +little in awe, if not in fear, of him, and now she found it imperative +for her to keep in mind that more than any other of the wild fellows on +her ranch this one should be dealt with as if he were a big boy. + +Monty removed his sombrero—something he had never done before—and the +single instant when it was off was long enough to show his head entirely +bald. This was one of the hall-marks of that terrible Montana prairie +fire through which he had fought to save the life of a child. Madeline +did not forget it, and all at once she wanted to take Monty’s side. +Remembering Stillwell’s wisdom, however, she forebore yielding to +sentiment, and called upon her wits. + +“Miss—Miss Hammond,” began Monty, stammering, “I’m extendin’ admirin’ +greetin’s to you an’ your friends. Link an’ me are right down proud to +play the match game with you watchin’. But Bill says you’re goin’ to +caddie for his team an’ coach ’em on the fine points. An’ I want to ask, +all respectful, if thet’s fair an’ square?” + +“Monty, that is for you to say,” replied Madeline. “It was my +suggestion. But if you object in the least, of course we shall withdraw. +It seems fair to me, because you have learned the game; you are expert, +and I understand the other boys have no chance with you. Then you have +coached Link. I think it would be sportsmanlike of you to accept the +handicap.” + +“Aw, a handicap! Thet was what Bill was drivin’ at. Why didn’t he say +so? Every time Bill comes to a word thet’s pie to us old golfers he jest +stumbles. Miss Majesty, you’ve made it all clear as print. An’ I may +say with becomin’ modesty thet you wasn’t mistaken none about me +bein’ sportsmanlike. Me an’ Link was born thet way. An’ we accept the +handicap. Lackin’ thet handicap, I reckon Link an’ me would have no +ambish to play our most be-ootiful game. An’ thankin’ you, Miss Majesty, +an’ all your friends, I want to add thet if Bill’s outfit couldn’t beat +us before, they’ve got a swell chanct now, with you ladies a-watchin’ me +an’ Link.” + +Monty had seemed to expand with pride as he delivered this speech, +and at the end he bowed low and turned away. He joined the group round +Stillwell. Once more there was animated discussion and argument and +expostulation. One of the cowboys came for Castleton and led him away to +exploit upon ground rules. + +It seemed to Madeline that the game never would begin. She strolled on +the rim of the mesa, arm in arm with Edith Wayne, and while Edith +talked she looked out over the gray valley leading to the rugged black +mountains and the vast red wastes. In the foreground on the gray slope +she saw cattle in movement and cowboys riding to and fro. She thought +of Stewart. Then Boyd Harvey came for them, saying all details had +been arranged. Stillwell met them half-way, and this cool, dry, old +cattleman, whose face and manner scarcely changed at the announcement of +a cattle-raid, now showed extreme agitation. + +“Wal, Miss Majesty, we’ve gone an’ made a foozle right at the start,” he +said, dejectedly. + +“A foozle? But the game has not yet begun,” replied Madeline. + +“A bad start, I mean. It’s amazin’ bad, an’ we’re licked already.” + +“What in the world is wrong?” + +She wanted to laugh, but Stillwell’s distress restrained her. + +“Wal, it’s this way. That darn Monty is as cute an’ slick as a fox. +After he got done declaimin’ about the handicap he an’ Link was so happy +to take, he got Castleton over hyar an’ drove us all dotty with his +crazy gol-lof names. Then he borrowed Castleton’s gol-lof coat. I reckon +borrowed is some kind word. He just about took that blazin’ coat off the +Englishman. Though I ain’t sayin’ but that Casleton was agreeable +when he tumbled to Monty’s meanin’. Which was nothin’ more ’n to break +Ambrose’s heart. That coat dazzles Ambrose. You know how vain Ambrose +is. Why, he’d die to get to wear that Englishman’s gol-lof coat. An’ +Monty forestalled him. It’s plumb pitiful to see the look in Ambrose’s +eyes. He won’t be able to play much. Then what do you think? Monty fixed +Ed Linton, all right. Usually Ed is easy-goin’ an’ cool. But now he’s +on the rampage. Wal, mebbe it’s news to you to learn that Ed’s wife is +powerful, turrible jealous of him. Ed was somethin’ of a devil with the +wimmen. Monty goes over an’ tells Beulah—that’s Ed’s wife—that Ed is +goin’ to have for caddie the lovely Miss Dorothy with the goo-goo eyes. +I reckon this was some disrespectful, but with all doo respect to Miss +Dorothy she has got a pair of unbridled eyes. Mebbe it’s just natural +for her to look at a feller like that. Oh, it’s all right; I’m not +sayin’ any-thin’! I know it’s all proper an’ regular for girls back East +to use their eyes. But out hyar it’s bound to result disastrous. All the +boys talk about among themselves is Miss Dot’s eyes, an’ all they brag +about is which feller is the luckiest. Anyway, sure Ed’s wife knows it. +An’ Monty up an’ told her that it was fine for her to come out an’ see +how swell Ed was prancin’ round under the light of Miss Dot’s brown +eyes. Beulah calls over Ed, figgertively speakin’, ropes him for a +minnit. Ed comes back huggin’ a grouch as big as a hill. Oh, it was +funny! He was goin’ to punch Monty’s haid off. An’ Monty stands there +an’ laughs. Says Monty, sarcastic as alkali water: ‘Ed, we-all knowed +you was a heap married man, but you’re some locoed to give yourself +away.’ That settled Ed. He’s some touchy about the way Beulah henpecks +him. He lost his spirit. An’ now he couldn’t play marbles, let alone +gol-lof. Nope, Monty was too smart. An’ I reckon he was right about +brains bein’ what wins.” + +The game began. At first Madeline and Dorothy essayed to direct the +endeavors of their respective players. But all they said and did only +made their team play the worse. At the third hole they were far behind +and hopelessly bewildered. What with Monty’s borrowed coat, with its +dazzling effect upon Ambrose, and Link’s oft-repeated allusion to +Ed’s matrimonial state, and Stillwell’s vociferated disgust, and the +clamoring good intention and pursuit of the cowboy supporters, and the +embarrassing presence of the ladies, Ambrose and Ed wore through all +manner of strange play until it became ridiculous. + +“Hey, Link,” came Monty’s voice booming over the links, “our esteemed +rivals are playin’ shinny.” + +Madeline and Dorothy gave up, presently, when the game became a rout, +and they sat down with their followers to watch the fun. Whether by hook +or crook, Ed and Ambrose forged ahead to come close upon Monty and Link. +Castleton disappeared in a mass of gesticulating, shouting cowboys. When +that compact mass disintegrated Castleton came forth rather hurriedly, +it appeared, to stalk back toward his hostess and friends. + +“Look!” exclaimed Helen, in delight. “Castleton is actually excited. +Whatever did they do to him? Oh, this is immense!” + +Castleton was excited, indeed, and also somewhat disheveled. + +“By Jove! that was a rum go,” he said, as he came up. “Never saw such +blooming golf! I resigned my office as umpire.” + +Only upon considerable pressure did he reveal the reason. “It was like +this, don’t you know. They were all together over there, watching each +other. Monty Price’s ball dropped into a hazard, and he moved it to +improve the lie. By Jove! they’ve all been doing that. But over there +the game was waxing hot. Stillwell and his cowboys saw Monty move the +ball, and there was a row. They appealed to me. I corrected the play, +showed the rules. Monty agreed he was in the wrong. However, when it +came to moving his ball back to its former lie in the hazard there was +more blooming trouble. Monty placed the ball to suit him, and then he +transfixed me with an evil eye. + +“‘Dook,’ he said. I wish the bloody cowboy would not call me that. +‘Dook, mebbe this game ain’t as important as international politics or +some other things relatin’, but there’s some health an’ peace dependin’ +on it. Savvy? For some space our opponents have been dead to honor an’ +sportsmanlike conduct. I calculate the game depends on my next drive. +I’m placin’ my ball as near to where it was as human eyesight could. +You seen where it was same as I seen it. You’re the umpire, an’, Dook, I +take you as a honorable man. Moreover, never in my born days has my word +been doubted without sorrow. So I’m askin’ you, wasn’t my ball layin’ +just about here?’ + +“The bloody little desperado smiled cheerfully, and he dropped his right +hand down to the butt of his gun. By Jove, he did! Then I had to tell a +blooming lie!” + +Castleton even caught the tone of Monty’s voice, but it was plain that +he had not the least conception that Monty had been fooling. Madeline +and her friends divined it, however; and, there being no need of +reserve, they let loose the fountains of mirth. + + + + +XIV. Bandits + + +When Madeline and her party recovered composure they sat up to watch the +finish of the match. It came with spectacular suddenness. A sharp yell +pealed out, and all the cowboys turned attentively in its direction. A +big black horse had surmounted the rim of the mesa and was just breaking +into a run. His rider yelled sharply to the cowboys. They wheeled to +dash toward their grazing horses. + +“That’s Stewart. There is something wrong,” said Madeline, in alarm. + +Castleton stared. The other men exclaimed uneasily. The women sought +Madeline’s face with anxious eyes. + +The black got into his stride and bore swiftly down upon them. + +“Oh, look at that horse run!” cried Helen. “Look at that fellow ride!” + +Helen was not alone in her admiration, for Madeline divided her +emotions between growing alarm of some danger menacing and a thrill and +quickening of pulse-beat that tingled over her whenever she saw Stewart +in violent action. No action of his was any longer insignificant, but +violent action meant so much. It might mean anything. For one moment she +remembered Stillwell and all his talk about fun, and plots, and tricks +to amuse her guest. Then she discountenanced the thought. Stewart might +lend himself to a little fun, but he cared too much for a horse to run +him at that speed unless there was imperious need. That alone sufficed +to answer Madeline’s questioning curiosity. And her alarm mounted to +fear not so much for herself as for her guests. But what danger could +there be? She could think of nothing except the guerrillas. + +Whatever threatened, it would be met and checked by this man Stewart, +who was thundering up on his fleet horse; and as he neared her, so that +she could see the dark gleam of face and eyes, she had a strange feeling +of trust in her dependence upon him. + +The big black was so close to Madeline and her friends that when Stewart +pulled him the dust and sand kicked up by his pounding hoofs flew in +their faces. + +“Oh, Stewart, what is it?” cried Madeline. + +“Guess I scared you, Miss Hammond,” he replied. “But I’m pressed for +time. There’s a gang of bandits hiding on the ranch, most likely in a +deserted hut. They held up a train near Agua Prieta. Pat Hawe is with +the posse that’s trailing them, and you know Pat has no use for us. I’m +afraid it wouldn’t be pleasant for you or your guests to meet either the +posse or the bandits.” + +“I fancy not,” said Madeline, considerably relieved. “We’ll hurry back +to the house.” + +They exchanged no more speech at the moment, and Madeline’s guests were +silent. Perhaps Stewart’s actions and looks belied his calm words. His +piercing eyes roved round the rim of the mesa, and his face was as hard +and stern as chiseled bronze. + +Monty and Nick came galloping up, each leading several horses by the +bridles. Nels appeared behind them with Majesty, and he was having +trouble with the roan. Madeline observed that all the other cowboys had +disappeared. + +One sharp word from Stewart calmed Madeline’s horse; the other horses, +however, were frightened and not inclined to stand. The men mounted +without trouble, and likewise Madeline and Florence. But Edith Wayne +and Mrs. Beck, being nervous and almost helpless, were with difficulty +gotten into the saddle. + +“Beg pardon, but I’m pressed for time,” said Stewart, coolly, as with +iron arm he forced Dorothy’s horse almost to its knees. Dorothy, who was +active and plucky, climbed astride; and when Stewart loosed his hold on +bit and mane the horse doubled up and began to buck. Dorothy screamed +as she shot into the air. Stewart, as quick as the horse, leaped forward +and caught Dorothy in his arms. She had slipped head downward and, had +he not caught her, would have had a serious fall. Stewart, handling her +as if she were a child, turned her right side up to set her upon her +feet. Dorothy evidently thought only of the spectacle she presented, and +made startled motions to readjust her riding-habit. It was no time +to laugh, though Madeline felt as if she wanted to. Besides, it was +impossible to be anything but sober with Stewart in violent mood. For +he had jumped at Dorothy’s stubborn mount. All cowboys were masters of +horses. It was wonderful to see him conquer the vicious animal. He was +cruel, perhaps, yet it was from necessity. When, presently, he led the +horse back to Dorothy she mounted without further trouble. Meanwhile, +Nels and Nick had lifted Helen into her saddle. + +“We’ll take the side trail,” said Stewart, shortly, as he swung upon +the big black. Then he led the way, and the other cowboys trotted in the +rear. + +It was only a short distance to the rim of the mesa, and when Madeline +saw the steep trail, narrow and choked with weathered stone, she felt +that her guests would certainly flinch. + +“That’s a jolly bad course,” observed Castleton. + +The women appeared to be speechless. + +Stewart checked his horse at the deep cut where the trail started down. + +“Boys, drop over, and go slow,” he said, dismounting. “Flo, you follow. +Now, ladies, let your horses loose and hold on. Lean forward and hang to +the pommel. It looks bad. But the horses are used to such trails.” + +Helen followed closely after Florence; Mrs. Beck went next, and then +Edith Wayne. Dorothy’s horse balked. + +“I’m not so—so frightened,” said Dorothy. “If only he would behave!” + +She began to urge him into the trail, making him rear, when Stewart +grasped the bit and jerked the horse down. + +“Put your foot in my stirrup,” said Stewart. “We can’t waste time.” + +He lifted her upon his horse and started him down over the rim. + +“Go on, Miss Hammond. I’ll have to lead this nag down. It’ll save time.” + +Then Madeline attended to the business of getting down herself. It was a +loose trail. The weathered slopes seemed to slide under the feet of the +horses. Dust-clouds formed; rocks rolled and rattled down; cactus spikes +tore at horse and rider. Mrs. Beck broke into laughter, and there was +a note in it that suggested hysteria. Once or twice Dorothy murmured +plaintively. Half the time Madeline could not distinguish those ahead +through the yellow dust. It was dry and made her cough. The horses +snorted. She heared Stewart close behind, starting little avalanches +that kept rolling on Majesty’s fetlocks. She feared his legs might be +cut or bruised, for some of the stones cracked by and went rattling down +the slope. At length the clouds of dust thinned and Madeline saw the +others before her ride out upon a level. Soon she was down, and Stewart +also. + +Here there was a delay, occasioned by Stewart changing Dorothy from his +horse to her own. This struck Madeline as being singular, and made her +thoughtful. In fact, the alert, quiet manner of all the cowboys was not +reassuring. As they resumed the ride it was noticeable that Nels and +Nick were far in advance, Monty stayed far in the rear, and Stewart rode +with the party. Madeline heard Boyd Harvey ask Stewart if lawlessness +such as he had mentioned was not unusual. Stewart replied that, except +for occasional deeds of outlawry such as might break out in any isolated +section of the country, there had been peace and quiet along the border +for years. It was the Mexican revolution that had revived wild times, +with all the attendant raids and holdups and gun-packing. Madeline knew +that they were really being escorted home under armed guard. + +When they rounded the head of the mesa, bringing into view the +ranch-house and the valley, Madeline saw dust or smoke hovering over a +hut upon the outskirts of the Mexican quarters. As the sun had set +and the light was fading, she could not distinguish which it was. Then +Stewart set a fast pace for the house. In a few minutes the party was in +the yard, ready and willing to dismount. + +Stillwell appeared, ostensibly cheerful, too cheerful to deceive +Madeline. She noted also that a number of armed cowboys were walking +with their horses just below the house. + +“Wal, you-all had a nice little run,” Stillwell said, speaking +generally. “I reckon there wasn’t much need of it. Pat Hawe thinks he’s +got some outlaws corralled on the ranch. Nothin’ at all to be fussed +up about. Stewart’s that particular he won’t have you meetin’ with any +rowdies.” + +Many and fervent were the expressions of relief from Madeline’s feminine +guests as they dismounted and went into the house. Madeline lingered +behind to speak with Stillwell and Stewart. + +“Now, Stillwell, out with it,” she said, briefly. + +The cattleman stared, and then he laughed, evidently pleased with her +keenness. + +“Wal, Miss Majesty, there’s goin’ to be a fight somewhere, an’ Stewart +wanted to get you-all in before it come off. He says the valley’s +overrun by vaqueros an’ guerrillas an’ robbers, an’ Lord knows what +else.” + +He stamped off the porch, his huge spurs rattling, and started down the +path toward the waiting men. + +Stewart stood in his familiar attentive position, erect, silent, with a +hand on pommel and bridle. + +“Stewart, you are exceedingly—thoughtful of my interests,” she said, +wanting to thank him, and not readily finding words. “I would not know +what to do without you. Is there danger?” + +“I’m not sure. But I want to be on the safe side.” + +She hesitated. It was no longer easy for her to talk to him, and she did +not know why. + +“May I know the special orders you gave Nels and Nick and Monty?” she +asked. + +“Who said I gave those boys special orders?” + +“I heard Stillwell tell them so.” + +“Of course I’ll tell you if you insist. But why should you worry over +something that’ll likely never happen?” + +“I insist, Stewart,” she replied, quietly. + +“My orders were that at least one of them must be on guard near you day +and night—never to be out of hearing of your voice.” + +“I thought as much. But why Nels or Monty or Nick? That seems rather +hard on them. For that matter, why put any one to keep guard over me? Do +you not trust any other of my cowboys?” + +“I’d trust their honesty, but not their ability.” + +“Ability? Of what nature?” + +“With guns.” + +“Stewart!” she exclaimed. + +“Miss Hammond, you have been having such a good time entertaining your +guests that you forget. I’m glad of that. I wish you had not questioned +me.” + +“Forget what?” + +“Don Carlos and his guerrillas.” + +“Indeed I have not forgotten. Stewart, you still think Don Carlos tried +to make off with me—may try it again?” + +“I don’t think. I know.” + +“And besides all your other duties you have shared the watch with these +three cowboys?” + +“Yes.” + +“It has been going on without my knowledge?” + +“Yes.” + +“Since when?” + +“Since I brought you down from the mountains last month.” + +“How long is it to continue?” + +“That’s hard to say. Till the revolution is over, anyhow.” + +She mused a moment, looking away to the west, where the great void was +filling with red haze. She believed implicitly in him, and the menace +hovering near her fell like a shadow upon her present happiness. + +“What must I do?” she asked. + +“I think you ought to send your friends back East—and go with them, +until this guerrilla war is over.” + +“Why, Stewart, they would be broken-hearted, and so would I.” + +He had no reply for that. + +“If I do not take your advice it will be the first time since I have +come to look to you for so much,” she went on. “Cannot you suggest +something else? My friends are having such a splendid visit. Helen is +getting well. Oh, I should be sorry to see them go before they want to.” + +“We might take them up into the mountains and camp out for a while,” he +said, presently. “I know a wild place up among the crags. It’s a hard +climb, but worth the work. I never saw a more beautiful spot. Fine +water, and it will be cool. Pretty soon it’ll be too hot here for your +party to go out-of-doors.” + +“You mean to hide me away among the crags and clouds?” replied Madeline, +with a laugh. + +“Well, it’d amount to that. Your friends need not know. Perhaps in a few +weeks this spell of trouble on the border will be over till fall.” + +“You say it’s a hard climb up to this place?” + +“It surely is. Your friends will get the real thing if they make that +trip.” + +“That suits me. Helen especially wants something to happen. And they are +all crazy for excitement.” + +“They’d get it up there. Bad trails, canyons to head, steep climbs, +wind-storms, thunder and lightning, rain, mountain-lions and wildcats.” + +“Very well, I am decided. Stewart, of course you will take charge? I +don’t believe I—Stewart, isn’t there something more you could tell +me—why you think, why you know my own personal liberty is in peril?” + +“Yes. But do not ask me what it is. If I hadn’t been a rebel soldier I +would never have known.” + +“If you had not been a rebel soldier, where would Madeline Hammond be +now?” she asked, earnestly. + +He made no reply. + +“Stewart,” she continued, with warm impulse, “you once mentioned a debt +you owed me—” And seeing his dark face pale, she wavered, then went on. +“It is paid.” + +“No, no,” he answered, huskily. + +“Yes. I will not have it otherwise.” + +“No. That never can be paid.” + +Madeline held out her hand. + +“It is paid, I tell you,” she repeated. + +Suddenly he drew back from the outstretched white hand that seemed to +fascinate him. + +“I’d kill a man to touch your hand. But I won’t touch it on the terms +you offer.” + +His unexpected passion disconcerted her. + +“Stewart, no man ever before refused to shake hands with me, for any +reason. It—it is scarcely flattering,” she said, with a little +laugh. “Why won’t you? Because you think I offer it as mistress to +servant—rancher to cowboy?” + +“No.” + +“Then why? The debt you owed me is paid. I cancel it. So why not shake +hands upon it, as men do?” + +“I won’t. That’s all.” + +“I fear you are ungracious, whatever your reason,” she replied. “Still, +I may offer it again some day. Good night.” + +He said good night and turned. Madeline wonderingly watched him go down +the path with his hand on the black horse’s neck. + +She went in to rest a little before dressing for dinner, and, being +fatigued from the day’s riding and excitement, she fell asleep. When she +awoke it was twilight. She wondered why her Mexican maid had not come to +her, and she rang the bell. The maid did not put in an appearance, nor +was there any answer to the ring. The house seemed unusually quiet. It +was a brooding silence, which presently broke to the sound of footsteps +on the porch. Madeline recognized Stillwell’s tread, though it appeared +to be light for him. Then she heard him call softly in at the open +door of her office. The suggestion of caution in his voice suited the +strangeness of his walk. With a boding sense of trouble she hurried +through the rooms. He was standing outside her office door. + +“Stillwell!” she exclaimed. + +“Anybody with you?” he asked, in a low tone. + +“No.” + +“Please come out on the porch,” he added. + +She complied, and, once out, was enabled to see him. His grave face, +paler than she had ever beheld it, caused her to stretch an appealing +hand toward him. Stillwell intercepted it and held it in his own. + +“Miss Majesty, I’m amazin’ sorry to tell worrisome news.” He spoke +almost in a whisper, cautiously looked about him, and seemed both +hurried and mysterious. “If you’d heerd Stewart cuss you’d sure know how +we hate to hev to tell you this. But it can’t be avoided. The fact is +we’re in a bad fix. If your guests ain’t scared out of their skins it’ll +be owin’ to your nerve an’ how you carry out Stewart’s orders.” + +“You can rely upon me,” replied Madeline, firmly, though she trembled. + +“Wal, what we’re up against is this: that gang of bandits Pat Hawe was +chasin’—they’re hidin’ in the house!” + +“In the house?” echoed Madeline, aghast. + +“Miss Majesty, it’s the amazin’ truth, an’ shamed indeed am I to admit +it. Stewart—why, he’s wild with rage to think it could hev happened. +You see, it couldn’t hev happened if I hedn’t sloped the boys off to the +gol-lof-links, an’ if Stewart hedn’t rid out on the mesa after us. It’s +my fault. I’ve hed too much femininity around fer my old haid. Gene +cussed me—he cussed me sure scandalous. But now we’ve got to face +it—to figger.” + +“Do you mean that a gang of hunted outlaws—bandits—have actually taken +refuge somewhere in my house?” demanded Madeline. + +“I sure do. Seems powerful strange to me why you didn’t find somethin’ +was wrong, seem’ all your servants hev sloped.” + +“Gone? Ah, I missed my maid! I wondered why no lights were lit. Where +did my servants go?” + +“Down to the Mexican quarters, an’ scared half to death. Now listen. +When Stewart left you an hour or so ago he follered me direct to where +me an’ the boys was tryin’ to keep Pat Hawe from tearin’ the ranch to +pieces. At that we was helpin’ Pat all we could to find them bandits. +But when Stewart got there he made a difference. Pat was nasty before, +but seein’ Stewart made him wuss. I reckon Gene to Pat is the same as +red to a Greaser bull. Anyway, when the sheriff set fire to an old adobe +hut Stewart called him an’ called him hard. Pat Hawe hed six fellers +with him, an’ from all appearances bandit-huntin’ was some fiesta. There +was a row, an ‘it looked bad fer a little. But Gene was cool, an’ he +controlled the boys. Then Pat an’ his tough de-pooties went on huntin’. +That huntin’, Miss Majesty, petered out into what was only a farce. I +reckon Pat could hev kept on foolin’ me an’ the boys, but as soon as +Stewart showed up on the scene—wal, either Pat got to blunderin’ or +else we-all shed our blinders. Anyway, the facts stood plain. Pat +Hawe wasn’t lookin’ hard fer any bandits; he wasn’t daid set huntin’ +anythin’, unless it was trouble fer Stewart. Finally, when Pat’s men +made fer our storehouse, where we keep ammunition, grub, liquors, an’ +sich, then Gene called a halt. An’ he ordered Pat Hawe off the ranch. It +was hyar Hawe an’ Stewart locked horns. + +“An’ hyar the truth come out. There was a gang of bandits hid +somewheres, an’ at fust Pat Hawe hed been powerful active an’ earnest in +his huntin’. But sudden-like he’d fetched a pecooliar change of heart. +He had been some flustered with Stewart’s eyes a-pryin’ into his moves, +an’ then, mebbe to hide somethin’, mebbe jest nat’rul, he got mad. +He hollered law. He pulled down off the shelf his old stock grudge +on Stewart, accusin’ him over again of that Greaser murder last fall. +Stewart made him look like a fool—showed him up as bein’ scared of the +bandits or hevin’ some reason fer slopin’ off the trail. Anyway, the row +started all right, an’ but fer Nels it might hev amounted to a fight. +In the thick of it, when Stewart was drivin’ Pat an’ his crowd off the +place, one of them de-pooties lost his head an’ went fer his gun. Nels +throwed his gun an’ crippled the feller’s arm. Monty jumped then an’ +throwed two forty-fives, an’ fer a second or so it looked ticklish. But +the bandit-hunters crawled, an’ then lit out.” + +Stillwell paused in the rapid delivery of his narrative; he still +retained Madeline’s hand, as if by that he might comfort her. + +“After Pat left we put our haids together,” began the old cattleman, +with a long respiration. “We rounded up a lad who hed seen a dozen or +so fellers—he wouldn’t to they was Greasers—breakin’ through the +shrubbery to the back of the house. That was while Stewart was ridin’ +out to the mesa. Then this lad seen your servants all runnin’ down the +hill toward the village. Now, heah’s the way Gene figgers. There sure +was some deviltry down along the railroad, an’ Pat Hawe trailed bandits +up to the ranch. He hunts hard an’ then all to onct he quits. Stewart +says Pat Hawe wasn’t scared, but he discovered signs or somethin’, or +got wind in some strange way that there was in the gang of bandits some +fellers he didn’t want to ketch. Sabe? Then Gene, quicker ’n a flash, +springs his plan on me. He’d go down to Padre Marcos an’ hev him help to +find out all possible from your Mexican servants. I was to hurry up hyar +an’ tell you—give you orders, Miss Majesty. Ain’t that amazin’ strange? +Wal, you’re to assemble all your guests in the kitchen. Make a grand +bluff an’ pretend, as your help has left, that it’ll be great fun fer +your guests to cook dinner. The kitchen is the safest room in the house. +While you’re joshin’ your party along, makin’ a kind of picnic out of +it, I’ll place cowboys in the long corridor, an’ also outside in the +corner where the kitchen joins on to the main house. It’s pretty sure +the bandits think no one’s wise to where they’re hid. Stewart says +they’re in that end room where the alfalfa is, an’ they’ll slope in the +night. Of course, with me an’ the boys watchin’, you-all will be safe to +go to bed. An’ we’re to rouse your guests early before daylight, to hit +the trail up into the mountains. Tell them to pack outfits before goin’ +to bed. Say as your servants hev sloped, you might as well go campin’ +with the cowboys. That’s all. If we hev any luck your’ friends’ll never +know they’ve been sittin’ on a powder-mine.” + +“Stillwell, do you advise that trip up into the mountains?” asked +Madeline. + +“I reckon I do, considerin’ everythin’. Now, Miss Majesty, I’ve used up +a lot of time explainin’. You’ll sure keep your nerve?” + +“Yes,” Madeline replied, and was surprised at herself. “Better tell +Florence. She’ll be a power of comfort to you. I’m goin’ now to fetch up +the boys.” + +Instead of returning to her room Madeline went through the office into +the long corridor. It was almost as dark as night. She fancied she saw +a slow-gliding figure darker than the surrounding gloom; and she +entered upon the fulfilment of her part of the plan in something like +trepidation. Her footsteps were noiseless. Finding the door to the +kitchen, and going in, she struck lights. Upon passing out again she +made certain she discerned a dark shape, now motionless, crouching along +the wall. But she mistrusted her vivid imagination. It took all her +boldness to enable her unconcernedly and naturally to strike the +corridor light. Then she went on through her own rooms and thence into +the patio. + +Her guests laughingly and gladly entered into the spirit of the +occasion. Madeline fancied her deceit must have been perfect, seeing +that it deceived even Florence. They trooped merrily into the kitchen. +Madeline, delaying at the door, took a sharp but unobtrusive glance down +the great, barnlike hall. She saw nothing but blank dark space. Suddenly +from one side, not a rod distant, protruded a pale, gleaming face +breaking the even blackness. Instantly it flashed back out of sight. Yet +that time was long enough for Madeline to see a pair of glittering eyes, +and to recognize them as Don Carlos’s. + +Without betraying either hurry or alarm, she closed the door. It had a +heavy bolt which she slowly, noiselessly shot. Then the cold amaze that +had all but stunned her into inaction throbbed into wrath. How dared +that Mexican steal into her home! What did he mean? Was he one of the +bandits supposed to be hidden in her house? She was thinking herself +into greater anger and excitement, and probably would have betrayed +herself had not Florence, who had evidently seen her bolt the door +and now read her thoughts, come toward her with a bright, intent, +questioning look. Madeline caught herself in time. + +Thereupon she gave each of her guests a duty to perform. Leading +Florence into the pantry, she unburdened herself of the secret in one +brief whisper. Florence’s reply was to point out of the little open +window, passing which was a file of stealthily moving cowboys. +Then Madeline lost both anger and fear, retaining only the glow of +excitement. + +Madeline could be gay, and she initiated the abandonment of dignity by +calling Castleton into the pantry, and, while interesting him in some +pretext or other, imprinting the outlines of her flour-covered hands +upon the back of his black coat. Castleton innocently returned to the +kitchen to be greeted with a roar. That surprising act of the hostess +set the pace, and there followed a merry, noisy time. Everybody helped. +The miscellaneous collection of dishes so confusingly contrived made up +a dinner which they all heartily enjoyed. Madeline enjoyed it herself, +even with the feeling of a sword hanging suspended over her. + +The hour was late when she rose from the table and told her guests to go +to their rooms, don their riding-clothes, pack what they needed for the +long and adventurous camping trip that she hoped would be the climax +of their Western experience, and to snatch a little sleep before the +cowboys roused them for the early start. + +Madeline went immediately to her room, and was getting out her camping +apparel when a knock interrupted her. She thought Florence had come +to help her pack. But this knock was upon the door opening out in the +porch. It was repeated. + +“Who’s there?” she questioned. + +“Stewart,” came the reply. + +She opened the door. He stood on the threshold. Beyond him, indistinct +in the gloom, were several cowboys. + +“May I speak to you?” he asked. + +“Certainly.” She hesitated a moment, then asked him in and closed the +door. “Is—is everything all right?” + +“No. These bandits stick to cover pretty close. They must have found +out we’re on the watch. But I’m sure we’ll get you and your friends away +before anything starts. I wanted to tell you that I’ve talked with your +servants. They were just scared. They’ll come back to-morrow, soon +as Bill gets rid of this gang. You need not worry about them or your +property.” + +“Do you have any idea who is hiding in the house?” + +“I was worried some at first. Pat Hawe acted queer. I imagined he’d +discovered he was trailing bandits who might turn out to be his +smuggling guerrilla cronies. But talking with your servants, finding +a bunch of horses upon hidden down in the mesquite behind the +pond—several things have changed my mind. My idea is that a cowardly +handful of riffraff outcasts from the border have hidden in your house, +more by accident than design. We’ll let them go—get rid of them without +even a shot. If I didn’t think so—well, I’d be considerably worried. It +would make a different state of affairs.” + +“Stewart, you are wrong,” she said. + +He started, but his reply did not follow swiftly. The expression of his +eyes altered. Presently he spoke: + +“How so?” + +“I saw one of these bandits. I distinctly recognized him.” + +One long step brought him close to her. + +“Who was he?” demanded Stewart. + +“Don Carlos.” + +He muttered low and deep, then said, “Are you sure?” + +“Absolutely. I saw his figure twice in the hall, then his face in the +light. I could never mistake his eyes.” + +“Did he know you saw him?” + +“I am not positive, but I think so. Oh, he must have known! I was +standing full in the light. I had entered the door, then purposely +stepped out. His face showed from around a corner, and swiftly flashed +out of sight.” + +Madeline was tremblingly conscious that Stewart underwent a +transformation. She saw as well as felt the leaping passion that changed +him. + +“Call your friends—get them in here!” he ordered, tersely, and wheeled +toward the door. + +“Stewart, wait!” she said. + +He turned. His white face, his burning eyes, his presence now charged +with definite, fearful meaning, influenced her strangely, weakened her. + +“What will you do?” she asked. + +“That needn’t concern you. Get your party in here. Bar the windows and +lock the doors. You’ll be safe.” + +“Stewart! Tell me what you intend to do.” + +“I won’t tell you,” he replied, and turned away again. + +“But I will know,” she said. With a hand on his arm she detained him. +She saw how he halted—felt the shock in him as she touched him. “Oh, I +do know. You mean to fight!” + +“Well, Miss Hammond, isn’t it about time?” he asked. Evidently he +overcame a violent passion for instant action. There was weariness, +dignity, even reproof in his question. “The fact of that Mexican’s +presence here in your house ought to prove to you the nature of the +case. These vaqueros, these guerrillas, have found out you won’t stand +for any fighting on the part of your men. Don Carlos is a sneak, a +coward, yet he’s not afraid to hide in your own house. He has learned +you won’t let your cowboys hurt anybody. He’s taking advantage of it. +He’ll rob, burn, and make off with you. He’ll murder, too, if it falls +his way. These Greasers use knives in the dark. So I ask—isn’t it about +time we stop him?” + +“Stewart, I forbid you to fight, unless in self-defense. I forbid you.” + +“What I mean to do is self-defense. Haven’t I tried to explain to you +that just now we’ve wild times along this stretch of border? Must I tell +you again that Don Carlos is hand and glove with the revolution? The +rebels are crazy to stir up the United States. You are a woman of +prominence. Don Carlos would make off with you. If he got you, what +little matter to cross the border with you! Well, where would the +hue and cry go? Through the troops along the border! To New York! To +Washington! Why, it would mean what the rebels are working for—United +States intervention. In other words, war!” + +“Oh, surely you exaggerate!” she cried. + +“Maybe so. But I’m beginning to see the Don’s game. And, Miss Hammond, +I—It’s awful for me to think what you’d suffer if Don Carlos got you +over the line. I know these low-caste Mexicans. I’ve been among the +peons—the slaves.” + +“Stewart, don’t let Don Carlos get me,” replied Madeline, in sweet +directness. + +She saw him shake, saw his throat swell as he swallowed hard, saw the +hard fierceness return to his face. + +“I won’t. That’s why I’m going after him.” + +“But I forbade you to start a fight deliberately.” + +“Then I’ll go ahead and start one without your permission,” he replied +shortly, and again he wheeled. + +This time, when Madeline caught his arm she held to it, even after he +stopped. + +“No,” she said, imperiously. + +He shook off her hand and strode forward. + +“Please don’t go!” she called, beseechingly. But he kept on. “Stewart!” + +She ran ahead of him, intercepted him, faced him with her back against +the door. He swept out a long arm as if to brush her aside. But it +wavered and fell. Haggard, troubled, with working face, he stood before +her. + +“It’s for your sake,” he expostulated. + +“If it is for my sake, then do what pleases me.” + +“These guerrillas will knife somebody. They’ll burn the house. They’ll +make off with you. They’ll do something bad unless we stop them.” + +“Let us risk all that,” she importuned. + +“But it’s a terrible risk, and it oughtn’t be run,” he exclaimed, +passionately. “I know best here. Stillwell upholds me. Let me out, Miss +Hammond. I’m going to take the boys and go after these guerrillas.” + +“No!” + +“Good Heavens!” exclaimed Stewart. “Why not let me go? It’s the thing to +do. I’m sorry to distress you and your guests. Why not put an end to Don +Carlos’s badgering? Is it because you’re afraid a rumpus will spoil your +friends’ visit?” + +“It isn’t—not this time.” + +“Then it’s the idea of a little shooting at these Greasers?” + +“No.” + +“You’re sick to think of a little Greaser blood staining the halls of +your home?” + +“No!” + +“Well, then, why keep me from doing what I know is best?” + +“Stewart, I—I—” she faltered, in growing agitation. “I’m +frightened—confused. All this is too—too much for me. I’m not a +coward. If you have to fight you’ll see I’m not a coward. But your way +seems so reckless—that hall is so dark—the guerrillas would shoot from +behind doors. You’re so wild, so daring, you’d rush right into peril. +Is that necessary? I think—I mean—I don’t know just why I feel so—so +about you doing it. But I believe it’s because I’m afraid you—you might +be hurt.” + +“You’re afraid I—I might be hurt?” he echoed, wonderingly, the hard +whiteness of his face warming, flushing, glowing. + +“Yes.” + +The single word, with all it might mean, with all it might not mean, +softened him as if by magic, made him gentle, amazed, shy as a boy, +stifling under a torrent of emotions. + +Madeline thought she had persuaded him—worked her will with him. Then +another of his startlingly sudden moves told her that she had reckoned +too quickly. This move was to put her firmly aside so he could pass; +and Madeline, seeing he would not hesitate to lift her out of the way, +surrendered the door. He turned on the threshold. His face was still +working, but the flame-pointed gleam of his eyes indicated the return of +that cowboy ruthlessness. + +“I’m going to drive Don Carlos and his gang out of the house,” declared +Stewart. “I think I may promise you to do it without a fight. But if it +takes a fight, off he goes!” + + + + +XV. The Mountain Trail + + +As Stewart departed from one door Florence knocked upon another; and +Madeline, far shaken out of her usual serenity, admitted the cool +Western girl with more than gladness. Just to have her near helped +Madeline to get back her balance. She was conscious of Florence’s sharp +scrutiny, then of a sweet, deliberate change of manner. Florence might +have been burning with curiosity to know more about the bandits hidden +in the house, the plans of the cowboys, the reason for Madeline’s +suppressed emotion; but instead of asking Madeline questions she +introduced the important subject of what to take on the camping trip. +For an hour they discussed the need of this and that article, +selected those things most needful, and then packed them in Madeline’s +duffle-bags. + +That done, they decided to lie down, fully dressed as they were in +riding-costume, and sleep, or at least rest, the little remaining time +left before the call to saddle. Madeline turned out the light and, +peeping through her window, saw dark forms standing sentinel-like in the +gloom. When she lay down she heard soft steps on the path. This fidelity +to her swelled her heart, while the need of it presaged that fearful +something which, since Stewart’s passionate appeal to her, haunted her +as inevitable. + +Madeline did not expect to sleep, yet she did sleep, and it seemed to +have been only a moment until Florence called her. She followed Florence +outside. It was the dark hour before dawn. She could discern saddled +horses being held by cowboys. There was an air of hurry and mystery +about the departure. Helen, who came tip-toeing out with Madeline’s +other guests, whispered that it was like an escape. She was delighted. +The others were amused. To Madeline it was indeed an escape. + +In the darkness Madeline could not see how many escorts her party was to +have. She heard low voices, the champing of bits and thumping of hoofs, +and she recognized Stewart when he led up Majesty for her to mount. +Then came a pattering of soft feet and the whining of dogs. Cold noses +touched her hands, and she saw the long, gray, shaggy shapes of her pack +of Russian wolf-hounds. That Stewart meant to let them go with her was +indicative of how he studied her pleasure. She loved to be out with the +hounds and her horse. + +Stewart led Majesty out into the darkness past a line of mounted horses. + +“Guess we’re ready?” he said. “I’ll make the count.” He went back along +the line, and on the return Madeline heard him say several times, +“Now, everybody ride close to the horse in front, and keep quiet till +daylight.” Then the snorting and pounding of the big black horse in +front of her told Madeline that Stewart had mounted. + +“All right, we’re off,” he called. + +Madeline lifted Majesty’s bridle and let the roan go. There was a crack +and crunch of gravel, fire struck from stone, a low whinny, a snort, +and then steady, short, clip-clop of iron hoofs on hard ground. Madeline +could just discern Stewart and his black outlined in shadowy gray before +her. Yet they were almost within touching distance. Once or twice one of +the huge stag-hounds leaped up at her and whined joyously. A thick belt +of darkness lay low, and seemed to thin out above to a gray fog, through +which a few wan stars showed. It was altogether an unusual departure +from the ranch; and Madeline, always susceptible even to ordinary +incident that promised well, now found herself thrillingly sensitive to +the soft beat of hoofs, the feel of cool, moist air, the dim sight of +Stewart’s dark figure. The caution, the early start before dawn, the +enforced silence—these lent the occasion all that was needful to make +it stirring. + +Majesty plunged into a gully, where sand and rough going made Madeline +stop romancing to attend to riding. In the darkness Stewart was not +so easy to keep close to even on smooth trails, and now she had to +be watchfully attentive to do it. Then followed a long march through +dragging sand. Meantime the blackness gradually changed to gray. At +length Majesty climbed out of the wash, and once more his iron shoes +rang on stone. He began to climb. The figure of Stewart and his horse +loomed more distinctly in Madeline’s sight. Bending over, she tried to +see the trail, but could not. She wondered how Stewart could follow +a trail in the dark. His eyes must be as piercing as they sometimes +looked. Over her shoulder Madeline could not see the horse behind her, +but she heard him. + +As Majesty climbed steadily Madeline saw the gray darkness grow opaque, +change and lighten, lose its substance, and yield the grotesque shapes +of yucca and ocotillo. Dawn was about to break. Madeline imagined she +was facing east, still she saw no brightening of sky. All at once, to +her surprise, Stewart and his powerful horse stood clear in her sight. +She saw the characteristic rock and cactus and brush that covered the +foothills. The trail was old and seldom used, and it zigzagged and +turned and twisted. Looking back, she saw the short, squat figure of +Monty Price humped over his saddle. Monty’s face was hidden under his +sombrero. Behind him rode Dorothy Coombs, and next loomed up the lofty +form of Nick Steele. Madeline and the members of her party were riding +between cowboy escorts. + +Bright daylight came, and Madeline saw the trail was leading up through +foothills. It led in a round-about way through shallow gullies full +of stone and brush washed down by floods. At every turn now Madeline +expected to come upon water and the waiting pack-train. But time passed, +and miles of climbing, and no water or horses were met. Expectation in +Madeline gave place to desire; she was hungry. + +Presently Stewart’s horse went splashing into a shallow pool. Beyond +that damp places in the sand showed here and there, and again more water +in rocky pockets. Stewart kept on. It was eight o’clock by Madeline’s +watch when, upon turning into a wide hollow, she saw horses grazing on +spare grass, a great pile of canvas-covered bundles, and a fire round +which cowboys and two Mexican women were busy. + +Madeline sat her horse and reviewed her followers as they rode up single +file. Her guests were in merry mood, and they all talked at once. + +“Breakfast—and rustle,” called out Stewart, without ceremony. + +“No need to tell me to rustle,” said Helen. “I am simply ravenous. This +air makes me hungry.” + +For that matter, Madeline observed Helen did not show any marked +contrast to the others. The hurry order, however, did not interfere with +the meal being somewhat in the nature of a picnic. While they ate +and talked and laughed the cowboys were packing horses and burros and +throwing the diamond-hitch, a procedure so interesting to Castleton that +he got up with coffee-cup in hand and tramped from one place to another. + +“Heard of that diamond-hitch-up,” he observed to a cowboy. “Bally nice +little job!” + +As soon as the pack-train was in readiness Stewart started it off in the +lead to break trail. A heavy growth of shrub interspersed with rock and +cactus covered the slopes; and now all the trail appeared to be uphill. +It was not a question of comfort for Madeline and her party, for comfort +was impossible; it was a matter of making the travel possible for him. +Florence wore corduroy breeches and high-top boots, and the advantage +of this masculine garb was at once in evidence. The riding-habits of the +other ladies suffered considerably from the sharp spikes. It took all +Madeline’s watchfulness to save her horse’s legs, to pick the best bits +of open ground, to make cut-offs from the trail, and to protect herself +from outreaching thorny branches, so that the time sped by without her +knowing it. The pack-train forged ahead, and the trailing couples grew +farther apart. At noon they got out of the foothills to face the real +ascent of the mountains. The sun beat down hot. There was little breeze, +and the dust rose thick and hung in a pall. The view was restricted, and +what scenery lay open to the eye was dreary and drab, a barren monotony +of slow-mounting slopes ridged by rocky canyons. + +Once Stewart waited for Madeline, and as she came up he said: + +“We’re going to have a storm.” + +“That will be a relief. It’s so hot and dusty,” replied Madeline. + +“Shall I call a halt and make camp?” + +“Here? Oh no! What do you think best?” + +“Well, if we have a good healthy thunder-storm it will be something new +for your friends. I think we’d be wise to keep on the go. There’s no +place to make a good camp. The wind would blow us off this slope if +the rain didn’t wash us off. It’ll take all-day travel to reach a good +camp-site, and I don’t promise that. We’re making slow time. If it +rains, let it rain. The pack outfit is well covered. We will have to get +wet.” + +“Surely,” replied Madeline; and she smiled at his inference. She knew +what a storm was in that country, and her guests had yet to experience +one. “If it rains, let it rain.” + +Stewart rode on, and Madeline followed. Up the slope toiled and nodded +the pack-animals, the little burros going easily where the horses +labored. Their packs, like the humps of camels, bobbed from side to +side. Stones rattled down; the heat-waves wavered black; the dust puffed +up and sailed. The sky was a pale blue, like heated steel, except where +dark clouds peeped over the mountain crests. A heavy, sultry atmosphere +made breathing difficult. Down the slope the trailing party stretched +out in twos and threes, and it was easy to distinguish the weary riders. + +Half a mile farther up Madeline could see over the foothills to the +north and west and a little south, and she forgot the heat and +weariness and discomfort for her guests in wide, unlimited prospects of +sun-scorched earth. She marked the gray valley and the black mountains +and the wide, red gateway of the desert, and the dim, shadowy peaks, +blue as the sky they pierced. She was sorry when the bleak, gnarled +cedar-trees shut off her view. + +Then there came a respite from the steep climb, and the way led in a +winding course through a matted, storm-wrenched forest of stunted trees. +Even up to this elevation the desert reached with its gaunt hand. The +clouds overspreading the sky, hiding the sun, made a welcome change. The +pack-train rested, and Stewart and Madeline waited for the party to come +up. Here he briefly explained to her that Don Carlos and his bandits had +left the ranch some time in the night. Thunder rumbled in the distance, +and a faint wind rustled the scant foliage of the cedars. The air grew +oppressive; the horses panted. + +“Sure it’ll be a hummer,” said Stewart. “The first storm almost always +is bad. I can feel it in the air.” + +The air, indeed, seemed to be charged with a heavy force that was +waiting to be liberated. + +One by one the couples mounted to the cedar forest, and the feminine +contingent declaimed eloquently for rest. But there was to be no +permanent rest until night and then that depended upon reaching the +crags. The pack-train wagged onward, and Stewart fell in behind. The +storm-center gathered slowly around the peaks; low rumble and howl of +thunder increased in frequence; slowly the light shaded as smoky clouds +rolled up; the air grew sultrier, and the exasperating breeze puffed a +few times and then failed. + +An hour later the party had climbed high and was rounding the side of a +great bare ridge that long had hidden the crags. The last burro of the +pack-train plodded over the ridge out of Madeline’s sight. She looked +backward down the slope, amused to see her guests change wearily from +side to side in their saddles. Far below lay the cedar flat and the +foothills. Far to the west the sky was still clear, with shafts of +sunlight shooting down from behind the encroaching clouds. + +Stewart reached the summit of the ridge and, though only a few rods +ahead, he waved to her, sweeping his hand round to what he saw beyond. +It was an impressive gesture, and Madeline, never having climbed as high +as this, anticipated much. + +Majesty surmounted the last few steps and, snorting, halted beside +Stewart’s black. To Madeline the scene was as if the world had changed. +The ridge was a mountain-top. It dropped before her into a black, +stone-ridged, shrub-patched, many-canyoned gulf. Eastward, beyond the +gulf, round, bare mountain-heads loomed up. Upward, on the right, led +giant steps of cliff and bench and weathered slope to the fir-bordered +and pine-fringed crags standing dark and bare against the stormy sky. +Massed inky clouds were piling across the peaks, obscuring the highest +ones. A fork of white lightning flashed, and, like the booming of an +avalanche, thunder followed. + +That bold world of broken rock under the slow mustering of storm-clouds +was a grim, awe-inspiring spectacle. It had beauty, but beauty of the +sublime and majestic kind. The fierce desert had reached up to meet the +magnetic heights where heat and wind and frost and lightning and flood +contended in everlasting strife. And before their onslaught this mighty +upflung world of rugged stone was crumbling, splitting, wearing to ruin. + +Madeline glanced at Stewart. He had forgotten her presence. Immovable +as stone, he sat his horse, dark-faced, dark-eyed, and, like an Indian +unconscious of thought, he watched and watched. To see him thus, +to divine the strange affinity between the soul of this man, become +primitive, and the savage environment that had developed him, were +powerful helps to Madeline Hammond in her strange desire to understand +his nature. + +A cracking of iron-shod hoofs behind her broke the spell. Monty had +reached the summit. + +“Gene, what it won’t all be doin’ in a minnut Moses hisself couldn’t +tell,” observed Monty. + +Then Dorothy climbed to his side and looked. + +“Oh, isn’t it just perfectly lovely!” she exclaimed. “But I wish it +wouldn’t storm. We’ll all get wet.” + +Once more Stewart faced the ascent, keeping to the slow heave of the +ridge as it rose southward toward the looming spires of rock. Soon he +was off smooth ground, and Madeline, some rods behind him, looked back +with concern at her friends. Here the real toil, the real climb began, +and a mountain storm was about to burst in all its fury. + +The slope that Stewart entered upon was a magnificent monument to the +ruined crags above. It was a southerly slope, and therefore semi-arid, +covered with cercocarpus and yucca and some shrub that Madeline believed +was manzanita. Every foot of the trail seemed to slide under Majesty. +What hard ground there was could not be traveled upon, owing to the +spiny covering or masses of shattered rocks. Gullies lined the slope. + +Then the sky grew blacker; the slow-gathering clouds appeared to be +suddenly agitated; they piled and rolled and mushroomed and obscured +the crags. The air moved heavily and seemed to be laden with sulphurous +smoke, and sharp lightning flashes began to play. A distant roar of wind +could be heard between the peals of thunder. + +Stewart waited for Madeline under the lee of a shelving cliff, where the +cowboys had halted the pack-train. Majesty was sensitive to the flashes +of lightning. Madeline patted his neck and softly called to him. The +weary burros nodded; the Mexican women covered their heads with their +mantles. Stewart untied the slicker at the back of Madeline’s saddle +and helped her on with it. Then he put on his own. The other cowboys +followed suit. Presently Madeline saw Monty and Dorothy rounding the +cliff, and hoped the others would come soon. + +A blue-white, knotted rope of lightning burned down out of the clouds, +and instantly a thunder-clap crashed, seeming to shake the foundations +of the earth. Then it rolled, as if banging from cloud to cloud, and +boomed along the peaks, and reverberated from deep to low, at last to +rumble away into silence. Madeline felt the electricity in Majesty’s +mane, and it seemed to tingle through her nerves. The air had a weird, +bright cast. The ponderous clouds swallowed more and more of the eastern +domes. This moment of the breaking of the storm, with the strange +growing roar of wind, like a moaning monster, was pregnant with a +heart-disturbing emotion for Madeline Hammond. Glorious it was to be +free, healthy, out in the open, under the shadow of the mountain and +cloud, in the teeth of the wind and rain and storm. + +Another dazzling blue blaze showed the bold mountain-side and the +storm-driven clouds. In the flare of light Madeline saw Stewart’s face. + +“Are you afraid?” she asked. + +“Yes,” he replied, simply. + +Then the thunderbolt racked the heavens, and as it boomed away in +lessening power Madeline reflected with surprise upon Stewart’s answer. +Something in his face had made her ask him what she considered a foolish +question. His reply amazed her. She loved a storm. Why should he fear +it—he, with whom she could not associate fear? + +“How strange! Have you not been out in many storms?” + +A smile that was only a gleam flitted over his dark face. + +“In hundreds of them. By day, with the cattle stampeding. At night, +alone on the mountain, with the pines crashing and the rocks rolling—in +flood on the desert.” + +“It’s not only the lightning, then?” she asked. + +“No. All the storm.” + +Madeline felt that henceforth she would have less faith in what she had +imagined was her love of the elements. What little she knew! If this +iron-nerved man feared a storm, then there was something about a storm +to fear. + +And suddenly, as the ground quaked under her horse’s feet, and all +the sky grew black and crisscrossed by flaming streaks, and between +thunderous reports there was a strange hollow roar sweeping down upon +her, she realized how small was her knowledge and experience of the +mighty forces of nature. Then, with that perversity of character of +which she was wholly conscious, she was humble, submissive, reverent, +and fearful even while she gloried in the grandeur of the dark, +cloud-shadowed crags and canyons, the stupendous strife of sound, the +wonderful driving lances of white fire. + +With blacker gloom and deafening roar came the torrent of rain. It was +a cloud-burst. It was like solid water tumbling down. For long Madeline +sat her horse, head bent to the pelting rain. When its force lessened +and she heard Stewart call for all to follow, she looked up to see that +he was starting once more. She shot a glimpse at Dorothy and as quickly +glanced away. Dorothy, who would not wear a hat suitable for inclement +weather, nor one of the horrid yellow, sticky slickers, was a drenched +and disheveled spectacle. Madeline did not trust herself to look at the +other girls. It was enough to hear their lament. So she turned her horse +into Stewart’s trail. + +Rain fell steadily. The fury of the storm, however, had passed, and the +roll of thunder diminished in volume. The air had wonderfully cleared +and was growing cool. Madeline began to feel uncomfortably cold and wet. +Stewart was climbing faster than formerly, and she noted that Monty kept +at her heels, pressing her on. Time had been lost, and the camp-site was +a long way off. The stag-hounds began to lag and get footsore. The sharp +rocks of the trail were cruel to their feet. Then, as Madeline began to +tire, she noticed less and less around her. The ascent grew rougher and +steeper—slow toil for panting horses. The thinning rain grew colder, +and sometimes a stronger whip of wind lashed stingingly in Madeline’s +face. Her horse climbed and climbed, and brush and sharp corners of +stone everlastingly pulled and tore at her wet garments. A gray gloom +settled down around her. Night was approaching. Majesty heaved upward +with a snort, the wet saddle creaked, and an even motion told Madeline +she was on level ground. She looked up to see looming crags and spires, +like huge pipe-organs, dark at the base and growing light upward. +The rain had ceased, but the branches of fir-trees and juniper were +water-soaked arms reaching out for her. Through an opening between crags +Madeline caught a momentary glimpse of the west. Red sun-shafts shone +through the murky, broken clouds. The sun had set. + +Stewart’s horse was on a jog-trot now, and Madeline left the trail more +to Majesty than to her own choosing. The shadows deepened, and the crags +grew gloomy and spectral. A cool wind moaned through the dark trees. +Coyotes, scenting the hounds, kept apace of them, and barked and howled +off in the gloom. But the tired hounds did not appear to notice. + +As black night began to envelop her surroundings, Madeline marked that +the fir-trees had given place to pine forest. Suddenly a pin-point of +light pierced the ebony blackness. Like a solitary star in dark sky +it twinkled and blinked. She lost sight of it—found it again. It grew +larger. Black tree-trunks crossed her line of vision. The light was a +fire. She heard a cowboy song and the wild chorus of a pack of coyotes. +Drops of rain on the branches of trees glittered in the rays of the +fire. Stewart’s tall figure, with sombrero slouched down, was now and +then outlined against a growing circle of light. And by the aid of that +light she saw him turn every moment or so to look back, probably to +assure himself that she was close behind. + +With a prospect of fire and warmth, and food and rest, Madeline’s +enthusiasm revived. What a climb! There was promise in this wild ride +and lonely trail and hidden craggy height, not only in the adventure her +friends yearned for, but in some nameless joy and spirit for herself. + + + + +XVI. The Crags + + +Glad indeed was Madeline to be lifted off her horse beside a roaring +fire—to see steaming pots upon red-hot coals. Except about her +shoulders, which had been protected by the slicker, she was wringing +wet. The Mexican women came quickly to help her change in a tent near +by; but Madeline preferred for the moment to warm her numb feet and +hands and to watch the spectacle of her arriving friends. + +Dorothy plumped off her saddle into the arms of several waiting cowboys. +She could scarcely walk. Far removed in appearance was she from her +usual stylish self. Her face was hidden by a limp and lopsided hat. +From under the disheveled brim came a plaintive moan: “O-h-h! what a-an +a-awful ride!” Mrs. Beck was in worse condition; she had to be taken +off her horse. “I’m paralyzed—I’m a wreck. Bobby, get a roller-chair.” + Bobby was solicitous and willing, but there were no roller-chairs. +Florence dismounted easily, and but for her mass of hair, wet and +tumbling, would have been taken for a handsome cowboy. Edith Wayne had +stood the physical strain of the ride better than Dorothy; however, as +her mount was rather small, she had been more at the mercy of cactus +and brush. Her habit hung in tatters. Helen had preserved a remnant of +style, as well as of pride, and perhaps a little strength. But her face +was white, her eyes were big, and she limped. “Majesty!” she exclaimed. +“What did you want to do to us? Kill us outright or make us homesick?” + Of all of them, however, Ambrose’s wife, Christine, the little French +maid, had suffered the most in that long ride. She was unaccustomed to +horses. Ambrose had to carry her into the big tent. Florence persuaded +Madeline to leave the fire, and when they went in with the others +Dorothy was wailing because her wet boots would not come off, Mrs. +Beck was weeping and trying to direct a Mexican woman to unfasten her +bedraggled dress, and there was general pandemonium. + +“Warm clothes—hot drinks and grub—warm blankets,” rang out Stewart’s +sharp order. + +Then, with Florence helping the Mexican women, it was not long until +Madeline and the feminine side of the party were comfortable, except for +the weariness and aches that only rest and sleep could alleviate. + +Neither fatigue nor pains, however, nor the strangeness of being packed +sardine-like under canvas, nor the howls of coyotes, kept Madeline’s +guests from stretching out with long, grateful sighs, and one by one +dropping into deep slumber. Madeline whispered a little to Florence, +and laughed with her once or twice, and then the light flickering on the +canvas faded and her eyelids closed. Darkness and roar of camp life, +low voices of men, thump of horses’ hoofs, coyote serenade, the sense of +warmth and sweet rest—all drifted away. + + ***** + +When she awakened shadows of swaying branches moved on the sunlit canvas +above her. She heard the ringing strokes of an ax, but no other sound +from outside. Slow, regular breathing attested to the deep slumbers of +her tent comrades. She observed presently that Florence was missing from +the number. Madeline rose and peeped out between the flaps. + +An exquisitely beautiful scene surprised and enthralled her gaze. She +saw a level space, green with long grass, bright with flowers, dotted +with groves of graceful firs and pines and spruces, reaching to superb +crags, rosy and golden in the sunlight. Eager to get out where she could +enjoy an unrestricted view, she searched for her pack, found it in a +corner, and then hurriedly and quietly dressed. + +Her favorite stag-hounds, Russ and Tartar, were asleep before the +door, where they had been chained. She awakened them and loosened them, +thinking the while that it must have been Stewart who had chained +them near her. Close at hand also was a cowboy’s bed rolled up in a +tarpaulin. + +The cool air, fragrant with pine and spruce and some subtle nameless +tang, sweet and tonic, made Madeline stand erect and breathe slowly +and deeply. It was like drinking of a magic draught. She felt it in +her blood, that it quickened its flow. Turning to look in the other +direction, beyond the tent, she saw the remnants of last night’s +temporary camp, and farther on a grove of beautiful pines from which +came the sharp ring of the ax. Wider gaze took in a wonderful park, not +only surrounded by lofty crags, but full of crags of lesser height, many +lifting their heads from dark-green groves of trees. The morning sun, +not yet above the eastern elevations, sent its rosy and golden shafts in +between the towering rocks, to tip the pines. + +Madeline, with the hounds beside her, walked through the nearest grove. +The ground was soft and springy and brown with pine-needles. Then +she saw that a clump of trees had prevented her from seeing the most +striking part of this natural park. The cowboys had selected a campsite +where they would have the morning sun and afternoon shade. Several +tents and flies were already up; there was a huge lean-to made of spruce +boughs; cowboys were busy round several camp-fires; piles of packs lay +covered with tarpaulins, and beds were rolled up under the trees. This +space was a kind of rolling meadow, with isolated trees here and there, +and other trees in aisles and circles; and it mounted up in low, grassy +banks to great towers of stone five hundred feet high. Other crags rose +behind these. From under a mossy cliff, huge and green and cool, bubbled +a full, clear spring. Wild flowers fringed its banks. Out in the meadow +the horses were knee-deep in grass that waved in the morning breeze. + +Florence espied Madeline under the trees and came running. She was like +a young girl, with life and color and joy. She wore a flannel blouse, +corduroy skirt, and moccasins. And her hair was fastened under a band +like an Indian’s. + +“Castleton’s gone with a gun, for hours, it seems,” said Florence. +“Gene just went to hunt him up. The other gentlemen are still asleep. I +imagine they sure will sleep up heah in this air.” + +Then, business-like, Florence fell to questioning Madeline about details +of camp arrangement which Stewart, and Florence herself, could hardly +see to without suggestion. + +Before any of Madeline’s sleepy guests awakened the camp was completed. +Madeline and Florence had a tent under a pine-tree, but they did not +intend to sleep in it except during stormy weather. They spread a +tarpaulin, made their bed on it, and elected to sleep under the light +of the stars. After that, taking the hounds with them, they explored. To +Madeline’s surprise, the park was not a little half-mile nook nestling +among the crags, but extended farther than they cared to walk, and was +rather a series of parks. They were no more than small valleys between +gray-toothed peaks. As the day advanced the charm of the place grew upon +Madeline. Even at noon, with the sun beating down, there was comfortable +warmth rather than heat. It was the kind of warmth that Madeline liked +to feel in the spring. And the sweet, thin, rare atmosphere began +to affect her strangely. She breathed deeply of it until she felt +light-headed, as if her body lacked substance and might drift away +like a thistledown. All at once she grew uncomfortably sleepy. A dreamy +languor possessed her, and, lying under a pine with her head against +Florence, she went to sleep. When she opened her eyes the shadows of +the crags stretched from the west, and between them streamed a red-gold +light. It was hazy, smoky sunshine losing its fire. The afternoon had +far advanced. Madeline sat up. Florence was lazily reading. The two +Mexican women were at work under the fly where the big stone fireplace +had been erected. No one else was in sight. + +Florence, upon being questioned, informed Madeline that incident about +camp had been delightfully absent. Castleton had returned and was +profoundly sleeping with the other men. Presently a chorus of merry +calls attracted Madeline’s attention, and she turned to see Helen +limping along with Dorothy, and Mrs. Beck and Edith supporting each +other. They were all rested, but lame, and delighted with the place, and +as hungry as bears awakened from a winter’s sleep. Madeline forthwith +escorted them round the camp, and through the many aisles between the +trees, and to the mossy, pine-matted nooks under the crags. + +Then they had dinner, sitting on the ground after the manner of Indians; +and it was a dinner that lacked merriment only because everybody was too +busily appeasing appetite. + +Later Stewart led them across a neck of the park, up a rather steep +climb between towering crags, to take them out upon a grassy promontory +that faced the great open west—a vast, ridged, streaked, and reddened +sweep of earth rolling down, as it seemed, to the golden sunset end of +the world. Castleton said it was a jolly fine view; Dorothy voiced her +usual languid enthusiasm; Helen was on fire with pleasure and wonder; +Mrs. Beck appealed to Bobby to see how he liked it before she ventured, +and she then reiterated his praise; and Edith Wayne, like Madeline and +Florence, was silent. Boyd was politely interested; he was the kind of +man who appeared to care for things as other people cared for them. + +Madeline watched the slow transformation of the changing west, with its +haze of desert dust, through which mountain and cloud and sun slowly +darkened. She watched until her eyes ached, and scarcely had a thought +of what she was watching. When her eyes shifted to encounter the tall +form of Stewart standing motionless on the rim, her mind became active +again. As usual, he stood apart from the others, and now he seemed aloof +and unconscious. He made a dark, powerful figure, and he fitted that +wild promontory. + +She experienced a strange, annoying surprise when she discovered both +Helen and Dorothy watching Stewart with peculiar interest. Edith, too, +was alive to the splendid picture the cowboy made. But when Edith smiled +and whispered in her ear, “It’s so good to look at a man like that,” + Madeline again felt the surprise, only this time the accompaniment was a +vague pleasure rather than annoyance. Helen and Dorothy were flirts, one +deliberate and skilled, the other unconscious and natural. Edith +Wayne, occasionally—and Madeline reflected that the occasions were +infrequent—admired a man sincerely. Just here Madeline might have +fallen into a somewhat revealing state of mind if it had not been for +the fact that she believed Stewart was only an object of deep interest +to her, not as a man, but as a part of this wild and wonderful West +which was claiming her. So she did not inquire of herself why Helen’s +coquetry and Dorothy’s languishing allurement annoyed her, or why +Edith’s eloquent smile and words had pleased her. She got as far, +however, as to think scornfully how Helen and Dorothy would welcome and +meet a flirtation with this cowboy and then go back home and forget him +as utterly as if he had never existed. She wondered, too, with a curious +twist of feeling that was almost eagerness, how the cowboy would meet +their advances. Obviously the situation was unfair to him; and if by +some strange accident he escaped unscathed by Dorothy’s beautiful eyes +he would never be able to withstand Helen’s subtle and fascinating and +imperious personality. + +They returned to camp in the cool of the evening and made merry round +a blazing camp-fire. But Madeline’s guests soon succumbed to the +persistent and irresistible desire to sleep. + +Then Madeline went to bed with Florence under the pine-tree. Russ lay +upon one side and Tartar upon the other. The cool night breeze swept +over her, fanning her face, waving her hair. It was not strong enough +to make any sound through the branches, but it stirred a faint, silken +rustle in the long grass. The coyotes began their weird bark and howl. +Russ raised his head to growl at their impudence. + +Madeline faced upward, and it seemed to her that under those wonderful +white stars she would never be able to go to sleep. They blinked down +through the black-barred, delicate crisscross of pine foliage, and they +looked so big and so close. Then she gazed away to open space, where an +expanse of sky glittered with stars, and the longer she gazed the larger +they grew and the more she saw. + +It was her belief that she had come to love all the physical things +from which sensations of beauty and mystery and strength poured into her +responsive mind; but best of all she loved these Western stars, for they +were to have something to do with her life, were somehow to influence +her destiny. + + ***** + +For a few days the prevailing features of camp life for Madeline’s +guests were sleep and rest. Dorothy Coombs slept through twenty-four +hours, and then was so difficult to awaken that for a while her friends +were alarmed. Helen almost fell asleep while eating and talking. The +men were more visibly affected by the mountain air than the women. +Castleton, however, would not succumb to the strange drowsiness while he +had a chance to prowl around with a gun. + +This languorous spell disappeared presently, and then the days were full +of life and action. Mrs. Beck and Bobby and Boyd, however, did not go in +for anything very strenuous. Edith Wayne, too, preferred to walk through +the groves or sit upon the grassy promontory. It was Helen and Dorothy +who wanted to explore the crags and canyons, and when they could not get +the others to accompany them they went alone, giving the cowboy guides +many a long climb. + +Necessarily, of course, Madeline and her guests were now thrown much in +company with the cowboys. And the party grew to be like one big family. +Her friends not only adapted themselves admirably to the situation, but +came to revel in it. As for Madeline, she saw that outside of a certain +proclivity of the cowboys to be gallant and on dress-parade and alive +to possibilities of fun and excitement, they were not greatly different +from what they were at all times. If there were a leveling process here +it was made by her friends coming down to meet the Westerners. Besides, +any class of people would tend to grow natural in such circumstances and +environment. + +Madeline found the situation one of keen and double interest for her. +If before she had cared to study her cowboys, particularly Stewart, now, +with the contrasts afforded by her guests, she felt by turns she was +amused and mystified and perplexed and saddened, and then again subtly +pleased. + +Monty, once he had overcome his shyness, became a source of delight +to Madeline, and, for that matter, to everybody. Monty had suddenly +discovered that he was a success among the ladies. Either he was exalted +to heroic heights by this knowledge or he made it appear so. Dorothy had +been his undoing, and in justice to her Madeline believed her innocent. +Dorothy thought Monty hideous to look at, and, accordingly, if he had +been a hero a hundred times and had saved a hundred poor little babies’ +lives, he could not have interested her. Monty followed her around, +reminding her, she told Madeline, of a little adoring dog one moment and +the next of a huge, devouring gorilla. + +Nels and Nick stalked at Helen’s heels like grenadiers on duty, and if +she as much as dropped her glove they almost came to blows to see who +should pick it up. + +In a way Castleton was the best feature of the camping party. He was +such an absurd-looking little man, and his abilities were at such +tremendous odds with what might have been expected of him from his +looks. He could ride, tramp, climb, shoot. He liked to help around the +camp, and the cowboys could not keep him from it. He had an insatiable +desire to do things that were new to him. The cowboys played innumerable +tricks upon him, not one of which he ever discovered. He was +serious, slow in speech and action, and absolutely imperturbable. +If imperturbability could ever be good humor, then he was always +good-humored. Presently the cowboys began to understand him, and then +to like him. When they liked a man it meant something. Madeline had been +sorry more than once to see how little the cowboys chose to speak to +Boyd Harvey. With Castleton, however, they actually became friends. They +did not know it, and certainly such a thing never occurred to him; all +the same, it was a fact. And it grew solely out of the truth that the +Englishman was manly in the only way cowboys could have interpreted +manliness. When, after innumerable attempts, he succeeded in throwing +the diamond-hitch on a pack-horse the cowboys began to respect him. +Castleton needed only one more accomplishment to claim their hearts, and +he kept trying that—to ride a bucking bronco. One of the cowboys had +a bronco that they called Devil. Every day for a week Devil threw the +Englishman all over the park, ruined his clothes, bruised him, and +finally kicked him. Then the cowboys solicitously tried to make +Castleton give up; and this was remarkable enough, for the spectacle +of an English lord on a bucking bronco was one that any Westerner would +have ridden a thousand miles to see. Whenever Devil threw Castleton the +cowboys went into spasms. But Castleton did not know the meaning of the +word fail, and there came a day when Devil could not throw him. Then it +was a singular sight to see the men line up to shake hands with the +cool Englishman. Even Stewart, who had watched from the background, came +forward with a warm and pleasant smile on his dark face. When Castleton +went to his tent there was much characteristic cowboy talk, and this +time vastly different from the former persiflage. + +“By Gawd!” ejaculated Monty Price, who seemed to be the most amazed and +elated of them all. “Thet’s the fust Englishman I ever seen! He’s orful +deceivin’ to look at, but I know now why England rules the wurrld. Jest +take a peek at thet bronco. His spirit is broke. Rid by a leetle English +dook no bigger ’n a grasshopper! Fellers, if it hain’t dawned on you +yit, let Monty Price give you a hunch. There’s no flies on Castleton. +An’ I’ll bet a million steers to a rawhide rope thet next he’ll be +throwin’ a gun as good as Nels.” + +It was a distinct pleasure for Madeline to realize that she liked +Castleton all the better for the traits brought out so forcibly by his +association with the cowboys. On the other hand, she liked the cowboys +better for something in them that contact with Easterners brought out. +This was especially true in Stewart’s case. She had been wholly wrong +when she had imagined he would fall an easy victim to Dorothy’s eyes and +Helen’s lures. He was kind, helpful, courteous, and watchful. But he +had no sentiment. He did not see Dorothy’s charms or feel Helen’s +fascination. And their efforts to captivate him were now so obvious that +Mrs. Beck taunted them, and Edith smiled knowingly, and Bobby and Boyd +made playful remarks. All of which cut Helen’s pride and hurt Dorothy’s +vanity. They essayed open conquest of Stewart. + +So it came about that Madeline unconsciously admitted the cowboy to a +place in her mind never occupied by any other. The instant it occurred +to her why he was proof against the wiles of the other women she drove +that amazing and strangely disturbing thought from her. Nevertheless, +as she was human, she could not help thinking and being pleased and +enjoying a little the discomfiture of the two coquettes. + +Moreover, from this thought of Stewart, and the watchfulness growing out +of it she discovered more about him. He was not happy; he often paced +up and down the grove at night; he absented himself from camp sometimes +during the afternoon when Nels and Nick and Monty were there; he was +always watching the trails, as if he expected to see some one come +riding up. He alone of the cowboys did not indulge in the fun and talk +around the camp-fire. He remained preoccupied and sad, and was always +looking away into distance. Madeline had a strange sense of his +guardianship over her; and, remembering Don Carlos, she imagined he +worried a good deal over his charge, and, indeed, over the safety of all +the party. + +But if he did worry about possible visits from wandering guerrillas, why +did he absent himself from camp? Suddenly into Madeline’s inquisitive +mind flashed a remembrance of the dark-eyed Mexican girl, Bonita, who +had never been heard of since that night she rode Stewart’s big horse +out of El Cajon. The remembrance of her brought an idea. Perhaps Stewart +had a rendezvous in the mountains, and these lonely trips of his were to +meet Bonita. With the idea hot blood flamed into Madeline’s cheek. +Then she was amazed at her own feelings—amazed because her swiftest +succeeding thought was to deny the idea—amazed that its conception had +fired her cheek with shame. Then her old self, the one aloof from this +red-blooded new self, gained control over her emotions. + +But Madeline found that new-born self a creature of strange power to +return and govern at any moment. She found it fighting loyally for what +intelligence and wisdom told her was only her romantic conception of +a cowboy. She reasoned: If Stewart were the kind of man her feminine +skepticism wanted to make him, he would not have been so blind to the +coquettish advances of Helen and Dorothy. He had once been—she did not +want to recall what he had once been. But he had been uplifted. Madeline +Hammond declared that. She was swayed by a strong, beating pride, and +her instinctive woman’s faith told her that he could not stoop to such +dishonor. She reproached herself for having momentarily thought of it. + + ***** + +One afternoon a huge storm-cloud swooped out of the sky and enveloped +the crags. It obscured the westering sun and laid a mantle of darkness +over the park. Madeline was uneasy because several of her party, +including Helen and Dorothy, had ridden off with the cowboys that +afternoon and had not returned. Florence assured her that even if +they did not get back before the storm broke there was no reason for +apprehension. Nevertheless, Madeline sent for Stewart and asked him to +go or send some one in search of them. + +Perhaps half an hour later Madeline heard the welcome pattering of hoofs +on the trail. The big tent was brightly lighted by several lanterns. +Edith and Florence were with her. It was so black outside that Madeline +could not see a rod before her face. The wind was moaning in the trees, +and big drops of rain were pelting upon the canvas. + +Presently, just outside the door, the horses halted, and there was a +sharp bustle of sound, such as would naturally result from a hurried +dismounting and confusion in the dark. Mrs. Beck came running into the +tent out of breath and radiant because they had beaten the storm. Helen +entered next, and a little later came Dorothy, but long enough to make +her entrance more noticeable. The instant Madeline saw Dorothy’s blazing +eyes she knew something unusual had happened. Whatever it was might have +escaped comment had not Helen caught sight of Dorothy. + +“Heavens, Dot, but you’re handsome occasionally!” remarked Helen. “When +you get some life in your face and eyes!” + +Dorothy turned her face away from the others, and perhaps it was only +accident that she looked into a mirror hanging on the tent wall. Swiftly +she put her hand up to feel a wide red welt on her cheek. Dorothy had +been assiduously careful of her soft, white skin, and here was an ugly +mark marring its beauty. + +“Look at that!” she cried, in distress. “My complexion’s ruined!” + +“How did you get such a splotch?” inquired Helen, going closer. + +“I’ve been kissed!” exclaimed Dorothy, dramatically. + +“What?” queried Helen, more curiously, while the others laughed. + +“I’ve been kissed—hugged and kissed by one of those shameless cowboys! +It was so pitch-dark outside I couldn’t see a thing. And so noisy I +couldn’t hear. But somebody was trying to help me off my horse. My foot +caught in the stirrup, and away I went—right into somebody’s arms. Then +he did it, the wretch! He hugged and kissed me in a most awful bearish +manner. I couldn’t budge a finger. I’m simply boiling with rage!” + +When the outburst of mirth subsided Dorothy turned her big, dilated eyes +upon Florence. + +“Do these cowboys really take advantage of a girl when she’s helpless +and in the dark?” + +“Of course they do,” replied Florence, with her frank smile. + +“Dot, what in the world could you expect?” asked Helen. “Haven’t you +been dying to be kissed?” + +“No.” + +“Well, you acted like it, then. I never before saw you in a rage over +being kissed.” + +“I—I wouldn’t care so much if the brute hadn’t scoured the skin off my +face. He had whiskers as sharp and stiff as sandpaper. And when I jerked +away he rubbed my cheek with them.” + +This revelation as to the cause of her outraged dignity almost +prostrated her friends with glee. + +“Dot, I agree with you; it’s one thing to be kissed, and quite another +to have your beauty spoiled,” replied Helen, presently. “Who was this +particular savage?” + +“I don’t know!” burst out Dorothy. “If I did I’d—I’d—” + +Her eyes expressed the direful punishment she could not speak. + +“Honestly now, Dot, haven’t you the least idea who did it?” questioned +Helen. + +“I hope—I think it was Stewart,” replied Dorothy. + +“Ah! Dot, your hope is father to the thought. My dear, I’m sorry to +riddle your little romance. Stewart did not—could not have been the +offender or hero.” + +“How do you know he couldn’t?” demanded Dorothy, flushing. + +“Because he was clean-shaven to-day at noon, before we rode out. I +remember perfectly how nice and smooth and brown his face looked.” + +“Oh, do you? Well, if your memory for faces is so good, maybe you can +tell me which one of these cowboys wasn’t clean-shaven.” + +“Merely a matter of elimination,” replied Helen, merrily. “It was not +Nick; it was not Nels; it was not Frankie. There was only one other +cowboy with us, and he had a short, stubby growth of black beard, much +like that cactus we passed on the trail.” + +“Oh, I was afraid of it,” moaned Dorothy. “I knew he was going to do it. +That horrible little smiling demon, Monty Price!” + + ***** + +A favorite lounging-spot of Madeline’s was a shaded niche under the lee +of crags facing the east. Here the outlook was entirely different from +that on the western side. It was not red and white and glaring, nor so +changeable that it taxed attention. This eastern view was one of the +mountains and valleys, where, to be sure, there were arid patches; but +the restful green of pine and fir was there, and the cool gray of crags. +Bold and rugged indeed were these mountain features, yet they were +companionably close, not immeasurably distant and unattainable like the +desert. Here in the shade of afternoon Madeline and Edith would often +lounge under a low-branched tree. Seldom they talked much, for it was +afternoon and dreamy with the strange spell of this mountain fastness. +There was smoky haze in the valleys, a fleecy cloud resting over the +peaks, a sailing eagle in the blue sky, silence that was the unbroken +silence of the wild heights, and a soft wind laden with incense of pine. + +One afternoon, however, Edith appeared prone to talk seriously. + +“Majesty, I must go home soon. I cannot stay out here forever. Are you +going back with me?” + +“Well, maybe,” replied Madeline, thoughtfully. “I have considered it. +I shall have to visit home some time. But this summer mother and father +are going to Europe.” + +“See here, Majesty Hammond, do you intend to spend the rest of your life +in this wilderness?” asked Edith, bluntly. + +Madeline was silent. + +“Oh, it is glorious! Don’t misunderstand me, dear,” went on Edith, +earnestly, as she laid her hand on Madeline’s. “This trip has been a +revelation to me. I did not tell you, Majesty, that I was ill when I +arrived. Now I’m well. So well! Look at Helen, too. Why, she was a ghost +when we got here. Now she is brown and strong and beautiful. If it were +for nothing else than this wonderful gift of health I would love the +West. But I have come to love it for other things—even spiritual +things. Majesty, I have been studying you. I see and feel what this life +has made of you. When I came I wondered at your strength, your virility, +your serenity, your happiness. And I was stunned. I wondered at the +causes of your change. Now I know. You were sick of idleness, sick of +uselessness, if not of society—sick of the horrible noises and smells +and contacts one can no longer escape in the cities. I am sick of all +that, too, and I could tell you many women of our kind who suffer in a +like manner. You have done what many of us want to do, but have not the +courage. You have left it. I am not blind to the splendid difference you +have made in your life. I think I would have discovered, even if your +brother had not told me, what good you have done to the Mexicans and +cattlemen of your range. Then you have work to do. That is much the +secret of your happiness, is it not? Tell me. Tell me something of what +it means to you?” + +“Work, of course, has much to do with any one’s happiness,” replied +Madeline. “No one can be happy who has no work. As regards myself—for +the rest I can hardly tell you. I have never tried to put it in words. +Frankly, I believe, if I had not had money that I could not have found +such contentment here. That is not in any sense a judgment against the +West. But if I had been poor I could not have bought and maintained my +ranch. Stillwell tells me there are many larger ranches than mine, +but none just like it. Then I am almost paying my expenses out of my +business. Think of that! My income, instead of being wasted, is mostly +saved. I think—I hope I am useful. I have been of some little good +to the Mexicans—eased the hardships of a few cowboys. For the rest, I +think my life is a kind of dream. Of course my ranch and range are real, +my cowboys are typical. If I were to tell you how I feel about them it +would simply be a story of how Madeline Hammond sees the West. They are +true to the West. It is I who am strange, and what I feel for them may +be strange, too. Edith, hold to your own impressions.” + +“But, Majesty, my impressions have changed. At first I did not like the +wind, the dust, the sun, the endless open stretches. But now I do like +them. Where once I saw only terrible wastes of barren ground now I see +beauty and something noble. Then, at first, your cowboys struck me as +dirty, rough, loud, crude, savage—all that was primitive. I did not +want them near me. I imagined them callous, hard men, their only joy a +carouse with their kind. But I was wrong. I have changed. The dirt was +only dust, and this desert dust is clean. They are still rough, loud, +crude, and savage in my eyes, but with a difference. They are natural +men. They are little children. Monty Price is one of nature’s noblemen. +The hard thing is to discover it. All his hideous person, all his +actions and speech, are masks of his real nature. Nels is a joy, a +simple, sweet, kindly, quiet man whom some woman should have loved. What +would love have meant to him! He told me that no woman ever loved him +except his mother, and he lost her when he was ten. Every man ought to +be loved—especially such a man as Nels. Somehow his gun record does +not impress me. I never could believe he killed a man. Then take your +foreman, Stewart. He is a cowboy, his work and life the same as the +others. But he has education and most of the graces we are in the habit +of saying make a gentleman. Stewart is a strange fellow, just like this +strange country. He’s a man, Majesty, and I admire him. So, you see, my +impressions are developing with my stay out here.” + +“Edith, I am so glad you told me that,” replied Madeline, warmly. + +“I like the country, and I like the men,” went on Edith. “One reason I +want to go home soon is because I am discontented enough at home now, +without falling in love with the West. For, of course, Majesty, I would. +I could not live out here. And that brings me to my point. Admitting +all the beauty and charm and wholesomeness and good of this wonderful +country, still it is no place for you, Madeline Hammond. You have your +position, your wealth, your name, your family. You must marry. You must +have children. You must not give up all that for a quixotic life in a +wilderness.” + +“I am convinced, Edith, that I shall live here all the rest of my life.” + +“Oh, Majesty! I hate to preach this way. But I promised your mother I +would talk to you. And the truth is I hate—I hate what I’m saying. I +envy you your courage and wisdom. I know you have refused to marry +Boyd Harvey. I could see that in his face. I believe you will refuse +Castleton. Whom will you marry? What chance is there for a woman of your +position to marry out here? What in the world will become of you?” + +“Quien sabe?” replied Madeline, with a smile that was almost sad. + + ***** + +Not so many hours after this conversation with Edith, Madeline sat with +Boyd Harvey upon the grassy promontory overlooking the west, and she +listened once again to his suave courtship. + +Suddenly she turned to him and said, “Boyd, if I married you would you +be willing—glad to spend the rest of your life here in the West?” + +“Majesty!” he exclaimed. There was amaze in the voice usually so even +and well modulated—amaze in the handsome face usually so indifferent. +Her question had startled him. She saw him look down the iron-gray +cliffs, over the barren slopes and cedared ridges, beyond the +cactus-covered foothills to the grim and ghastly desert. Just then, with +its red veils of sunlit dust-clouds, its illimitable waste of ruined and +upheaved earth, it was a sinister spectacle. + +“No,” he replied, with a tinge of shame in his cheek. Madeline said no +more, nor did he speak. She was spared the pain of refusing him, and she +imagined he would never ask her again. There was both relief and regret +in the conviction. Humiliated lovers seldom made good friends. + +It was impossible not to like Boyd Harvey. The thought of that, and why +she could not marry him, concentrated her never-satisfied mind upon the +man. She looked at him, and she thought of him. + +He was handsome, young, rich, well born, pleasant, cultivated—he was +all that made a gentleman of his class. If he had any vices she had +not heard of them. She knew he had no thirst for drink or craze for +gambling. He was considered a very desirable and eligible young man. +Madeline admitted all this. + +Then she thought of things that were perhaps exclusively her own strange +ideas. Boyd Harvey’s white skin did not tan even in this southwestern +sun and wind. His hands were whiter than her own, and as soft. They were +really beautiful, and she remembered what care he took of them. They +were a proof that he never worked. His frame was tall, graceful, +elegant. It did not bear evidence of ruggedness. He had never indulged +in a sport more strenuous than yachting. He hated effort and activity. +He rode horseback very little, disliked any but moderate motoring, spent +much time in Newport and Europe, never walked when he could help it, and +had no ambition unless it were to pass the days pleasantly. If he ever +had any sons they would be like him, only a generation more toward the +inevitable extinction of his race. + +Madeline returned to camp in just the mood to make a sharp, deciding +contrast. It happened—fatefully, perhaps—that the first man she +saw was Stewart. He had just ridden into camp, and as she came up he +explained that he had gone down to the ranch for the important mail +about which she had expressed anxiety. + +“Down and back in one day!” she exclaimed. + +“Yes,” he replied. “It wasn’t so bad.” + +“But why did you not send one of the boys, and let him make the regular +two-day trip?” + +“You were worried about your mail,” he answered, briefly, as he +delivered it. Then he bent to examine the fetlocks of his weary horse. + +It was midsummer now, Madeline reflected and exceedingly hot and dusty +on the lower trail. Stewart had ridden down the mountain and back again +in twelve hours. Probably no horse in the outfit, except his big black +or Majesty, could have stood that trip. And his horse showed the effects +of a grueling day. He was caked with dust and lame and weary. + +Stewart looked as if he had spared the horse his weight on many a mile +of that rough ascent. His boots were evidence of it. His heavy flannel +shirt, wet through with perspiration, adhered closely to his shoulders +and arms, so that every ripple of muscle plainly showed. His face was +black, except round the temples and forehead, where it was bright red. +Drops of sweat, running off his blackened hands dripped to the ground. +He got up from examining the lame foot, and then threw off the saddle. +The black horse snorted and lunged for the watering-pool. Stewart let +him drink a little, then with iron arms dragged him away. In this action +the man’s lithe, powerful form impressed Madeline with a wonderful sense +of muscular force. His brawny wrist was bare; his big, strong hand, +first clutching the horse’s mane, then patting his neck, had a bruised +knuckle, and one finger was bound up. That hand expressed as much +gentleness and thoughtfulness for the horse as it had strength to drag +him back from too much drinking at a dangerous moment. + +Stewart was a combination of fire, strength, and action. These +attributes seemed to cling about him. There was something vital and +compelling in his presence. Worn and spent and drawn as he was from +the long ride, he thrilled Madeline with his potential youth and unused +vitality and promise of things to be, red-blooded deeds, both of flesh +and spirit. In him she saw the strength of his forefathers unimpaired. +The life in him was marvelously significant. The dust, the dirt, the +sweat, the soiled clothes, the bruised and bandaged hand, the brawn and +bone—these had not been despised by the knights of ancient days, nor by +modern women whose eyes shed soft light upon coarse and bloody toilers. + +Madeline Hammond compared the man of the East with the man of the West; +and that comparison was the last parting regret for her old standards. + + + + +XVII. The Lost Mine of the Padres + + +In the cool, starry evenings the campers sat around a blazing fire and +told and listened to stories thrillingly fitted to the dark crags and +the wild solitude. + +Monty Price had come to shine brilliantly as a storyteller. He was +an atrocious liar, but this fact would not have been evident to his +enthralled listeners if his cowboy comrades, in base jealousy, had not +betrayed him. The truth about his remarkable fabrications, however, +had not become known to Castleton, solely because of the Englishman’s +obtuseness. And there was another thing much stranger than this and +quite as amusing. Dorothy Coombs knew Monty was a liar; but she was +so fascinated by the glittering, basilisk eyes he riveted upon her, so +taken in by his horrible tales of blood, that despite her knowledge she +could not help believing them. + +Manifestly Monty was very proud of his suddenly acquired gift. Formerly +he had hardly been known to open his lips in the presence of strangers. +Monty had developed more than one singular and hitherto unknown trait +since his supremacy at golf had revealed his possibilities. He was +as sober and vain and pompous about his capacity for lying as about +anything else. Some of the cowboys were jealous of him because he held +the attention and, apparently, the admiration of the ladies; and Nels +was jealous, not because Monty made himself out to be a wonderful +gun-man, but because Monty could tell a story. Nels really had been the +hero of a hundred fights; he had never been known to talk about them; +but Dorothy’s eyes and Helen’s smile had somehow upset his modesty. +Whenever Monty would begin to talk Nels would growl and knock his pipe +on a log, and make it appear he could not stay and listen, though he +never really left the charmed circle of the camp-fire. Wild horses could +not have dragged him away. + +One evening at twilight, as Madeline was leaving her tent, she +encountered Monty. Evidently, he had way-laid her. With the most +mysterious of signs and whispers he led her a little aside. + +“Miss Hammond, I’m makin’ bold to ask a favor of you,” he said. + +Madeline smiled her willingness. + +“To-night, when they’ve all shot off their chins an’ it’s quiet-like, +I want you to ask me, jest this way, ‘Monty, seein’ as you’ve hed more +adventures than all them cow-punchers put together, tell us about the +most turrible time you ever hed.’ Will you ask me, Miss Hammond, jest +kinda sincere like?” + +“Certainly I will, Monty,” she replied. + +His dark, seared face had no more warmth than a piece of cold, volcanic +rock, which it resembled. Madeline appreciated how monstrous Dorothy +found this burned and distorted visage, how deformed the little man +looked to a woman of refined sensibilities. It was difficult for +Madeline to look into his face. But she saw behind the blackened mask. +And now she saw in Monty’s deep eyes a spirit of pure fun. + +So, true to her word, Madeline remembered at an opportune moment, when +conversation had hushed and only the long, dismal wail of coyotes broke +the silence, to turn toward the little cowboy. + +“Monty,” she said, and paused for effect—“Monty, seeing that you have +had more adventures than all the cowboys together, tell us about the +most terrible time you ever had.” + +Monty appeared startled at the question that fastened all eyes upon him. +He waved a deprecatory hand. + +“Aw, Miss Hammond, thankin’ you all modest-like fer the compliment, I’ll +hev to refuse,” replied Monty, laboring in distress. “It’s too harrowin’ +fer tender-hearted gurls to listen to.” + +“Go on?” cried everybody except the cowboys. Nels began to nod his head +as if he, as well as Monty, understood human nature. Dorothy hugged her +knees with a kind of shudder. Monty had fastened the hypnotic eyes upon +her. Castleton ceased smoking, adjusted his eyeglass, and prepared to +listen in great earnestness. + +Monty changed his seat to one where the light from the blazing logs +fell upon his face; and he appeared plunged into melancholy and profound +thought. + +“Now I tax myself, I can’t jest decide which was the orfulest time I +ever hed,” he said, reflectively. + +Here Nels blew forth an immense cloud of smoke, as if he desired to hide +himself from sight. Monty pondered, and then when the smoke rolled away +he turned to Nels. + +“See hyar, old pard, me an’ you seen somethin’ of each other in the +Panhandle, more ’n thirty years ago—” + +“Which we didn’t,” interrupted Nels, bluntly. “Shore you can’t make me +out an ole man.” + +“Mebbe it wasn’t so darn long. Anyhow, Nels, you recollect them three +hoss-thieves I hung all on one cottonwood-tree, an’ likewise thet +boo-tiful blond gurl I rescooed from a band of cutthroats who murdered +her paw, ole Bill Warren, the buffalo-hunter? Now, which of them two +scraps was the turriblest, in your idee?” + +“Monty, my memory’s shore bad,” replied the unimpeachable Nels. + +“Tell us about the beautiful blonde,” cried at least three of the +ladies. Dorothy, who had suffered from nightmare because of a former +story of hanging men on trees, had voicelessly appealed to Monty to +spare her more of that. + +“All right, we’ll hev the blond gurl,” said Monty, settling back, +“though I ain’t thinkin’ her story is most turrible of the two, an’ +it’ll rake over tender affections long slumberin’ in my breast.” + +As he paused there came a sharp, rapping sound. This appeared to be Nels +knocking the ashes out of his pipe on a stump—a true indication of the +passing of content from that jealous cowboy. + +“It was down in the Panhandle, ’way over in the west end of thet +Comanche huntin’-ground, an’ all the redskins an’ outlaws in thet +country were hidin’ in the river-bottoms, an’ chasin’ some of the last +buffalo herds thet hed wintered in there. I was a young buck them days, +an’ purty much of a desperado, I’m thinkin’. Though of all the seventeen +notches on my gun—an’ each notch meant a man killed face to face—there +was only one thet I was ashamed of. Thet one was fer an express +messenger who I hit on the head most unprofessional like, jest because +he wouldn’t hand over a leetle package. I hed the kind of a reputashun +thet made all the fellers in saloons smile an’ buy drinks. + +“Well, I dropped into a place named Taylor’s Bend, an’ was peaceful +standin’ to the bar when three cow-punchers come in, an’, me bein’ with +my back turned, they didn’t recognize me an’ got playful. I didn’t stop +drinkin’, an’ I didn’t turn square round; but when I stopped shootin’ +under my arm the saloon-keeper hed to go over to the sawmill an’ fetch +a heap of sawdust to cover up what was left of them three cow-punchers, +after they was hauled out. You see, I was rough them days, an’ would +shoot ears off an’ noses off an’ hands off; when in later days I’d jest +kill a man quick, same as Wild Bill. + +“News drifts into town thet night thet a gang of cut-throats hed +murdered ole Bill Warren an’ carried off his gurl. I gathers up a few +good gun-men, an’ we rid out an’ down the river-bottom, to an ole log +cabin, where the outlaws hed a rondevoo. We rid up boldlike, an’ made a +hell of a racket. Then the gang began to throw lead from the cabin, an’ +we all hunted cover. Fightin’ went on all night. In the mornin’ all my +outfit was killed but two, an’ they was shot up bad. We fought all day +without eatin’ or drinkin’, except some whisky I hed, an’ at night I was +on the job by my lonesome. + +“Bein’ bunged up some myself, I laid off an’ went down to the river to +wash the blood off, tie up my wounds, an’ drink a leetle. While I was +down there along comes one of the cutthroats with a bucket. Instead of +gettin’ water he got lead, an’ as he was about to croak he tells me a +whole bunch of outlaws was headin’ in there, doo to-morrer. An’ if I +wanted to rescoo the gurl I hed to be hurryin’. There was five fellers +left in the cabin. + +“I went back to the thicket where I hed left my hoss, an’ loaded up with +two more guns an’ another belt, an’ busted a fresh box of shells. If I +recollect proper, I got some cigarettes, too. Well, I mozied back to the +cabin. It was a boo-tiful moonshiny night, an’ I wondered if ole Bill’s +gun was as purty as I’d heerd. The grass growed long round the cabin, +an’ I crawled up to the door without startin’ anythin’. Then I figgered. +There was only one door in thet cabin, an’ it was black dark inside. I +jest grabbed open the door an’ slipped in quick. It worked all right. +They heerd me, but hedn’t been quick enough to ketch me in the light of +the door. Of course there was some shots, but I ducked too quick, an’ +changed my position. + +“Ladies an’ gentlemen, thet there was some dool by night. An’ I wasn’t +often in the place where they shot. I was most wonderful patient, an’ +jest waited until one of them darned ruffians would get so nervous he’d +hev to hunt me up. When mornin’ come there they was all piled up on +the floor, all shot to pieces. I found the gurl. Purty! Say, she was +boo-tiful. We went down to the river, where she begun to bathe my +wounds. I’d collected a dozen more or so, an’ the sight of tears in her +lovely eyes, an’ my blood a-stainin’ of her little hands, jest nat’rally +wakened a trembly spell in my heart. I seen she was took the same way, +an’ thet settled it. + +“We was comin’ up from the river, an’ I hed jest straddled my hoss, with +the gurl behind, when we run right into thet cutthroat gang thet was +doo about then. Bein’ some handicapped, I couldn’t drop more ’n one +gun-round of them, an’ then I hed to slope. The whole gang follered +me, an’ some miles out chased me over a ridge right into a big herd of +buffalo. Before I knowed what was what thet herd broke into a stampede, +with me in the middle. Purty soon the buffalo closed in tight. I knowed +I was in some peril then. But the gurl trusted me somethin’ pitiful. I +seen again thet she hed fell in love with me. I could tell from the way +she hugged me an’ yelled. Before long I was some put to it to keep my +hoss on his feet. Far as I could see was dusty, black, bobbin’, shaggy +humps. A huge cloud of dust went along over our heads. The roar of +tramplin’ hoofs was turrible. My hoss weakened, went down, an’ was +carried along a leetle while I slipped off with the gurl on to the backs +of the buffalo. + +“Ladies, I ain’t denyin’ that then Monty Price was some scairt. Fust +time in my life! But the trustin’ face of thet boo-tiful gurl, as she +lay in my arms an’ hugged me an’ yelled, made my spirit leap like a +shootin’ star. I just began to jump from buffalo to buffalo. I must hev +jumped a mile of them bobbin’ backs before I come to open places. An’ +here’s where I performed the greatest stunts of my life. I hed on my +big spurs, an’ I jest sit down an’ rid an’ spurred till thet pertickler +buffalo I was on got near another, an’ then I’d flop over. Thusly I got +to the edge of the herd, tumbled off’n the last one, an’ rescooed the +gurl. + +“Well, as my memory takes me back, thet was a most affectin’ walk home +to the little town where she lived. But she wasn’t troo to me, an’ +married another feller. I was too much a sport to kill him. But thet +low-down trick rankled in my breast. Gurls is strange. I’ve never +stopped wonderin’ how any gurl who has been hugged an’ kissed by one man +could marry another. But matoor experience teaches me thet sich is the +case.” + +The cowboys roared; Helen and Mrs. Beck and Edith laughed till they +cried; Madeline found repression absolutely impossible; Dorothy sat +hugging her knees, her horror at the story no greater than at Monty’s +unmistakable reference to her and to the fickleness of women; +and Castleton for the first time appeared to be moved out of his +imperturbability, though not in any sense by humor. Indeed, when he came +to notice it, he was dumfounded by the mirth. + +“By Jove! you Americans are an extraordinary people,” he said. “I don’t +see anything blooming funny in Mr. Price’s story of his adventure. By +Jove! that was a bally warm occasion. Mr. Price, when you speak of being +frightened for the only time in your life, I appreciate what you mean. I +have experienced that. I was frightened once.” + +“Dook, I wouldn’t hev thought it of you,” replied Monty. “I’m sure +tolerable curious to hear about it.” + +Madeline and her friends dared not break the spell, for fear that the +Englishman might hold to his usual modest reticence. He had explored +in Brazil, seen service in the Boer War, hunted in India and +Africa—matters of experience of which he never spoke. Upon this +occasion, however, evidently taking Monty’s recital word for word as +literal truth, and excited by it into a Homeric mood, he might tell a +story. The cowboys almost fell upon their knees in their importunity. +There was a suppressed eagerness in their solicitations, a hint of +something that meant more than desire, great as it was, to hear a story +told by an English lord. Madeline divined instantly that the cowboys +had suddenly fancied that Castleton was not the dense and easily fooled +person they had made such game of; that he had played his part well; +that he was having fun at their expense; that he meant to tell a story, +a lie which would simply dwarf Monty’s. Nels’s keen, bright expectation +suggested how he would welcome the joke turned upon Monty. The slow +closing of Monty’s cavernous smile, the gradual sinking of his proud +bearing, the doubt with which he began to regard Castleton—these were +proofs of his fears. + +“I have faced charging tigers and elephants in India, and charging +rhinos and lions in Africa,” began Castleton, his quick and fluent +speech so different from the drawl of his ordinary conversation; “but I +never was frightened but once. It will not do to hunt those wild beasts +if you are easily balled up. This adventure I have in mind happened in +British East Africa, in Uganda. I was out with safari, and we were in a +native district much infested by man-eating lions. Perhaps I may as well +state that man-eaters are very different from ordinary lions. They are +always matured beasts, and sometimes—indeed, mostly—are old. They +become man-eaters most likely by accident or necessity. When old they +find it more difficult to make a kill, being slower, probably, and with +poorer teeth. Driven by hunger, they stalk and kill a native, and, once +having tasted human blood, they want no other. They become absolutely +fearless and terrible in their attacks. + +“The natives of this village near where we camped were in a terrorized +state owing to depredations of two or more man-eaters. The night of +our arrival a lion leaped a stockade fence, seized a native from +among others sitting round a fire, and leaped out again, carrying the +screaming fellow away into the darkness. I determined to kill these +lions, and made a permanent camp in the village for that purpose. By +day I sent beaters into the brush and rocks of the river-valley, and +by night I watched. Every night the lions visited us, but I did not see +one. I discovered that when they roared around the camp they were not so +liable to attack as when they were silent. It was indeed remarkable how +silently they could stalk a man. They could creep through a thicket +so dense you would not believe a rabbit could get through, and do it +without the slightest sound. Then, when ready to charge, they did so +with terrible onslaught and roar. They leaped right into a circle of +fires, tore down huts, even dragged natives from the low trees. There +was no way to tell at which point they would make an attack. + +“After ten days or more of this I was worn out by loss of sleep. And one +night, when tired out with watching, I fell asleep. My gun-bearer +was alone in the tent with me. A terrible roar awakened me, then an +unearthly scream pierced right into my ears. I always slept with my +rifle in my hands, and, grasping it, I tried to rise. But I could not +for the reason that a lion was standing over me. Then I lay still. The +screams of my gun-bearer told me that the lion had him. I was fond of +this fellow and wanted to save him. I thought it best, however, not to +move while the lion stood over me. Suddenly he stepped, and I felt poor +Luki’s feet dragging across me. He screamed, ‘Save me, master!’ And +instinctively I grasped at him and caught his foot. The lion walked out +of the tent dragging me as I held to Luki’s foot. The night was bright +moonlight. I could see the lion distinctly. He was a huge, black-maned +brute, and he held Luki by the shoulder. The poor lad kept screaming +frightfully. The man-eater must have dragged me forty yards before he +became aware of a double incumbrance to his progress. Then he halted +and turned. By Jove! he made a devilish fierce object with his shaggy, +massive head, his green-fire eyes, and his huge jaws holding Luki. I let +go of Luki’s foot and bethought myself of the gun. But as I lay there on +my side, before attempting to rise, I made a horrible discovery. I did +not have my rifle at all. I had Luki’s iron spear, which he always had +near him. My rifle had slipped out of the hollow of my arm, and when the +lion awakened me, in my confusion I picked up Luki’s spear instead. The +bloody brute dropped Luki and uttered a roar that shook the ground. It +was then I felt frightened. For an instant I was almost paralyzed. +The lion meant to charge, and in one spring he could reach me. Under +circumstances like those a man can think many things in little time. I +knew to try to run would be fatal. I remembered how strangely lions had +been known to act upon occasion. One had been frightened by an umbrella; +one had been frightened by a blast from a cow-horn; another had been +frightened by a native who in running from one lion ran right at the +other which he had not seen. Accordingly, I wondered if I could frighten +the lion that meant to leap at me. Acting upon wild impulse, I prodded +him in the hind quarters with the spear. Ladies and gentlemen, I am a +blooming idiot if that lion did not cower like a whipped dog, put his +tail down, and begin to slink away. Quick to see my chance, I jumped +up yelling, and made after him, prodding him again. He let out a bellow +such as you could imagine would come from an outraged king of beasts. +I prodded again, and then he loped off. I found Luki not badly hurt. In +fact, he got well. But I’ve never forgotten that scare.” + +When Castleton finished his narrative there was a trenchant silence. All +eyes were upon Monty. He looked beaten, disgraced, a disgusted man. Yet +there shone from his face a wonderful admiration for Castleton. + +“Dook, you win!” he said; and, dropping his head, he left the camp-fire +circle with the manner of a deposed emperor. + +Then the cowboys exploded. The quiet, serene, low-voiced Nels yelled +like a madman and he stood upon his head. All the other cowboys went +through marvelous contortions. Mere noise was insufficient to relieve +their joy at what they considered the fall and humiliation of the tyrant +Monty. + +The Englishman stood there and watched them in amused consternation. +They baffled his understanding. Plain it was to Madeline and her friends +that Castleton had told the simple truth. But never on the earth, or +anywhere else, could Nels and his comrades have been persuaded that +Castleton had not lied deliberately to humble their great exponent of +Ananias. + +Everybody seemed reluctant to break the camp-fire spell. The logs had +burned out to a great heap of opal and gold and red coals, in the heart +of which quivered a glow alluring to the spirit of dreams. As the blaze +subsided the shadows of the pines encroached darker and darker upon the +circle of fading light. A cool wind fanned the embers, whipped up flakes +of white ashes, and moaned through the trees. The wild yelps of coyotes +were dying in the distance, and the sky was a wonderful dark-blue dome +spangled with white stars. + +“What a perfect night!” said Madeline. “This is a night to understand +the dream, the mystery, the wonder of the Southwest. Florence, for long +you have promised to tell us the story of the lost mine of the padres. +It will give us all pleasure, make us understand something of the thrall +in which this land held the Spaniards who discovered it so many years +ago. It will be especially interesting now, because this mountain hides +somewhere under its crags the treasures of the lost mine of the padres.” + + ***** + +“In the sixteenth century,” Florence began, in her soft, slow voice so +suited to the nature of the legend, “a poor young padre of New Spain was +shepherding his goats upon a hill when the Virgin appeared before him. +He prostrated himself at her feet, and when he looked up she was gone. +But upon the maguey plant near where she had stood there were golden +ashes of a strange and wonderful substance. He took the incident as a +good omen and went again to the hilltop. Under the maguey had sprung +up slender stalks of white, bearing delicate gold flowers, and as these +flowers waved in the wind a fine golden dust, as fine as powdered ashes, +blew away toward the north. Padre Juan was mystified, but believed that +great fortune attended upon him and his poor people. So he went again +and again to the hilltop in hope that the Virgin would appear to him. + +“One morning, as the sun rose gloriously, he looked across the windy +hill toward the waving grass and golden flowers under the maguey, and +he saw the Virgin beckoning to him. Again he fell upon his knees; but +she lifted him and gave him of the golden flowers, and bade him leave +his home and people to follow where these blowing golden ashes led. +There he would find gold—pure gold—wonderful fortune to bring back to +his poor people to build a church for them, and a city. + +“Padre Juan took the flowers and left his home, promising to return, +and he traveled northward over the hot and dusty desert, through the +mountain passes, to a new country where fierce and warlike Indians +menaced his life. He was gentle and good, and of a persuasive speech. +Moreover, he was young and handsome of person. The Indians were Apaches, +and among them he became a missionary, while always he was searching for +the flowers of gold. He heard of gold lying in pebbles upon the mountain +slopes, but he never found any. A few of the Apaches he converted; the +most of them, however, were prone to be hostile to him and his religion. +But Padre Juan prayed and worked on. + +“There came a time when the old Apache chief, imagining the padre had +designs upon his influence with the tribe, sought to put him to death +by fire. The chief’s daughter, a beautiful, dark-eyed maiden, secretly +loved Juan and believed in his mission, and she interceded for his +life and saved him. Juan fell in love with her. One day she came to +him wearing golden flowers in her dark hair, and as the wind blew the +flowers a golden dust blew upon it. Juan asked her where to find such +flowers, and she told him that upon a certain day she would take him +to the mountain to look for them. And upon the day she led up to the +mountain-top from which they could see beautiful valleys and great trees +and cool waters. There at the top of a wonderful slope that looked down +upon the world, she showed Juan the flowers. And Juan found gold in such +abundance that he thought he would go out of his mind. Dust of gold! +Grains of gold! Pebbles of gold! Rocks of gold! He was rich beyond all +dreams. He remembered the Virgin and her words. He must return to his +people and build their church, and the great city that would bear his +name. + +“But Juan tarried. Always he was going manana. He loved the dark-eyed +Apache girl so well that he could not leave her. He hated himself for +his infidelity to his Virgin, to his people. He was weak and false, +a sinner. But he could not go, and he gave himself up to love of the +Indian maiden. + +“The old Apache chief discovered the secret love of his daughter and the +padre. And, fierce in his anger, he took her up into the mountains and +burned her alive and cast her ashes upon the wind. He did not kill Padre +Juan. He was too wise, and perhaps too cruel, for he saw the strength +of Juan’s love. Besides, many of his tribe had learned much from the +Spaniard. + +“Padre Juan fell into despair. He had no desire to live. He faded and +wasted away. But before he died he went to the old Indians who had +burned the maiden, and he begged them, when he was dead, to burn his +body and to cast his ashes to the wind from that wonderful slope, +where they would blow away to mingle forever with those of his Indian +sweetheart. + +“The Indians promised, and when Padre Juan died they burned his body and +took his ashes to the mountain heights and cast them to the wind, where +they drifted and fell to mix with the ashes of the Indian girl he had +loved. + +“Years passed. More padres traveled across the desert to the home of +the Apaches, and they heard the story of Juan. Among their number was +a padre who in his youth had been one of Juan’s people. He set forth to +find Juan’s grave, where he believed he would also find the gold. And he +came back with pebbles of gold and flowers that shed a golden dust, +and he told a wonderful story. He had climbed and climbed into the +mountains, and he had come to a wonderful slope under the crags. That +slope was yellow with golden flowers. When he touched them golden ashes +drifted from them and blew down among the rocks. There the padre found +dust of gold, grains of gold, pebbles of gold, rocks of gold. + +“Then all the padres went into the mountains. But the discoverer of the +mine lost his way. They searched and searched until they were old and +gray, but never found the wonderful slope and flowers that marked the +grave and the mine of Padre Juan. + +“In the succeeding years the story was handed down from father to son. +But of the many who hunted for the lost mine of the padres there was +never a Mexican or an Apache. For the Apache the mountain slopes were +haunted by the spirit of an Indian maiden who had been false to her +tribe and forever accursed. For the Mexican the mountain slopes were +haunted by the spirit of the false padre who rolled stones upon the +heads of those adventurers who sought to find his grave and his accursed +gold.” + + + + +XVIII. Bonita + + +Florence’s story of the lost mine fired Madeline’s guests with the +fever for gold-hunting. But after they had tried it a few times and the +glamour of the thing wore off they gave up and remained in camp. Having +exhausted all the resources of the mountain, such that had interest for +them, they settled quietly down for a rest, which Madeline knew would +soon end in a desire for civilized comforts. They were almost tired +of roughing it. Helen’s discontent manifested itself in her remark, “I +guess nothing is going to happen, after all.” + +Madeline awaited their pleasure in regard to the breaking of camp; and +meanwhile, as none of them cared for more exertion, she took her walks +without them, sometimes accompanied by one of the cowboys, always by the +stag-hounds. These walks furnished her exceeding pleasure. And, now +that the cowboys would talk to her without reserve, she grew fonder of +listening to their simple stories. The more she knew of them the more +she doubted the wisdom of shut-in lives. Companionship with Nels and +most of the cowboys was in its effect like that of the rugged pines +and crags and the untainted wind. Humor, their predominant trait when +a person grew to know them, saved Madeline from finding their hardness +trying. They were dreamers, as all men who lived lonely lives in the +wilds were dreamers. + +The cowboys all had secrets. Madeline learned some of them. She marveled +most at the strange way in which they hid emotions, except of violence +of mirth and temper so easily aroused. It was all the more remarkable +in view of the fact that they felt intensely over little things to which +men of the world were blind and dead. Madeline had to believe that a +hard and perilous life in a barren and wild country developed great +principles in men. Living close to earth, under the cold, bleak peaks, +on the dust-veiled desert, men grew like the nature that developed +them—hard, fierce, terrible, perhaps, but big—big with elemental +force. + +But one day, while out walking alone, before she realized it she had +gone a long way down a dim trail winding among the rocks. It was the +middle of a summer afternoon, and all about her were shadows of the +crags crossing the sunlit patches. The quiet was undisturbed. She went +on and on, not blind to the fact that she was perhaps going too far from +camp, but risking it because she was sure of her way back, and enjoying +the wild, craggy recesses that were new to her. Finally she came out +upon a bank that broke abruptly into a beautiful little glade. Here she +sat down to rest before undertaking the return trip. + +Suddenly Russ, the keener of the stag-hounds, raised his head and +growled. Madeline feared he might have scented a mountain-lion or +wildcat. She quieted him and carefully looked around. To each side was +an irregular line of massive blocks of stone that had weathered from +the crags. The little glade was open and grassy, with here a pine-tree, +there a boulder. The outlet seemed to go down into a wilderness of +canyons and ridges. Looking in this direction, Madeline saw the slight, +dark figure of a woman coming stealthily along under the pines. Madeline +was amazed, then a little frightened, for that stealthy walk from tree +to tree was suggestive of secrecy, if nothing worse. + +Presently the woman was joined by a tall man who carried a package, +which he gave to her. They came on up the glade and appeared to be +talking earnestly. In another moment Madeline recognized Stewart. She +had no greater feeling of surprise than had at first been hers. But for +the next moment she scarcely thought at all—merely watched the couple +approaching. In a flash came back her former curiosity as to Stewart’s +strange absences from camp, and then with the return of her doubt of him +the recognition of the woman. The small, dark head, the brown face, +the big eyes—Madeline now saw distinctly—belonged to the Mexican girl +Bonita. Stewart had met her there. This was the secret of his lonely +trips, taken ever since he had come to work for Madeline. This secluded +glade was a rendezvous. He had her hidden there. + +Quietly Madeline arose, with a gesture to the dogs, and went back along +the trail toward camp. Succeeding her surprise was a feeling of sorrow +that Stewart’s regeneration had not been complete. Sorrow gave place +to insufferable distrust that while she had been romancing about this +cowboy, dreaming of her good influence over him, he had been merely +base. Somehow it stung her. Stewart had been nothing to her, she +thought, yet she had been proud of him. She tried to revolve the thing, +to be fair to him, when every instinctive tendency was to expel him, and +all pertaining to him, from her thoughts. And her effort at sympathy, at +extenuation, failed utterly before her pride. Exerting her will-power, +she dismissed Stewart from her mind. + +Madeline did not think of him again till late that afternoon, when, as +she was leaving her tent to join several of her guests, Stewart appeared +suddenly in her path. + +“Miss Hammond, I saw your tracks down the trail,” he began, eagerly, but +his tone was easy and natural. “I’m thinking—well, maybe you sure got +the idea—” + +“I do not wish for an explanation,” interrupted Madeline. + +Stewart gave a slight start. His manner had a semblance of the old, cool +audacity. As he looked down at her it subtly changed. + +What effrontery, Madeline thought, to face her before her guests with +an explanation of his conduct! Suddenly she felt an inward flash of fire +that was pain, so strange, so incomprehensible, that her mind whirled. +Then anger possessed her, not at Stewart, but at herself, that anything +could rouse in her a raw emotion. She stood there, outwardly cold, +serene, with level, haughty eyes upon Stewart; but inwardly she was +burning with rage and shame. + +“I’m sure not going to have you think—” He began passionately, but he +broke off, and a slow, dull crimson blotted over the healthy red-brown +of his neck and cheeks. + +“What you do or think, Stewart, is no concern of mine.” + +“Miss—Miss Hammond! You don’t believe—” faltered Stewart. + +The crimson receded from his face, leaving it pale. His eyes were +appealing. They had a kind of timid look that struck Madeline even in +her anger. There was something boyish about him then. He took a step +forward and reached out with his hand open-palmed in a gesture that was +humble, yet held a certain dignity. + +“But listen. Never mind now what you—you think about me. There’s a good +reason—” + +“I have no wish to hear your reason.” + +“But you ought to,” he persisted. + +“Sir!” + +Stewart underwent another swift change. He started violently. A dark +tide shaded his face and a glitter leaped to his eyes. He took two long +strides—loomed over her. + +“I’m not thinking about myself,” he thundered. “Will you listen?” + +“No,” she replied; and there was freezing hauteur in her voice. With a +slight gesture of dismissal, unmistakable in its finality, she turned +her back upon him. Then she joined her guests. + +Stewart stood perfectly motionless. Then slowly he began to lift his +right hand in which he held his sombrero. He swept it up and up high +over his head. His tall form towered. With fierce suddenness he flung +his sombrero down. He leaped at his black horse and dragged him to where +his saddle lay. With one pitch he tossed the saddle upon the horse’s +back. His strong hands flashed at girths and straps. Every action was +swift, decisive, fierce. Bounding for his bridle, which hung over +a bush, he ran against a cowboy who awkwardly tried to avoid the +onslaught. + +“Get out of my way!” he yelled. + +Then with the same savage haste he adjusted the bridle on his horse. + +“Mebbe you better hold on a minnit, Gene, ole feller,” said Monty Price. + +“Monty, do you want me to brain you?” said Stewart, with the short, hard +ring in his voice. + +“Now, considerin’ the high class of my brains, I oughter be real careful +to keep ’em,” replied Monty. “You can betcher life, Gene, I ain’t goin’ +to git in front of you. But I jest says—Listen!” + +Stewart raised his dark face. Everybody listened. And everybody heard +the rapid beat of a horse’s hoofs. The sun had set, but the park was +light. Nels appeared down the trail, and his horse was running. In +another moment he was in the circle, pulling his bay back to a sliding +halt. He leaped off abreast of Stewart. + +Madeline saw and felt a difference in Nels’s presence. + +“What’s up, Gene?” he queried, sharply. + +“I’m leaving camp,” replied Stewart, thickly. His black horse began to +stamp as Stewart grasped bridle and mane and kicked the stirrup round. + +Nels’s long arm shot out, and his hand fell upon Stewart, holding him +down. + +“Shore I’m sorry,” said Nels, slowly. “Then you was goin’ to hit the +trail?” + +“I am going to. Let go, Nels.” + +“Shore you ain’t goin’, Gene?” + +“Let go, damn you!” cried Stewart, as he wrestled free. + +“What’s wrong?” asked Nels, lifting his hand again. + +“Man! Don’t touch me!” + +Nels stepped back instantly. He seemed to become aware of Stewart’s +white, wild passion. Again Stewart moved to mount. + +“Nels, don’t make me forget we’ve been friends,” he said. + +“Shore I ain’t fergettin’,” replied Nels. “An’ I resign my job right +here an’ now!” + +His strange speech checked the mounting cowboy. Stewart stepped down +from the stirrup. Then their hard faces were still and cold while their +eyes locked glances. + +Madeline was as much startled by Nels’s speech as Stewart. Quick to note +a change in these men, she now sensed one that was unfathomable. + +“Resign?” questioned Stewart. + +“Shore. What ’d you think I’d do under circumstances sich as has come +up?” + +“But see here, Nels, I won’t stand for it.” + +“You’re not my boss no more, an’ I ain’t beholdin’ to Miss Hammond, +neither. I’m my own boss, an’ I’ll do as I please. Sabe, senor?” + +Nels’s words were at variance with the meaning in his face. + +“Gene, you sent me on a little scout down in the mountains, didn’t you?” + he continued. + +“Yes, I did,” replied Stewart, with a new sharpness in his voice. + +“Wal, shore you was so good an’ right in your figgerin’, as opposed to +mine, that I’m sick with admirin’ of you. If you hedn’t sent me—wal, +I’m reckonin’ somethin’ might hev happened. As it is we’re shore up +against a hell of a proposition!” + +How significant was the effect of his words upon all the cowboys! +Stewart made a fierce and violent motion, terrible where his other +motions had been but passionate. Monty leaped straight up into the +air in a singular action as suggestive of surprise as it was of wild +acceptance of menace. Like a stalking giant Nick Steele strode over to +Nels and Stewart. The other cowboys rose silently, without a word. + +Madeline and her guests, in a little group, watched and listened, unable +to divine what all this strange talk and action meant. + +“Hold on, Nels, they don’t need to hear it,” said Stewart, hoarsely, as +he waved a hand toward Madeline’s silent group. + +“Wal, I’m sorry, but I reckon they’d as well know fust as last. Mebbe +thet yearnin’ wish of Miss Helen’s fer somethin’ to happen will come +true. Shore I—” + +“Cut out the joshin’,” rang out Monty’s strident voice. + +It had as decided an effect as any preceding words or action. Perhaps +it was the last thing needed to transform these men, doing unaccustomed +duty as escorts of beautiful women, to their natural state as men of the +wild. + +“Tell us what’s what,” said Stewart, cool and grim. + +“Don Carlos an’ his guerrillas are campin’ on the trails thet lead +up here. They’ve got them trails blocked. By to-morrer they’d hed us +corralled. Mebbe they meant to surprise us. He’s got a lot of Greasers +an’ outlaws. They’re well armed. Now what do they mean? You-all can +figger it out to suit yourselves. Mebbe the Don wants to pay a sociable +call on our ladies. Mebbe his gang is some hungry, as usual. Mebbe they +want to steal a few hosses, or anythin’ they can lay hands on. Mebbe +they mean wuss, too. Now my idee is this, an’ mebbe it’s wrong. I long +since separated from love with Greasers. Thet black-faced Don Carlos has +got a deep game. Thet two-bit of a revolution is hevin’ hard times. +The rebels want American intervention. They’d stretch any point to make +trouble. We’re only ten miles from the border. Suppose them guerrillas +got our crowd across thet border? The U. S. cavalry would foller. +You-all know what thet’d mean. Mebbe Don Carlos’s mind works thet way. +Mebbe it don’t. I reckon we’ll know soon. An’ now, Stewart, whatever the +Don’s game is, shore you’re the man to outfigger him. Mebbe it’s just as +well you’re good an’ mad about somethin’. An’ I resign my job because I +want to feel unbeholdin’ to anybody. Shore it struck me long since thet +the old days hed come back fer a little spell, an’ there I was trailin’ +a promise not to hurt any Greaser.” + + + + +XIX. Don Carlos + + +Stewart took Nels, Monty, and Nick Steele aside out of earshot, and they +evidently entered upon an earnest colloquy. Presently the other cowboys +were called. They all talked more or less, but the deep voice of Stewart +predominated over the others. Then the consultation broke up, and the +cowboys scattered. + +“Rustle, you Indians!” ordered Stewart. + +The ensuing scene of action was not reassuring to Madeline and her +friends. They were quiet, awaiting some one to tell them what to do. At +the offset the cowboys appeared to have forgotten Madeline. Some of them +ran off into the woods, others into the open, grassy places, where they +rounded up the horses and burros. Several cowboys spread tarpaulins +upon the ground and began to select and roll small packs, evidently for +hurried travel. Nels mounted his horse to ride down the trail. Monty +and Nick Steele went off into the grove, leading their horses. Stewart +climbed up a steep jumble of stone between two sections of low, cracked +cliff back of the camp. + +Castleton offered to help the packers, and was curtly told he would +be in the way. Madeline’s friends all importuned her: Was there real +danger? Were the guerrillas coming? Would a start be made at once for +the ranch? Why had the cowboys suddenly become so different? Madeline +answered as best she could; but her replies were only conjecture, and +modified to allay the fears of her guests. Helen was in a white glow of +excitement. + +Soon cowboys appeared riding barebacked horses, driving in others and +the burros. Some of these horses were taken away and evidently hidden +in deep recesses between the crags. The string of burros were packed +and sent off down the trail in charge of a cowboy. Nick Steele and Monty +returned. Then Stewart appeared, clambering down the break between the +cliffs. + +His next move was to order all the baggage belonging to Madeline and her +guests taken up the cliff. This was strenuous toil, requiring the need +of lassoes to haul up the effects. + +“Get ready to climb,” said Stewart, turning to Madelines party. + +“Where?” asked Helen. + +He waved his hand at the ascent to be made. Exclamations of dismay +followed his gesture. + +“Mr. Stewart, is there danger?” asked Dorothy; and her voice trembled. + +This was the question Madeline had upon her lips to ask Stewart, but she +could not speak it. + +“No, there’s no danger,” replied Stewart, “but we’re taking precautions +we all agreed on as best.” + +Dorothy whispered that she believed Stewart lied. Castleton asked +another question, and then Harvey followed suit. Mrs. Beck made a timid +query. + +“Please keep quiet and do as you’re told,” said Stewart, bluntly. + +At this juncture, when the last of the baggage was being hauled up the +cliff, Monty approached Madeline and removed his sombrero. His black +face seemed the same, yet this was a vastly changed Monty. + +“Miss Hammond, I’m givin’ notice I resign my job,” he said. + +“Monty! What do you mean? What does Nels mean now, when danger +threatens?” + +“We jest quit. Thet’s all,” replied Monty, tersely. He was stern and +somber; he could not stand still; his eyes roved everywhere. + +Castleton jumped up from the log where he had been sitting, and his face +was very red. + +“Mr. Price, does all this blooming fuss mean we are to be robbed or +attacked or abducted by a lot of ragamuffin guerrillas?” + +“You’ve called the bet.” + +Dorothy turned a very pale face toward Monty. + +“Mr. Price, you wouldn’t—you couldn’t desert us now? You and Mr. +Nels—” + +“Desert you?” asked Monty, blankly. + +“Yes, desert us. Leave us when we may need you so much, with something +dreadful coming.” + +Monty uttered a short, hard laugh as he bent a strange look upon the +girl. + +“Me an’ Nels is purty much scared, an’ we’re goin’ to slope. Miss +Dorothy, bein’ as we’ve rustled round so much; it sorta hurts us to see +nice young girls dragged off by the hair.” + +Dorothy uttered a little cry and then became hysterical. Castleton for +once was fully aroused. + +“By Gad! You and your partner are a couple of blooming cowards. Where +now is that courage you boasted of?” + +Monty’s dark face expressed extreme sarcasm. + +“Dook, in my time I’ve seen some bright fellers, but you take the +cake. It’s most marvelous how bright you are. Figger’n’ me an’ Nels so +correct. Say, Dook, if you don’t git rustled off to Mexico an’ roped to +a cactus-bush you’ll hev a swell story fer your English chums. Bah +Jove! You’ll tell ’em how you seen two old-time gun-men run like scared +jack-rabbits from a lot of Greasers. Like hell you will! Unless you +lie like the time you told about proddin’ the lion. That there story +allus—” + +“Monty, shut up!” yelled Stewart, as he came hurriedly up. Then Monty +slouched away, cursing to himself. + +Madeline and Helen, assisted by Castleton, worked over Dorothy, and +with some difficulty quieted her. Stewart passed several times without +noticing them, and Monty, who had been so ridiculously eager to pay +every little attention to Dorothy, did not see her at all. Rude it +seemed; in Monty’s ease more than that. Madeline hardly knew what to +make of it. + +Stewart directed cowboys to go to the head of the open place in the +cliff and let down lassoes. Then, with little waste of words, he urged +the women toward this rough ladder of stones. + +“We want to hide you,” he said, when they demurred. “If the guerrillas +come we’ll tell them you’ve all gone down to the ranch. If we have to +fight you’ll be safe up there.” + +Helen stepped boldly forward and let Stewart put the loop of a lasso +round her and tighten it. He waved his hand to the cowboys above. + +“Just walk up, now,” he directed Helen. + +It proved to the watchers to be an easy, safe, and rapid means of +scaling the steep passage. The men climbed up without assistance. Mrs. +Beck, as usual, had hysteria; she half walked and was half dragged up. +Stewart supported Dorothy with one arm, while with the other he held to +the lasso. Ambrose had to carry Christine. The Mexican women required +no assistance. Edith Wayne and Madeline climbed last; and, once up, +Madeline saw a narrow bench, thick with shrubs, and overshadowed by +huge, leaning crags. There were holes in the rock, and dark fissures +leading back. It was a rough, wild place. Tarpaulins and bedding were +then hauled up, and food and water. The cowboys spread comfortable beds +in several of the caves, and told Madeline and her friends to be as +quiet as possible, not to make a light, and to sleep dressed, ready for +travel at a moment’s notice. + +After the cowboys had gone down it was not a cheerful group left there +in the darkening twilight. Castleton prevailed upon them to eat. + +“This is simply great,” whispered Helen. + +“Oh, it’s awful!” moaned Dorothy. “It’s your fault, Helen. You prayed +for something to happen.” + +“I believe it’s a horrid trick those cowboys are playing,” said Mrs. +Beck. + +Madeline assured her friends that no trick was being played upon them, +and that she deplored the discomfort and distress, but felt no real +alarm. She was more inclined to evasive kindness here than to sincerity, +for she had a decided uneasiness. The swift change in the manner and +looks of her cowboys had been a shock to her. The last glance she had of +Stewart’s face, then stern, almost sad, and haggard with worry, remained +to augment her foreboding. + +Darkness appeared to drop swiftly down; the coyotes began their +haunting, mournful howls; the stars showed and grew brighter; the wind +moaned through the tips of the pines. Castleton was restless. He walked +to and fro before the overhanging shelf of rock, where his companions +sat lamenting, and presently he went out to the ledge of the bench. The +cowboys below had built a fire, and the light from it rose in a huge, +fan-shaped glow. Castleton’s little figure stood out black against this +light. Curious and anxious also, Madeline joined him and peered down +from the cliff. The distance was short, and occasionally she could +distinguish a word spoken by the cowboys. They were unconcernedly +cooking and eating. She marked the absence of Stewart, and mentioned it +to Castleton. Silently Castleton pointed almost straight down, and there +in the gloom stood Stewart, with the two stag-hounds at his feet. + +Presently Nick Steele silenced the camp-fire circle by raising a warning +hand. The cowboys bent their heads, listening. Madeline listened with +all her might. She heard one of the hounds whine, then the faint beat of +horse’s hoofs. Nick spoke again and turned to his supper, and the other +men seemed to slacken in attention. The beat of hoofs grew louder, +entered the grove, then the circle of light. The rider was Nels. He +dismounted, and the sound of his low voice just reached Madeline. + +“Gene, it’s Nels. Somethin’ doin’,” Madeline heard one of the cowboys +call, softly. + +“Send him over,” replied Stewart. + +Nels stalked away from the fire. + +“See here, Nels, the boys are all right, but I don’t want them to know +everything about this mix-up,” said Stewart, as Nels came up. “Did you +find the girl?” + +Madeline guessed that Stewart referred to the Mexican girl Bonita. + +“No. But I met”—Madeline did not catch the name—“an’ he was wild. He +was with a forest-ranger. An’ they said Pat Hawe had trailed her an’ was +takin’ her down under arrest.” + +Stewart muttered deep under his breath, evidently cursing. + +“Wonder why he didn’t come on up here?” he queried, presently. “He can +see a trail.” + +“Wal, Gene, Pat knowed you was here all right, fer thet ranger said +Pat hed wind of the guerrillas, an’ Pat said if Don Carlos didn’t kill +you—which he hoped he’d do—then it ’d be time enough to put you in +jail when you come down.” + +“He’s dead set to arrest me, Nels.” + +“An’ he’ll do it, like the old lady who kept tavern out West. Gene, the +reason thet red-faced coyote didn’t trail you up here is because he’s +scared. He allus was scared of you. But I reckon he’s shore scared to +death of me an’ Monty.” + +“Well, we’ll take Pat in his turn. The thing now is, when will that +Greaser stalk us, and what’ll we do when he comes?” + +“My boy, there’s only one way to handle a Greaser. I shore told you +thet. He means rough toward us. He’ll come smilin’ up, all soci’ble +like, insinuatin’ an’ sweeter ’n a woman. But he’s treacherous; he’s +wuss than an Indian. An’, Gene, we know for a positive fact how his gang +hev been operatin’ between these hills an’ Agua Prieta. They’re no nervy +gang of outlaws like we used to hev. But they’re plumb bad. They’ve +raided and murdered through the San Luis Pass an’ Guadalupe Canyon. +They’ve murdered women, an’ wuss than thet, both north an’ south of Agua +Prieta. Mebbe the U. S. cavalry don’t know it, an’ the good old States; +but we, you an’ me an’ Monty an’ Nick, we know it. We know jest about +what thet rebel war down there amounts to. It’s guerrilla war, an’ shore +some harvest-time fer a lot of cheap thieves an’ outcasts.” + +“Oh, you’re right, Nels. I’m not disputing that,” replied Stewart. “If +it wasn’t for Miss Hammond and the other women, I’d rather enjoy seeing +you and Monty open up on that bunch. I’m thinking I’d be glad to meet +Don Carlos. But Miss Hammond! Why, Nels, such a woman as she is would +never recover from the sight of real gun-play, let alone any stunts +with a rope. These Eastern women are different. I’m not belittling our +Western women. It’s in the blood. Miss Hammond is—is—” + +“Shore she is,” interrupted Nels; “but she’s got a damn sight more spunk +than you think she has, Gene Stewart. I’m no thick-skulled cow. I’d hate +somethin’ powerful to hev Miss Hammond see any rough work, let alone me +an’ Monty startin’ somethin’. An’ me an’ Monty’ll stick to you, Gene, as +long as seems reasonable. Mind, ole feller, beggin’ your pardon, you’re +shore stuck on Miss Hammond, an’ over-tender not to hurt her feelin’s or +make her sick by lettin’ some blood. We’re in bad here, an’ mebbe we’ll +hev to fight. Sabe, senor? Wal, we do you can jest gamble thet Miss +Hammond’ll be game. An’ I’ll bet you a million pesos thet if you got +goin’ onct, an’ she seen you as I’ve seen you—wal, I know what she’d +think of you. This old world ain’t changed much. Some women may be +white-skinned an’ soft-eyed an’ sweet-voiced an’ high-souled, but they +all like to see a man! Gene, here’s your game. Let Don Carlos come +along. Be civil. If he an’ his gang are hungry, feed ’em. Take even a +little overbearin’ Greaser talk. Be blind if he wants his gang to steal +somethin’. Let him think the women hev mosied down to the ranch. But +if he says you’re lyin’—if he as much as looks round to see the +women—jest jump him same as you jumped Pat Hawe. Me an’ Monty’ll hang +back fer thet, an’ if your strong bluff don’t go through, if the Don’s +gang even thinks of flashin’ guns, then we’ll open up. An’ all I got to +say is if them Greasers stand fer real gun-play they’ll be the fust I +ever seen.” + +“Nels, there are white men in that gang,” said Stewart. + +“Shore. But me an’ Monty’ll be thinkin’ of thet. If they start anythin’ +it’ll hev to be shore quick.” + +“All right, Nels, old friend, and thanks,” replied Stewart. Nels +returned to the camp-fire, and Stewart resumed his silent guard. + +Madeline led Castleton away from the brink of the wall. + +“By Jove! Cowboys are blooming strange folk!” he exclaimed. “They are +not what they pretend to be.” + +“Indeed, you are right,” replied Madeline. “I cannot understand them. +Come, let us tell the others that Nels and Monty were only talking and +do not intend to leave us. Dorothy, at least, will be less frightened if +she knows.” + +Dorothy was somewhat comforted. The others, however, complained of the +cowboys’ singular behavior. More than once the idea was advanced that +an elaborate trick had been concocted. Upon general discussion this idea +gained ground. Madeline did not combat it, because she saw it tended to +a less perturbed condition of mind among her guests. Castleton for once +proved that he was not absolutely obtuse, and helped along the idea. + +They sat talking in low voices until a late hour. The incident now began +to take on the nature of Helen’s long-yearned-for adventure. Some of the +party even grew merry in a subdued way. Then, gradually, one by one they +tired and went to bed. Helen vowed she could not sleep in a place where +there were bats and crawling things. Madeline fancied, however, that +they all went to sleep while she lay wide-eyed, staring up at the black +bulge of overhanging rock and beyond the starry sky. + +To keep from thinking of Stewart and the burning anger he had caused her +to feel for herself, Madeline tried to keep her mind on other things. +But thought of him recurred, and each time there was a hot commotion +in her breast hard to stifle. Intelligent reasoning seemed out of her +power. In the daylight it had been possible for her to be oblivious to +Stewart’s deceit after the moment of its realization. At night, however, +in the strange silence and hovering shadows of gloom, with the speaking +stars seeming to call to her, with the moan of the wind in the pines, +and the melancholy mourn of coyotes in the distance, she was not able to +govern her thought and emotion. The day was practical, cold; the night +was strange and tense. In the darkness she had fancies wholly unknown to +her in the bright light of the sun. She battled with a haunting thought. +She had inadvertently heard Nels’s conversation with Stewart; she had +listened, hoping to hear some good news or to hear the worst; she had +learned both, and, moreover, enlightenment on one point of Stewart’s +complex motives. He wished to spare her any sight that might offend, +frighten, or disgust her. Yet this Stewart, who showed a fineness of +feeling that might have been wanting even in Boyd Harvey, maintained a +secret rendezvous with that pretty, abandoned Bonita. Here always +the hot shame, like a live, stinging, internal fire, abruptly ended +Madeline’s thought. It was intolerable, and it was the more so because +she could neither control nor understand it. The hours wore on, and at +length, as the stars began to pale and there was no sound whatever, she +fell asleep. + +She was called out of her slumber. Day had broken bright and cool. +The sun was still below the eastern crags. Ambrose, with several other +cowboys, had brought up buckets of spring-water, and hot coffee and +cakes. Madeline’s party appeared to be none the worse for the night’s +experience. Indeed, the meager breakfast might have been as merrily +partaken of as it was hungrily had not Ambrose enjoined silence. + +“They’re expectin’ company down below,” he said. + +This information and the summary manner in which the cowboys soon led +the party higher up among the ruined shelves of rock caused a recurrence +of anxiety. Madeline insisted on not going beyond a projection of +cliff from which she could see directly down into the camp. As the +vantage-point was one affording concealment, Ambrose consented, but +he placed the frightened Christine near Madeline and remained there +himself. + +“Ambrose, do you really think the guerrillas will come?” asked Madeline. + +“Sure. We know. Nels just rode in and said they were on their way up. +Miss Hammond, can I trust you? You won’t let out a squeal if there’s a +fight down there? Stewart told me to hide you out of sight or keep you +from lookin’.” + +“I promise not to make any noise,” replied Madeline. Madeline arranged +her coat so that she could lie upon it, and settled down to wait +developments. There came a slight rattling of stones in the rear. She +turned to see Helen sliding down a bank with a perplexed and troubled +cowboy. Helen came stooping low to where Madeline lay and said: “I am +going to see what happens, if I die in the attempt! I can stand it +if you can.” She was pale and big-eyed. Ambrose promptly swore at the +cowboy who had let her get away from him. “Take a half-hitch on her +yourself an’ see where you end up,” replied the fellow, and disappeared +in the jumble of rocks. Ambrose, finding words useless, sternly and +heroically prepared to carry Helen back to the others. He laid hold of +her. In a fury, with eyes blazing, Helen whispered: + +“Let go of me! Majesty, what does this fool mean?” + +Madeline laughed. She knew Helen, and had marked the whisper, when +ordinarily Helen would have spoken imperiously, and not low. Madeline +explained to her the exigency of the situation. “I might run, but I’ll +never scream,” said Helen. With that Ambrose had to be content to let +her stay. However, he found her a place somewhat farther back from +Madeline’s position, where he said there was less danger of her being +seen. Then he sternly bound her to silence, tarried a moment to comfort +Christine, and returned to where Madeline lay concealed. He had been +there scarcely a moment when he whispered: + +“I hear hosses. The guerrillas are comin’.” + +Madeline’s hiding-place was well protected from possible discovery from +below. She could peep over a kind of parapet, through an opening in the +tips of the pines that reached up to the cliff, and obtain a commanding +view of the camp circle and its immediate surroundings. She could not, +however, see far either to right or left of the camp, owing to the +obstructing foliage. Presently the sound of horses’ hoofs quickened the +beat of her pulse and caused her to turn keener gaze upon the cowboys +below. + +Although she had some inkling of the course Stewart and his men were to +pursue, she was not by any means prepared for the indifference she saw. +Frank was asleep, or pretended to be. Three cowboys were lazily and +unconcernedly attending to camp-fire duties, such as baking biscuits, +watching the ovens, and washing tins and pots. The elaborate set of +aluminum plates, cups, etc., together with the other camp fixtures that +had done service for Madeline’s party, had disappeared. Nick Steele +sat with his back to a log, smoking his pipe. Another cowboy had just +brought the horses closer into camp, where they stood waiting to be +saddled. Nels appeared to be fussing over a pack. Stewart was rolling +a cigarette. Monty had apparently nothing to do for the present except +whistle, which he was doing much more loudly than melodiously. The whole +ensemble gave an impression of careless indifference. + +The sound of horses’ hoofs grew louder and slowed its beat. One of the +cowboys pointed down the trail, toward which several of his comrades +turned their heads for a moment, then went on with their occupations. + +Presently a shaggy, dusty horse bearing a lean, ragged, dark rider rode +into camp and halted. Another followed, and another. Horses with Mexican +riders came in single file and stopped behind the leader. + +The cowboys looked up, and the guerrillas looked down. “Buenos dias, +senor,” ceremoniously said the foremost guerrilla. + +By straining her ears Madeline heard that voice, and she recognized +it as belonging to Don Carlos. His graceful bow to Stewart was also +familiar. Otherwise she would never have recognized the former elegant +vaquero in this uncouth, roughly dressed Mexican. + +Stewart answered the greeting in Spanish, and, waving his hand toward +the camp-fire, added in English, “Get down and eat.” + +The guerrillas were anything but slow in complying. They crowded to +the fire, then spread in a little circle and squatted upon the ground, +laying their weapons beside them. In appearance they tallied with the +band of guerrillas that had carried Madeline up into the foothills, only +this band was larger and better armed. The men, moreover, were just as +hungry and as wild and beggarly. The cowboys were not cordial in their +reception of this visit, but they were hospitable. The law of the desert +had always been to give food and drink to wayfaring men, whether lost or +hunted or hunting. + +“There’s twenty-three in that outfit,” whispered Ambrose, “includin’ +four white men. Pretty rummy outfit.” + +“They appear to be friendly enough,” whispered Madeline. + +“Things down there ain’t what they seem,” replied Ambrose. + +“Ambrose, tell me—explain to me. This is my opportunity. As long as you +will let me watch them, please let me know the—the real thing.” + +“Sure. But recollect, Miss Hammond, that Gene’ll give it to me good if +he ever knows I let you look and told you what’s what. Well, decent-like +Gene is seen’ them poor devils get a square meal. They’re only a lot of +calf-thieves in this country. Across the border they’re bandits, some of +them, the others just riffraff outlaws. That rebel bluff doesn’t go down +with us. I’d have to see first before I’d believe them Greasers would +fight. They’re a lot of hard-ridin’ thieves, and they’d steal a fellow’s +blanket or tobacco. Gene thinks they’re after you ladies—to carry you +off. But Gene—Oh, Gene’s some highfalutin in his ideas lately. Most of +us boys think the guerrillas are out to rob—that’s all.” + +Whatever might have been the secret motive of Don Carlos and his men, +they did not allow it to interfere with a hearty appreciation of a +generous amount of food. Plainly, each individual ate all that he was +able to eat at the time. They jabbered like a flock of parrots; some +were even merry, in a kind of wild way. Then, as each and every one +began to roll and smoke the inevitable cigarette of the Mexican, there +was a subtle change in manner. They smoked and looked about the camp, +off into the woods, up at the crags, and back at the leisurely cowboys. +They had the air of men waiting for something. + +“Senor,” began Don Carlos, addressing Stewart. As he spoke he swept his +sombrero to indicate the camp circle. + +Madeline could not distinguish his words, but his gesture plainly +indicated a question in regard to the rest of the camping party. +Stewart’s reply and the wave of his hand down the trail meant that his +party had gone home. Stewart turned to some task, and the guerrilla +leader quietly smoked. He looked cunning and thoughtful. His men +gradually began to manifest a restlessness, noticeable in the absence +of former languor and slow puffing of cigarette smoke. Presently a +big-boned man with a bullet head and a blistered red face of evil +coarseness got up and threw away his cigarette. He was an American. + +“Hey, cull,” he called in loud voice, “ain’t ye goin’ to cough up a +drink?” + +“My boys don’t carry liquor on the trail,” replied Stewart. He turned +now to face the guerrillas. + +“Haw, haw! I heerd over in Rodeo thet ye was gittin’ to be shore some +fer temperance,” said this fellow. “I hate to drink water, but I guess +I’ve gotter do it.” + +He went to the spring, sprawled down to drink, and all of a sudden he +thrust his arm down in the water to bring forth a basket. The cowboys +in the hurry of packing had neglected to remove this basket; and it +contained bottles of wine and liquors for Madeline’s guests. They had +been submerged in the spring to keep them cold. The guerrilla fumbled +with the lid, opened it, and then got up, uttering a loud roar of +delight. + +Stewart made an almost imperceptible motion, as if to leap forward; but +he checked the impulse, and after a quick glance at Nels he said to the +guerrilla: + +“Guess my party forgot that. You’re welcome to it.” Like bees the +guerrillas swarmed around the lucky finder of the bottles. There was +a babel of voices. The drink did not last long, and it served only to +liberate the spirit of recklessness. The several white outlaws began to +prowl around the camp; some of the Mexicans did likewise; others waited, +showing by their ill-concealed expectancy the nature of their thoughts. + +It was the demeanor of Stewart and his comrades that puzzled Madeline. +Apparently they felt no anxiety or even particular interest. Don Carlos, +who had been covertly watching them, now made his scrutiny open, even +aggressive. He looked from Stewart to Nels and Monty, and then to the +other cowboys. While some of his men prowled around the others watched +him, and the waiting attitude had taken on something sinister. The +guerrilla leader seemed undecided, but not in any sense puzzled. When he +turned his cunning face upon Nels and Monty he had the manner of a man +in whom decision was lacking. + +In her growing excitement Madeline had not clearly heard Ambrose’s low +whispers and she made an effort to distract some of her attention from +those below to the cowboy crouching beside her. + +The quality, the note of Ambrose’s whisper had changed. It had a slight +sibilant sound. + +“Don’t be mad if sudden-like I clap my hands over your eyes, Miss +Hammond,” he was saying. “Somethin’s brewin’ below. I never seen Gene +so cool. That’s a dangerous sign in him. And look, see how the boys are +workin’ together! Oh, it’s slow and accident-like, but I know it’s sure +not accident. That foxy Greaser knows, too. But maybe his men don’t. If +they are wise they haven’t sense enough to care. The Don, though—he’s +worried. He’s not payin’ so much attention to Gene, either. It’s Nels +and Monty he’s watchin’. And well he need do it! There, Nick and Frank +have settled down on that log with Booly. They don’t seem to be packin’ +guns. But look how heavy their vests hang. A gun in each side! Those +boys can pull a gun and flop over that log quicker than you can think. +Do you notice how Nels and Monty and Gene are square between them +guerrillas and the trail up here? It doesn’t seem on purpose, but it is. +Look at Nels and Monty. How quiet they are confabbin’ together, payin’ +no attention to the guerrillas. I see Monty look at Gene, then I see +Nels look at Gene. Well, it’s up to Gene. And they’re goin’ to back him. +I reckon, Miss Hammond, there’d be dead Greasers round that camp long +ago if Nels and Monty were foot-loose. They’re beholdin’ to Gene. That’s +plain. And, Lord! how it tickles me to watch them! Both packin’ two +forty-fives, butts swingin’ clear. There’s twenty-four shots in them +four guns. And there’s twenty-three guerrillas. If Nels and Monty ever +throw guns at that close range, why, before you’d know what was up +there’d be a pile of Greasers. There! Stewart said something to the Don. +I wonder what. I’ll gamble it was something to get the Don’s outfit all +close together. Sure! Greasers have no sense. But them white guerrillas, +they’re lookin’ some dubious. Whatever’s comin’ off will come soon, you +can bet. I wish I was down there. But maybe it won’t come to a scrap. +Stewart’s set on avoidin’ that. He’s a wonderful chap to get his way. +Lord, though, I’d like to see him go after that overbearin’ Greaser! +See! the Don can’t stand prosperity. All this strange behavior of +cowboys is beyond his pulque-soaked brains. Then he’s a Greaser. If +Gene doesn’t knock him on the head presently he’ll begin to get over his +scare, even of Nels and Monty. But Gene’ll pick out the right time. And +I’m gettin’ nervous. I want somethin’ to start. Never saw Nels in but +one fight, then he just shot a Greaser’s arm off for tryin’ to draw +on him. But I’ve heard all about him. And Monty! Monty’s the real +old-fashioned gun-man. Why, none of them stories, them lies he told to +entertain the Englishman, was a marker to what Monty has done. What I +don’t understand is how Monty keeps so quiet and easy and peaceful-like. +That’s not his way, with such an outfit lookin’ for trouble. O-ha! Now +for the grand bluff. Looks like no fight at all!” + +The guerrilla leader had ceased his restless steps and glances, and +turned to Stewart with something of bold resolution in his aspect. + +“Gracias, senor,” he said. “Adios.” He swept his sombrero in the +direction of the trail leading down the mountain to the ranch; and as he +completed the gesture a smile, crafty and jeering, crossed his swarthy +face. + +Ambrose whispered so low that Madeline scarcely heard him. “If the +Greaser goes that way he’ll find our horses and get wise to the trick. +Oh, he’s wise now! But I’ll gamble he never even starts on that trail.” + +Neither hurriedly nor guardedly Stewart rose out of his leaning posture +and took a couple of long strides toward Don Carlos. + +“Go back the way you came,” he fairly yelled; and his voice had the ring +of a bugle. + +Ambrose nudged Madeline; his whisper was tense and rapid: “Don’t miss +nothin’. Gene’s called him. Whatever’s comin’ off will be here quick as +lightnin’. See! I guess maybe that Greaser don’t savvy good U. S. lingo. +Look at that dirty yaller face turn green. Put one eye on Nels and +Monty! That’s great—just to see ’em. Just as quiet and easy. But +oh, the difference! Bent and stiff—that means every muscle is like a +rawhide riata. They’re watchin’ with eyes that can see the workin’s of +them Greasers’ minds. Now there ain’t a hoss-hair between them Greasers +and hell!” + +Don Carlos gave Stewart one long malignant stare; then he threw back his +head, swept up the sombrero, and his evil smile showed gleaming teeth. + +“Senor—” he began. + +With magnificent bound Stewart was upon him. The guerrilla’s cry was +throttled in his throat. A fierce wrestling ensued, too swift to see +clearly; then heavy, sodden blows, and Don Carlos was beaten to the +ground. Stewart leaped back. Then, crouching with his hands on the butts +of guns at his hips, he yelled, he thundered at the guerrillas. He had +been quicker than a panther, and now his voice was so terrible that +it curdled Madeline’s blood, and the menace of deadly violence in his +crouching position made her shut her eyes. But she had to open them. In +that single instant Nels and Monty had leaped to Stewart’s side. Both +were bent down, with hands on the butts of guns at their hips. Nels’s +piercing yell seemed to divide Monty’s roar of rage. Then they ceased, +and echoes clapped from the crags. The silence of those three men +crouching like tigers about to leap was more menacing than the +nerve-racking yells. + +Then the guerrillas wavered and broke and ran for their horses. Don +Carlos rolled over, rose, and staggered away, to be helped upon his +mount. He looked back, his pale and bloody face that of a thwarted +demon. The whole band got into action and were gone in a moment. + +“I knew it,” declared Ambrose. “Never seen a Greaser who could face +gun-play. That was some warm. And Monty Price never flashed a gun! He’ll +never get over that. I reckon, Miss Harnmond, we’re some lucky to avoid +trouble. Gene had his way, as you seen. We’ll be makin’ tracks for the +ranch in about two shakes.” + +“Why?” whispered Madeline, breathlessly. She became conscious that she +was weak and shaken. + +“Because the guerrillas sure will get their nerve back, and come +sneakin’ on our trail or try to head us off by ambushin’,” replied +Ambrose. “That’s their way. Otherwise three cowboys couldn’t bluff +a whole gang like that. Gene knows the nature of Greasers. They’re +white-livered. But I reckon we’re in more danger now than before, unless +we get a good start down the mountain. There! Gene’s callin’. Come! +Hurry!” + +Helen had slipped down from her vantage-point, and therefore had not +seen the last act in that little camp-fire drama. It seemed, however, +that her desire for excitement was satisfied, for her face was pale and +she trembled when she asked if the guerrillas were gone. + +“I didn’t see the finish, but those horrible yells were enough for me.” + +Ambrose hurried the three women over the rough rocks, down the cliff. +The cowboys below were saddling horses in haste. Evidently all the +horses had been brought out of hiding. Swiftly, with regard only for +life and limb, Madeline, Helen, and Christine were lowered by lassoes +and half carried down to the level. By the time they were safely down +the other members of the party appeared on the cliff above. They were in +excellent spirits, appearing to treat the matter as a huge joke. + +Ambrose put Christine on a horse and rode away through the pines; +Frankie Slade did likewise with Helen. Stewart led Madeline’s horse up +to her, helped her to mount, and spoke one stern word, “Wait!” Then as +fast as one of the women reached the level she was put upon a horse and +taken away by a cowboy escort. Few words were spoken. Haste seemed to +be the great essential. The horses were urged, and, once in the trail, +spurred and led into a swift trot. One cowboy drove up four pack-horses, +and these were hurriedly loaded with the party’s baggage. Castleton +and his companions mounted, and galloped off to catch the others in the +lead. This left Madeline behind with Stewart and Nels and Monty. + +“They’re goin’ to switch off at the holler thet heads near the trail +a few miles down,” Nels was saying, as he tightened his saddle-girth. +“Thet holler heads into a big canyon. Once in thet, it’ll be every man +fer hisself. I reckon there won’t be anythin’ wuss than a rough ride.” + +Nels smiled reassuringly at Madeline, but he did not speak to her. Monty +took her canteen and filled it at the spring and hung it over the pommel +of her saddle. He put a couple of biscuits in the saddle-bag. + +“Don’t fergit to take a drink an’ a bite as you’re ridin’ along,” he +said. “An’ don’t worry, Miss Majesty. Stewart’ll be with you, an’ me an’ +Nels hangin’ on the back-trail.” + +His somber and sullen face did not change in its strange intensity, but +the look in his eyes Madeline felt she would never forget. Left alone +with these three men, now stripped of all pretense, she realized how +fortune had favored her and what peril still hung in the balance. +Stewart swung astride his big black, spurred him, and whistled. At the +whistle Majesty jumped, and with swift canter followed Stewart. Madeline +looked back to see Nels already up and Monty handing him a rifle. Then +the pines hid her view. + +Once in the trail, Stewart’s horse broke into a gallop. Majesty changed +his gait and kept at the black’s heels. Stewart called back a warning. +The low, wide-spreading branches of trees might brush Madeline out of +the saddle. Fast riding through the forest along a crooked, obstructed +trail called forth all her alertness. Likewise the stirring of her +blood, always susceptible to the spirit and motion of a ride, let alone +one of peril, now began to throb and burn away the worry, the dread, the +coldness that had weighted her down. + +Before long Stewart wheeled at right angles off the trail and entered a +hollow between two low bluffs. Madeline saw tracks in the open patches +of ground. Here Stewart’s horse took to a brisk walk. The hollow +deepened, narrowed, became rocky, full of logs and brush. Madeline +exerted all her keenness, and needed it, to keep close to Stewart. She +did not think of him, nor her own safety, but of keeping Majesty close +in the tracks of the black, of eluding the sharp spikes in the dead +brush, of avoiding the treacherous loose stones. + +At last Madeline was brought to a dead halt by Stewart and his horse +blocking the trail. Looking up, she saw they were at the head of a +canyon that yawned beneath and widened its gray-walled, green-patched +slopes down to a black forest of fir. The drab monotony of the foothills +made contrast below the forest, and away in the distance, rosy and +smoky, lay the desert. Retracting her gaze, Madeline saw pack-horses +cross an open space a mile below, and she thought she saw the +stag-hounds. Stewart’s dark eyes searched the slopes high up along the +craggy escarpments. Then he put the black to the descent. + +If there had been a trail left by the leading cowboys, Stewart did +not follow it. He led off to the right, zigzagging an intricate course +through the roughest ground Madeline had ever ridden over. He crashed +through cedars, threaded a tortuous way among boulders, made his horse +slide down slanting banks of soft earth, picked a slow and cautious +progress across weathered slopes of loose rock. Madeline followed, +finding in this ride a tax on strength and judgment. On an ordinary +horse she never could have kept in Stewart’s trail. It was dust and +heat, a parching throat, that caused Madeline to think of time; and she +was amazed to see the sun sloping to the west. Stewart never stopped; +he never looked back; he never spoke. He must have heard the horse close +behind him. Madeline remembered Monty’s advice about drinking and eating +as she rode along. The worst of that rough travel came at the bottom of +the canyon. Dead cedars and brush and logs were easy to pass compared +with the miles, it seemed, of loose boulders. The horses slipped and +stumbled. Stewart proceeded here with exceeding care. At last, when the +canyon opened into a level forest of firs, the sun was setting red in +the west. + +Stewart quickened the gait of his horse. After a mile or so of easy +travel the ground again began to fall decidedly, sloping in numerous +ridges, with draws between. Soon night shadowed the deeper gullies. +Madeline was refreshed by the cooling of the air. + +Stewart traveled slowly now. The barks of coyotes seemed to startle +him. Often he stopped to listen. And during one of those intervals the +silence was broken by sharp rifle-shots. Madeline could not tell whether +they were near or far, to right or left, behind or before. Evidently +Stewart was both alarmed and baffled. He dismounted. He went cautiously +forward to listen. Madeline fancied she heard a cry, low and far away. +It was only that of a coyote, she convinced herself, yet it was so +wailing, so human, that she shuddered. Stewart came back. He slipped the +bridles of both horses, and he led them. Every few paces he stopped to +listen. He changed his direction several times, and the last time he got +among rough, rocky ridges. The iron shoes of the horses cracked on the +rocks. That sound must have penetrated far into the forest. It perturbed +Stewart, for he searched for softer ground. Meanwhile the shadows merged +into darkness. The stars shone. The wind rose. Madeline believed hours +passed. + +Stewart halted again. In the gloom Madeline discerned a log cabin, and +beyond it pear-pointed dark trees piercing the sky-line. She could just +make out Stewart’s tall form as he leaned against his horse. Either he +was listening or debating what to do—perhaps both. Presently he went +inside the cabin. Madeline heard the scratching of a match; then she saw +a faint light. The cabin appeared to be deserted. Probably it was one of +the many habitations belonging to prospectors and foresters who lived in +the mountains. Stewart came out again. He walked around the horses, out +into the gloom, then back to Madeline. For a long moment he stood as +still as a statue and listened. Then she heard him mutter, “If we have +to start quick I can ride bareback.” With that he took the saddle and +blanket off his horse and carried them into the cabin. + +“Get off,” he said, in a low voice, as he stepped out of the door. + +He helped her down and led her inside, where again he struck a match. +Madeline caught a glimpse of a rude fireplace and rough-hewn logs. +Stewart’s blanket and saddle lay on the hard-packed earthen floor. + +“Rest a little,” he said. “I’m going into the woods a piece to listen. +Gone only a minute or so.” + +Madeline had to feel round in the dark to locate the saddle and blanket. +When she lay down it was with a grateful sense of ease and relief. As +her body rested, however, her mind became the old thronging maze for +sensation and thought. All day she had attended to the alert business +of helping her horse. Now, what had already happened, the night, the +silence, the proximity of Stewart and his strange, stern caution, the +possible happenings to her friends—all claimed their due share of her +feeling. She went over them all with lightning swiftness of thought. She +believed, and she was sure Stewart believed, that her friends, owing to +their quicker start down the mountain, had not been headed off in their +travel by any of the things which had delayed Stewart. This conviction +lifted the suddenly returning dread from her breast; and as for herself, +somehow she had no fear. But she could not sleep; she did not try to. + +Stewart’s soft steps sounded outside. His dark form loomed in the door. +As he sat down Madeline heard the thump of a gun that he laid beside +him on the sill; then the thump of another as he put that down, too. +The sounds thrilled her. Stewart’s wide shoulders filled the door; his +finely shaped head and strong, stern profile showed clearly in outline +against the sky; the wind waved his hair. He turned his ear to that wind +and listened. Motionless he sat for what to her seemed hours. + +Then the stirring memory of the day’s adventure, the feeling of +the beauty of the night, and a strange, deep-seated, sweetly vague +consciousness of happiness portending, were all burned out in hot, +pressing pain at the remembrance of Stewart’s disgrace in her eyes. +Something had changed within her so that what had been anger at herself +was sorrow for him. He was such a splendid man. She could not feel the +same; she knew her debt to him, yet she could not thank him, could not +speak to him. She fought an unintelligible bitterness. + +Then she rested with closed eyes, and time seemed neither short nor +long. When Stewart called her she opened her eyes to see the gray of +dawn. She rose and stepped outside. The horses whinnied. In a moment she +was in the saddle, aware of cramped muscles and a weariness of limbs. +Stewart led off at a sharp trot into the fir forest. They came to a +trail into which he turned. The horses traveled steadily; the descent +grew less steep; the firs thinned out; the gray gloom brightened. + +When Madeline rode out of the firs the sun had arisen and the foothills +rolled beneath her; and at their edge, where the gray of valley began, +she saw a dark patch that she knew was the ranch-house. + + + + +XX. The Sheriff of El Cajon + + +About the middle of the forenoon of that day Madeline reached the ranch. +Her guests had all arrived there late the night before, and wanted only +her presence and the assurance of her well-being to consider the last of +the camping trip a rare adventure. Likewise, they voted it the cowboys’ +masterpiece of a trick. Madeline’s delay, they averred, had been only +a clever coup to give a final effect. She did not correct their +impression, nor think it needful to state that she had been escorted +home by only one cowboy. + +Her guests reported an arduous ride down the mountain, with only one +incident to lend excitement. On the descent they had fallen in with +Sheriff Hawe and several of his deputies, who were considerably under +the influence of drink and very greatly enraged by the escape of the +Mexican girl Bonita. Hawe had used insulting language to the ladies +and, according to Ambrose, would have inconvenienced the party on some +pretext or other if he had not been sharply silenced by the cowboys. + +Madeline’s guests were two days in recovering from the hard ride. On the +third day they leisurely began to prepare for departure. This period was +doubly trying for Madeline. She had her own physical need of rest, and, +moreover, had to face a mental conflict that could scarcely be postponed +further. Her sister and friends were kindly and earnestly persistent in +their entreaties that she go back East with them. She desired to go. +It was not going that mattered; it was how and when and under what +circumstances she was to return that roused in her disturbing emotion. +Before she went East she wanted to have fixed in mind her future +relation to the ranch and the West. When the crucial hour arrived she +found that the West had not claimed her yet. These old friends had +warmed cold ties. + +It turned out, however, that there need be no hurry about making the +decision. Madeline would have welcomed any excuse to procrastinate; +but, as it happened, a letter from Alfred made her departure out of the +question for the present. He wrote that his trip to California had been +very profitable, that he had a proposition for Madeline from a large +cattle company, and, particularly, that he wanted to marry Florence soon +after his arrival home and would bring a minister from Douglas for that +purpose. + +Madeline went so far, however, as to promise Helen and her friends that +she would go East soon, at the very latest by Thanksgiving. With that +promise they were reluctantly content to say good-by to the ranch and +to her. At the last moment there seemed a great likelihood of a hitch +in plans for the first stage of that homeward journey. All of Madeline’s +guests held up their hands, Western fashion, when Link Stevens appeared +with the big white car. Link protested innocently, solemnly, that he +would drive slowly and safely; but it was necessary for Madeline to +guarantee Link’s word and to accompany them before they would enter the +car. At the station good-bys were spoken and repeated, and Madeline’s +promise was exacted for the hundredth time. + +Dorothy Coombs’s last words were: “Give my love to Monty Price. Tell him +I’m—I’m glad he kissed me!” + +Helen’s eyes had a sweet, grave, yet mocking light as she said: + +“Majesty, bring Stewart with you when you come. He’ll be the rage.” + +Madeline treated the remark with the same merry lightness with which it +was received by the others; but after the train had pulled out and +she was on her way home she remembered Helen’s words and looks with +something almost amounting to a shock. Any mention of Stewart, any +thought of him, displeased her. + +“What did Helen mean?” mused Madeline. And she pondered. That mocking +light in Helen’s eyes had been simply an ironical glint, a cynical gleam +from that worldly experience so suspicious and tolerant in its wisdom. +The sweet gravity of Helen’s look had been a deeper and more subtle +thing. Madeline wanted to understand it, to divine in it a new relation +between Helen and herself, something fine and sisterly that might lead +to love. The thought, however, revolving around a strange suggestion of +Stewart, was poisoned at its inception, and she dismissed it. + +Upon the drive in to the ranch, as she was passing the lower lake, she +saw Stewart walking listlessly along the shore. When he became aware of +the approach of the car he suddenly awakened from his aimless sauntering +and disappeared quickly in the shade of the shrubbery. This was not by +any means the first time Madeline had seen him avoid a possible meeting +with her. Somehow the act had pained her, though affording her a relief. +She did not want to meet him face to face. + +It was annoying for her to guess that Stillwell had something to say in +Stewart’s defense. The old cattleman was evidently distressed. Several +times he had tried to open a conversation with Madeline relating to +Stewart; she had evaded him until the last time, when his persistence +had brought a cold and final refusal to hear another word about the +foreman. Stillwell had been crushed. + +As days passed Stewart remained at the ranch without his old +faithfulness to his work. Madeline was not moved to a kinder frame of +mind to see him wandering dejectedly around. It hurt her, and because +it hurt her she grew all the harder. Then she could not help hearing +snatches of conversation which strengthened her suspicions that Stewart +was losing his grip on himself, that he would soon take the downward +course again. Verification of her own suspicion made it a belief, and +belief brought about a sharp conflict between her generosity and some +feeling that she could not name. It was not a question of justice +or mercy or sympathy. If a single word could have saved Stewart from +sinking his splendid manhood into the brute she had recoiled from at +Chiricahua, she would not have spoken it. She could not restore him to +his former place in her regard; she really did not want him at the +ranch at all. Once, considering in wonder her knowledge of men, she +interrogated herself to see just why she could not overlook Stewart’s +transgression. She never wanted to speak to him again, or see him, or +think of him. In some way, through her interest in Stewart, she had come +to feel for herself an inexplicable thing close to scorn. + +A telegram from Douglas, heralding the coming of Alfred and a minister, +put an end to Madeline’s brooding, and she shared something of Florence +Kingsley’s excitement. The cowboys were as eager and gossipy as girls. +It was arranged to have the wedding ceremony performed in Madeline’s +great hall-chamber, and the dinner in the cool, flower-scented patio. + +Alfred and his minister arrived at the ranch in the big white car. They +appeared considerably wind-blown. In fact, the minister was breathless, +almost sightless, and certainly hatless. Alfred, used as he was to wind +and speed, remarked that he did not wonder at Nels’s aversion to riding +a fleeting cannon-ball. The imperturbable Link took off his cap and +goggles and, consulting his watch, made his usual apologetic report to +Madeline, deploring the fact that a teamster and a few stray cattle on +the road had held him down to the manana time of only a mile a minute. + +Arrangements for the wedding brought Alfred’s delighted approval. When +he had learned all Florence and Madeline would tell him he expressed +a desire to have the cowboys attend; and then he went on to talk about +California, where he was going take Florence on a short trip. He was +curiously interested to find out all about Madeline’s guests and what +had happened to them. His keen glance at Madeline grew softer as she +talked. + +“I breathe again,” he said, and laughed. “I was afraid. Well, I must +have missed some sport. I can just fancy what Monty and Nels did to that +Englishman. So you went up to the crags. That’s a wild place. I’m not +surprised at guerrillas falling in with you up there. The crags were +a famous rendezvous for Apaches—it’s near the border—almost +inaccessible—good water and grass. I wonder what the U. S. cavalry +would think if they knew these guerrillas crossed the border right under +their noses. Well, it’s practically impossible to patrol some of that +border-line. It’s desert, mountain, and canyon, exceedingly wild and +broken. I’m sorry to say that there seems to be more trouble in sight +with these guerrillas than at any time heretofore. Orozco, the rebel +leader, has failed to withstand Madero’s army. The Federals are +occupying Chihuahua now, and are driving the rebels north. Orozco has +broken up his army into guerrilla bands. They are moving north and west, +intending to carry on guerrilla warfare in Sonora. I can’t say just how +this will affect us here. But we’re too close to the border for comfort. +These guerrillas are night-riding hawks; they can cross the border, raid +us here, and get back the same night. Fighting, I imagine, will not +be restricted to northern Mexico. With the revolution a failure the +guerrillas will be more numerous, bolder, and hungrier. Unfortunately, +we happen to be favorably situated for them down here in this wilderness +corner of the state.” + +On the following day Alfred and Florence were married. Florence’s +sister and several friends from El Cajon were present, besides Madeline, +Stillwell, and his men. It was Alfred’s express wish that Stewart +attend the ceremony. Madeline was amused when she noticed the painfully +suppressed excitement of the cowboys. For them a wedding must have +been an unusual and impressive event. She began to have a better +understanding of the nature of it when they cast off restraint and +pressed forward to kiss the bride. In all her life Madeline had never +seen a bride kissed so much and so heartily, nor one so flushed and +disheveled and happy. This indeed was a joyful occasion. There was +nothing of the “effete East” about Alfred Hammond; he might have been a +Westerner all his days. When Madeline managed to get through the press +of cowboys to offer her congratulations Alfred gave her a bear hug and +a kiss. This appeared to fascinate the cowboys. With shining eyes +and faces aglow, with smiling, boyish boldness, they made a rush at +Madeline. For one instant her heart leaped to her throat. They looked +as if they could most shamelessly kiss and maul her. That little, +ugly-faced, soft-eyed, rude, tender-hearted ruffian, Monty Price, was +in the lead. He resembled a dragon actuated by sentiment. All at once +Madeline’s instinctive antagonism to being touched by strange hands or +lips battled with a real, warm, and fun-loving desire to let the cowboys +work their will with her. But she saw Stewart hanging at the back of the +crowd, and something—some fierce, dark expression of pain—amazed her, +while it froze her desire to be kind. Then she did not know what change +must have come to her face and bearing; but she saw Monty fall back +sheepishly and the other cowboys draw aside to let her lead the way into +the patio. + +The dinner began quietly enough with the cowboys divided between +embarrassment and voracious appetites that they evidently feared to +indulge. Wine, however, loosened their tongues, and when Stillwell got +up to make the speech everybody seemed to expect of him they greeted him +with a roar. + +Stillwell was now one huge, mountainous smile. He was so happy that he +appeared on the verge of tears. He rambled on ecstatically till he came +to raise his glass. + +“An’ now, girls an’ boys, let’s all drink to the bride an’ groom; to +their sincere an’ lastin’ love; to their happiness an’ prosperity; to +their good health an’ long life. Let’s drink to the unitin’ of the East +with the West. No man full of red blood an’ the real breath of life +could resist a Western girl an’ a good hoss an’ God’s free hand—that +open country out there. So we claim Al Hammond, an’ may we be true to +him. An’, friends, I think it fittin’ that we drink to his sister an’ to +our hopes. Heah’s to the lady we hope to make our Majesty! Heah’s to the +man who’ll come ridin’ out of the West, a fine, big-hearted man with a +fast hoss an’ a strong rope, an’ may he win an’ hold her! Come, friends, +drink.” + +A heavy pound of horses’ hoofs and a yell outside arrested Stillwell’s +voice and halted his hand in midair. + +The patio became as silent as an unoccupied room. + +Through the open doors and windows of Madeline’s chamber burst the +sounds of horses stamping to a halt, then harsh speech of men, and a low +cry of a woman in pain. + +Rapid steps crossed the porch, entered Madeline’s room. Nels appeared in +the doorway. Madeline was surprised to see that he had not been at the +dinner-table. She was disturbed at sight of his face. + +“Stewart, you’re wanted outdoors,” called Nels, bluntly. “Monty, you +slope out here with me. You, Nick, an’ Stillwell—I reckon the rest of +you hed better shut the doors an’ stay inside.” + +Nels disappeared. Quick as a cat Monty glided out. Madeline heard his +soft, swift steps pass from her room into her office. He had left +his guns there. Madeline trembled. She saw Stewart get up quietly and +without any change of expression on his dark, sad face leave the patio. +Nick Steele followed him. Stillwell dropped his wine-glass. As it broke, +shivering the silence, his huge smile vanished. His face set into the +old cragginess and the red slowly thickened into black. Stillwell went +out and closed the door behind him. + +Then there was a blank silence. The enjoyment of the moment had been +rudely disrupted. Madeline glanced down the lines of brown faces to see +the pleasure fade into the old familiar hardness. + +“What’s wrong?” asked Alfred, rather stupidly. The change of mood had +been too rapid for him. Suddenly he awakened, thoroughly aroused at +the interruption. “I’m going to see who’s butted in here to spoil our +dinner,” he said, and strode out. + +He returned before any one at the table had spoken or moved, and now the +dull red of anger mottled his forehead. + +“It’s the sheriff of El Cajon!” he exclaimed, contemptuously. “Pat Hawe +with some of his tough deputies come to arrest Gene Stewart. They’ve got +that poor little Mexican girl out there tied on a horse. Confound that +sheriff!” + +Madeline calmly rose from the table, eluding Florence’s entreating +hand, and started for the door. The cowboys jumped up. Alfred barred her +progress. + +“Alfred, I am going out,” she said. + +“No, I guess not,” he replied. “That’s no place for you.” + +“I am going.” She looked straight at him. + +“Madeline! Why, what is it? You look—Dear, there’s pretty sure to be +trouble outside. Maybe there’ll be a fight. You can do nothing. You must +not go.” + +“Perhaps I can prevent trouble,” she replied. + +As she left the patio she was aware that Alfred, with Florence at his +side and the cowboys behind, were starting to follow her. When she got +out of her room upon the porch she heard several men in loud, angry +discussion. Then, at sight of Bonita helplessly and cruelly bound upon +a horse, pale and disheveled and suffering, Madeline experienced the +thrill that sight or mention of this girl always gave her. It yielded to +a hot pang in her breast—that live pain which so shamed her. But almost +instantly, as a second glance showed an agony in Bonita’s face, her +bruised arms where the rope bit deep into the flesh, her little +brown hands stained with blood, Madeline was overcome by pity for the +unfortunate girl and a woman’s righteous passion at such barbarous +treatment of one of her own sex. + +The man holding the bridle of the horse on which Bonita had been bound +was at once recognized by Madeline as the big-bodied, bullet-headed +guerrilla who had found the basket of wine in the spring at camp. +Redder of face, blacker of beard, coarser of aspect, evidently under +the influence of liquor, he was as fierce-looking as a gorilla and as +repulsive. Besides him there were three other men present, all mounted +on weary horses. The one in the foreground, gaunt, sharp-featured, +red-eyed, with a pointed beard, she recognized as the sheriff of El +Cajon. + +Madeline hesitated, then stopped in the middle of the porch. Alfred, +Florence, and several others followed her out; the rest of the cowboys +and guests crowded the windows and doors. Stillwell saw Madeline, +and, throwing up his hands, roared to be heard. This quieted the +gesticulating, quarreling men. + +“Wal now, Pat Hawe, what’s drivin’ you like a locoed steer on the +rampage?” demanded Stillwell. + +“Keep in the traces, Bill,” replied Hawe. “You savvy what I come fer. +I’ve been bidin’ my time. But I’m ready now. I’m hyar to arrest a +criminal.” + +The huge frame of the old cattleman jerked as if he had been stabbed. +His face turned purple. + +“What criminal?” he shouted, hoarsely. + +The sheriff flicked his quirt against his dirty boot, and he twisted his +thin lips into a leer. The situation was agreeable to him. + +“Why, Bill, I knowed you hed a no-good outfit ridin’ this range; but I +wasn’t wise thet you hed more ’n one criminal.” + +“Cut that talk! Which cowboy are you wantin’ to arrest?” + +Hawe’s manner altered. + +“Gene Stewart,” he replied, curtly. + +“On what charge?” + +“Fer killin’ a Greaser one night last fall.” + +“So you’re still harpin’ on that? Pat, you’re on the wrong trail. You +can’t lay that killin’ onto Stewart. The thing’s ancient by now. But +if you insist on bringin’ him to court, let the arrest go to-day—we’re +hevin’ some fiesta hyar—an’ I’ll fetch Gene in to El Cajon.” + +“Nope. I reckon I’ll take him when I got the chance, before he slopes.” + +“I’m givin’ you my word,” thundered Stillwell. + +“I reckon I don’t hev to take your word, Bill, or anybody else’s.” + +Stillwell’s great bulk quivered with his rage, yet he made a successful +effort to control it. + +“See hyar, Pat Hawe, I know what’s reasonable. Law is law. But in this +country there always has been an’ is now a safe an’ sane way to proceed +with the law. Mebbe you’ve forgot that. The law as invested in one +man in a wild country is liable, owin’ to that man’s weaknesses an’ +onlimited authority, to be disputed even by a decent ole cattleman like +myself. I’m a-goin’ to give you a hunch. Pat, you’re not overliked in +these parts. You’ve rid too much with a high hand. Some of your deals +hev been shady, an’ don’t you overlook what I’m sayin’. But you’re the +sheriff, an’ I’m respectin’ your office. I’m respectin’ it this much. If +the milk of human decency is so soured in your breast that you can’t hev +a kind feelin’, then try to avoid the onpleasantness that’ll result from +any contrary move on your part to-day. Do you get that hunch?” + +“Stillwell, you’re threatenin’ an officer,” replied Hawe, angrily. + +“Will you hit the trail quick out of hyar?” queried Stillwell, in +strained voice. “I guarantee Stewart’s appearance in El Cajon any day +you say.” + +“No. I come to arrest him, an’ I’m goin’ to.” + +“So that’s your game!” shouted Stillwell. “We-all are glad to get you +straight, Pat. Now listen, you cheap, red-eyed coyote of a sheriff! You +don’t care how many enemies you make. You know you’ll never get office +again in this county. What do you care now? It’s amazin’ strange how +earnest you are to hunt down the man who killed that particular Greaser. +I reckon there’s been some dozen or more killin’s of Greasers in the +last year. Why don’t you take to trailin’ some of them killin’s? I’ll +tell you why. You’re afraid to go near the border. An’ your hate of Gene +Stewart makes you want to hound him an’ put him where he’s never +been yet—in jail. You want to spite his friends. Wal, listen, you +lean-jawed, skunk-bitten coyote! Go ahead an’ try to arrest him!” + +Stillwell took one mighty stride off the porch. His last words had been +cold. His rage appeared to have been transferred to Hawe. The sheriff +had begun to stutter and shake a lanky red hand at the cattleman when +Stewart stepped out. + +“Here, you fellows, give me a chance to say a word.” + +As Stewart appeared the Mexican girl suddenly seemed vitalized out +of her stupor. She strained at her bonds, as if to lift her hands +beseechingly. A flush animated her haggard face, and her big dark eyes +lighted. + +“Senor Gene!” she moaned. “Help me! I so seek. They beat me, rope me, +‘mos’ keel me. Oh, help me, Senor Gene!” + +“Shut up, er I’ll gag you,” said the man who held Bonita’s horse. + +“Muzzle her, Sneed, if she blabs again,” called Hawe. Madeline felt +something tense and strained working in the short silence. Was it only a +phase of her thrilling excitement? Her swift glance showed the faces of +Nels and Monty and Nick to be brooding, cold, watchful. She wondered why +Stewart did not look toward Bonita. He, too, was now dark-faced, cool, +quiet, with something ominous about him. + +“Hawe, I’ll submit to arrest without any fuss,” he said, slowly, “if +you’ll take the ropes off that girl.” + +“Nope,” replied the sheriff. “She got away from me onct. She’s hawg-tied +now, an’ she’ll stay hawg-tied.” + +Madeline thought she saw Stewart give a slight start. But an +unaccountable dimness came over her eyes, at brief intervals obscuring +her keen sight. Vaguely she was conscious of a clogged and beating +tumult in her breast. + +“All right, let’s hurry out of here,” said Stewart. “You’ve made +annoyance enough. Ride down to the corral with me. I’ll get my horse and +go with you.” + +“Hold on!” yelled Hawe, as Stewart turned away. “Not so fast. Who’s +doin’ this? You don’t come no El Capitan stunts on me. You’ll ride one +of my pack-horses, an’ you’ll go in irons.” + +“You want to handcuff me?” queried Stewart, with sudden swift start of +passion. + +“Want to? Haw, haw! Nope, Stewart, thet’s jest my way with hoss-thieves, +raiders, Greasers, murderers, an’ sich. See hyar, you Sneed, git off an’ +put the irons on this man.” + +The guerrilla called Sneed slid off his horse and began to fumble in his +saddle-bags. + +“You see, Bill,” went on Hawe, “I swore in a new depooty fer this +particular job. Sneed is some handy. He rounded up thet little Mexican +cat fer me.” + +Stillwell did not hear the sheriff; he was gazing at Stewart in a kind +of imploring amaze. + +“Gene, you ain’t goin’ to stand fer them handcuffs?” he pleaded. + +“Yes,” replied the cowboy. “Bill, old friend, I’m an outsider here. +There’s no call for Miss Hammond and—and her brother and Florence to be +worried further about me. Their happy day has already been spoiled on my +account. I want to get out quick.” + +“Wal, you might be too damn considerate of Miss Hammond’s sensitive +feelin’s.” There was now no trace of the courteous, kindly old rancher. +He looked harder than stone. “How about my feelin’s? I want to know +if you’re goin’ to let this sneakin’ coyote, this last gasp of the old +rum-guzzlin’ frontier sheriffs, put you in irons an’ hawg-tie you an’ +drive you off to jail?” + +“Yes,” replied Stewart, steadily. + +“Wal, by Gawd! You, Gene Stewart! What’s come over you? Why, man, go in +the house, an’ I’ll ’tend to this feller. Then to-morrow you can ride in +an’ give yourself up like a gentleman.” + +“No. I’ll go. Thanks, Bill, for the way you and the boys would stick to +me. Hurry, Hawe, before my mind changes.” + +His voice broke at the last, betraying the wonderful control he had kept +over his passions. As he ceased speaking he seemed suddenly to become +spiritless. He dropped his head. + +Madeline saw in him then a semblance to the hopeless, shamed Stewart of +earlier days. The vague riot in her breast leaped into conscious fury—a +woman’s passionate repudiation of Stewart’s broken spirit. It was not +that she would have him be a lawbreaker; it was that she could not bear +to see him deny his manhood. Once she had entreated him to become her +kind of a cowboy—a man in whom reason tempered passion. She had let him +see how painful and shocking any violence was to her. And the idea had +obsessed him, softened him, had grown like a stultifying lichen upon his +will, had shorn him of a wild, bold spirit she now strangely longed +to see him feel. When the man Sneed came forward, jingling the iron +fetters, Madeline’s blood turned to fire. She would have forgiven +Stewart then for lapsing into the kind of cowboy it had been her blind +and sickly sentiment to abhor. This was a man’s West—a man’s game. +What right had a woman reared in a softer mold to use her beauty and +her influence to change a man who was bold and free and strong? At that +moment, with her blood hot and racing, she would have gloried in the +violence which she had so deplored: she would have welcomed the action +that had characterized Stewart’s treatment of Don Carlos; she had in her +the sudden dawning temper of a woman who had been assimilating the life +and nature around her and who would not have turned her eyes away from a +harsh and bloody deed. + +But Stewart held forth his hands to be manacled. Then Madeline heard her +own voice burst out in a ringing, imperious “Wait!” + +In the time it took her to make the few steps to the edge of the porch, +facing the men, she not only felt her anger and justice and pride +summoning forces to her command, but there was something else calling—a +deep, passionate, mysterious thing not born of the moment. + +Sneed dropped the manacles. Stewart’s face took on a chalky whiteness. +Hawe, in a slow, stupid embarrassment beyond his control, removed his +sombrero in a respect that seemed wrenched from him. + +“Mr. Hawe, I can prove to you that Stewart was not concerned in any way +whatever with the crime for which you want to arrest him.” + +The sheriff’s stare underwent a blinking change. He coughed, stammered, +and tried to speak. Manifestly, he had been thrown completely off his +balance. Astonishment slowly merged into discomfiture. + +“It was absolutely impossible for Stewart to have been connected with +that assault,” went on Madeline, swiftly, “for he was with me in the +waiting-room of the station at the moment the assault was made outside. +I assure you I have a distinct and vivid recollection. The door was +open. I heard the voices of quarreling men. They grew louder. The +language was Spanish. Evidently these men had left the dance-hall +opposite and were approaching the station. I heard a woman’s voice +mingling with the others. It, too, was Spanish, and I could not +understand. But the tone was beseeching. Then I heard footsteps on +the gravel. I knew Stewart heard them. I could see from his face that +something dreadful was about to happen. Just outside the door then there +were hoarse, furious voices, a scuffle, a muffled shot, a woman’s cry, +the thud of a falling body, and rapid footsteps of a man running away. +Next, the girl Bonita staggered into the door. She was white, trembling, +terror-stricken. She recognized Stewart, appealed to him. Stewart +supported her and endeavored to calm her. He was excited. He asked her +if Danny Mains had been shot, or if he had done the shooting. The girl +said no. She told Stewart that she had danced a little, flirted a little +with vaqueros, and they had quarreled over her. Then Stewart took her +outside and put her upon his horse. I saw the girl ride that horse down +the street to disappear in the darkness.” + +While Madeline spoke another change appeared to be working in the man +Hawe. He was not long disconcerted, but his discomfiture wore to a +sullen fury, and his sharp features fixed in an expression of craft. + +“Thet’s mighty interestin’, Miss Hammond, ‘most as interestin’ as a +story-book,” he said. “Now, since you’re so obligin’ a witness, I’d sure +like to put a question or two. What time did you arrive at El Cajon thet +night?” + +“It was after eleven o’clock,” replied Madeline. + +“Nobody there to meet you?” + +“No.” + +“The station agent an’ operator both gone?” + +“Yes.” + +“Wal, how soon did this feller Stewart show up?” Hawe continued, with a +wry smile. + +“Very soon after my arrival. I think—perhaps fifteen minutes, possibly +a little more.” + +“Some dark an’ lonesome around thet station, wasn’t it?” + +“Indeed yes.” + +“An’ what time was the Greaser shot?” queried Hawe, with his little eyes +gleaming like coals. + +“Probably close to half past one. It was two o’clock when I looked at my +watch at Florence Kingsley’s house. Directly after Stewart sent Bonita +away he took me to Miss Kingsley’s. So, allowing for the walk and a few +minutes’ conversation with her, I can pretty definitely say the shooting +took place at about half past one.” + +Stillwell heaved his big frame a step closer to the sheriff. “What ‘re +you drivin’ at?” he roared, his face black again. + +“Evidence,” snapped Hawe. + +Madeline marveled at this interruption; and as Stewart irresistibly drew +her glance she saw him gray-faced as ashes, shaking, utterly unnerved. + +“I thank you, Miss Hammond,” he said, huskily. “But you needn’t answer +any more of Hawe’s questions. He’s—he’s—It’s not necessary. I’ll go +with him now, under arrest. Bonita will corroborate your testimony in +court, and that will save me from this—this man’s spite.” + +Madeline, looking at Stewart, seeing a humility she at first took for +cowardice, suddenly divined that it was not fear for himself which made +him dread further disclosures of that night, but fear for her—fear of +shame she might suffer through him. + +Pat Hawe cocked his head to one side, like a vulture about to strike +with his beak, and cunningly eyed Madeline. + +“Considered as testimony, what you’ve said is sure important an’ +conclusive. But I’m calculatin’ thet the court will want to hev +explained why you stayed from eleven-thirty till one-thirty in thet +waitin’-room alone with Stewart.” + +His deliberate speech met with what Madeline imagined a remarkable +reception from Stewart, who gave a tigerish start; from Stillwell, whose +big hands tore at the neck of his shirt, as if he was choking; from +Alfred, who now strode hotly forward, to be stopped by the cold and +silent Nels; from Monty Price, who uttered a violent “Aw!” which was +both a hiss and a roar. + +In the rush of her thought Madeline could not interpret the meaning +of these things which seemed so strange at that moment. But they were +portentous. Even as she was forming a reply to Hawe’s speech she felt a +chill creep over her. + +“Stewart detained me in the waiting-room,” she said, clear-voiced as a +bell. “But we were not alone—all the time.” + +For a moment the only sound following her words was a gasp from Stewart. +Hawe’s face became transformed with a hideous amaze and joy. + +“Detained?” he whispered, craning his lean and corded neck. “How’s +thet?” + +“Stewart was drunk. He—” + +With sudden passionate gesture of despair Stewart appealed to her: + +“Oh, Miss Hammond, don’t! don’t! DON’T!...” + +Then he seemed to sink down, head lowered upon his breast, in utter +shame. Stillwell’s great hand swept to the bowed shoulder, and he turned +to Madeline. + +“Miss Majesty, I reckon you’d be wise to tell all,” said the old +cattleman, gravely. “There ain’t one of us who could misunderstand any +motive or act of yours. Mebbe a stroke of lightnin’ might clear this +murky air. Whatever Gene Stewart did that onlucky night—you tell it.” + +Madeline’s dignity and self-possession had been disturbed by Stewart’s +importunity. She broke into swift, disconnected speech: + +“He came into the station—a few minutes after I got there. I asked-to +be shown to a hotel. He said there wasn’t any that would accommodate +married women. He grasped my hand—looked for a wedding-ring. Then I saw +he was—he was intoxicated. He told me he would go for a hotel +porter. But he came back with a padre—Padre Marcos. The poor priest +was—terribly frightened. So was I. Stewart had turned into a devil. He +fired his gun at the padre’s feet. He pushed me into a bench. Again he +shot—right before my face. I—I nearly fainted. But I heard him cursing +the padre—heard the padre praying or chanting—I didn’t know what. +Stewart tried to make me say things in Spanish. All at once he asked my +name. I told him. He jerked at my veil. I took it off. Then he threw +his gun down—pushed the padre out of the door. That was just before the +vaqueros approached with Bonita. Padre Marcos must have seen them—must +have heard them. After that Stewart grew quickly sober. He was +mortified—distressed—stricken with shame. He told me he had been +drinking at a wedding—I remember, it was Ed Linton’s wedding. Then he +explained—the boys were always gambling—he wagered he would marry the +first girl who arrived at El Cajon. I happened to be the first one. He +tried to force me to marry him. The rest—relating to the assault on the +vaquero—I have already told you.” + +Madeline ended, out of breath and panting, with her hands pressed upon +her heaving bosom. Revelation of that secret liberated emotion; those +hurried outspoken words had made her throb and tremble and burn. +Strangely then she thought of Alfred and his wrath. But he stood +motionless, as if dazed. Stillwell was trying to holster up the crushed +Stewart. + +Hawe rolled his red eyes and threw back his head. + +“Ho, ho, ho! Ho, ho, ho! Say, Sneed, you didn’t miss any of it, did ye? +Haw, haw! Best I ever heerd in all my born days. Ho, ho!” + +Then he ceased laughing, and with glinting gaze upon Madeline, insolent +and vicious and savage, he began to drawl: + +“Wal now, my lady, I reckon your story, if it tallies with Bonita’s an’ +Padre Marcos’s, will clear Gene Stewart in the eyes of the court.” + Here he grew slower, more biting, sharper and harder of face. “But +you needn’t expect Pat Hawe or the court to swaller thet part of your +story—about bein’ detained unwillin’!” + +Madeline had not time to grasp the sense of his last words. Stewart +had convulsively sprung upward, white as chalk. As he leaped at Hawe +Stillwell interposed his huge bulk and wrapped his arms around Stewart. +There was a brief, whirling, wrestling struggle. Stewart appeared to be +besting the old cattleman. + +“Help, boys, help!” yelled Stillwell. “I can’t hold him. Hurry, or +there’s goin’ to be blood spilled!” + +Nick Steele and several cowboys leaped to Stillwell’s assistance. +Stewart, getting free, tossed one aside and then another. They closed +in on him. For an instant a furious straining wrestle of powerful bodies +made rasp and shock and blow. Once Stewart heaved them from him. But +they plunged back upon him—conquered him. + +“Gene! Why, Gene!” panted the old cattleman. “Sure you’re locoed—to +act this way. Cool down! Cool down! Why, boy, it’s all right. Jest +stand still—give us a chance to talk to you. It’s only ole Bill, you +know—your ole pal who’s tried to be a daddy to you. He’s only wantin’ +you to hev sense—to be cool—to wait.” + +“Let me go! Let me go!” cried Stewart; and the poignancy of that cry +pierced Madeline’s heart. “Let me go, Bill, if you’re my friend. I saved +your life once—over in the desert. You swore you’d never forget. Boys, +make him let me go! Oh, I don’t care what Hawe’s said or done to me! It +was that about her! Are you all a lot of Greasers? How can you stand it? +Damn you for a lot of cowards! There’s a limit, I tell you.” Then his +voice broke, fell to a whisper. “Bill, dear old Bill, let me go. I’ll +kill him! You know I’ll kill him!” + +“Gene, I know you’d kill him if you hed an even break,” replied +Stillwell, soothingly. “But, Gene, why, you ain’t even packin’ a gun! +An’ there’s Pat lookin’ nasty, with his hand nervous-like. He seen you +hed no gun. He’d jump at the chance to plug you now, an’ then holler +about opposition to the law. Cool down, son; it’ll all come right.” + +Suddenly Madeline was transfixed by a terrible sound. + +Her startled glance shifted from the anxious group round Stewart to see +that Monty Price had leaped off the porch. He crouched down with his +bands below his hips, where the big guns swung. From his distorted lips +issued that which was combined roar and bellow and Indian war-whoop, +and, more than all, a horrible warning cry. He resembled a hunchback +about to make the leap of a demon. He was quivering, vibrating. His +eyes, black and hot, were fastened with most piercing intentness upon +Hawe and Sneed. + +“Git back, Bill, git back!” he roared. “Git ’em back!” With one lunge +Stillwell shoved Stewart and Nick and the other cowboys up on the porch. +Then he crowded Madeline and Alfred and Florence to the wall, tried to +force them farther. His motions were rapid and stern. But failing to get +them through door and windows, he planted his wide person between +the women and danger. Madeline grasped his arm, held on, and peered +fearfully from behind his broad shoulder. + +“You, Hawe! You, Sneed!” called Monty, in that same wild voice. “Don’t +you move a finger or an eyelash!” + +Madeline’s faculties nerved to keen, thrilling divination. She grasped +the relation between Monty’s terrible cry and the strange hunched +posture he had assumed. Stillwell’s haste and silence, too, were +pregnant of catastrophe. + +“Nels, git in this!” yelled Monty; and all the time he never shifted his +intent gaze as much as a hair’s-breadth from Hawe and his deputy. “Nels, +chase away them two fellers hangin’ back there. Chase ’em, quick!” + +These men, the two deputies who had remained in the background with the +pack-horses, did not wait for Nels. They spurred their mounts, wheeled, +and galloped away. + +“Now, Nels, cut the gurl loose,” ordered Monty. + +Nels ran forward, jerked the halter out of Sneed’s hand, and pulled +Bonita’s horse in close to the porch. As he slit the rope which bound +her she fell into his arms. + +“Hawe, git down!” went on Monty. “Face front an’ stiff!” + +The sheriff swung his leg, and, never moving his hands, with his face +now a deathly, sickening white, he slid to the ground. + +“Line up there beside your guerrilla pard. There! You two make a damn +fine pictoor, a damn fine team of pizened coyote an’ a cross between a +wild mule an’ a Greaser. Now listen!” + +Monty made a long pause, in which his breathing was plainly audible. + +Madeline’s eyes were riveted upon Monty. Her mind, swift as lightning, +had gathered the subtleties in action and word succeeding his domination +of the men. Violence, terrible violence, the thing she had felt, the +thing she had feared, the thing she had sought to eliminate from among +her cowboys, was, after many months, about to be enacted before +her eyes. It had come at last. She had softened Stillwell, she had +influenced Nels, she had changed Stewart; but this little black-faced, +terrible Monty Price now rose, as it were, out of his past wild years, +and no power on earth or in heaven could stay his hand. It was the hard +life of wild men in a wild country that was about to strike this blow at +her. She did not shudder; she did not wish to blot out from sight this +little man, terrible in his mood of wild justice. She suffered a flash +of horror that Monty, blind and dead to her authority, cold as steel +toward her presence, understood the deeps of a woman’s soul. For in +this moment of strife, of insult to her, of torture to the man she +had uplifted and then broken, the passion of her reached deep toward +primitive hate. With eyes slowly hazing red, she watched Monty Price; +she listened with thrumming ears; she waited, slowly sagging against +Stillwell. + +“Hawe, if you an’ your dirty pard hev loved the sound of human voice, +then listen an’ listen hard,” said Monty. “Fer I’ve been goin’ contrary +to my ole style jest to hev a talk with you. You all but got away on +your nerve, didn’t you? ‘Cause why? You roll in here like a mad steer +an’ flash yer badge an’ talk mean, then almost bluff away with it. +You heerd all about Miss Hammond’s cowboy outfit stoppin’ drinkin’ an’ +cussin’ an’ packin’ guns. They’ve took on religion an’ decent livin’, +an’ sure they’ll be easy to hobble an’ drive to jail. Hawe, listen. +There was a good an’ noble an be-ootiful woman come out of the East +somewheres, an’ she brought a lot of sunshine an’ happiness an’ new +idees into the tough lives of cowboys. I reckon it’s beyond you to know +what she come to mean to them. Wal, I’ll tell you. They-all went clean +out of their heads. They-all got soft an’ easy an’ sweet-tempered. They +got so they couldn’t kill a coyote, a crippled calf in a mud-hole. They +took to books, an’ writin’ home to mother an’ sister, an’ to savin’ +money, an’ to gittin’ married. Onct they was only a lot of poor cowboys, +an’ then sudden-like they was human bein’s, livin’ in a big world +thet hed somethin’ sweet even fer them. Even fer me—an ole, worn-out, +hobble-legged, burned-up cowman like me! Do you git thet? An’ you, +Mister Hawe, you come along, not satisfied with ropin’ an’ beatin’, an’ +Gaw knows what else, of thet friendless little Bonita; you come +along an’ face the lady we fellers honor an’ love an’ reverence, an’ +you—you—Hell’s fire!” + +With whistling breath, foaming at the mouth, Monty Price crouched lower, +hands at his hips, and he edged inch by inch farther out from the porch, +closer to Hawe and Sneed. Madeline saw them only in the blurred fringe +of her sight. They resembled specters. She heard the shrill whistle of a +horse and recognized Majesty calling her from the corral. + +“Thet’s all!” roared Monty, in a voice now strangling. Lower and lower +he bent, a terrible figure of ferocity. “Now, both you armed ocifers of +the law, come on! Flash your guns! Throw ’em, an’ be quick! Monty Price +is done! There’ll be daylight through you both before you fan a hammer! +But I’m givin’ you a chanst to sting me. You holler law, an’ my way is +the ole law.” + +His breath came quicker, his voice grew hoarser, and he crouched lower. +All his body except his rigid arms quivered with a wonderful muscular +convulsion. + +“Dogs! Skunks! Buzzards! Flash them guns, er I’ll flash mine! Aha!” + +To Madeline it seemed the three stiff, crouching men leaped into instant +and united action. She saw streaks of fire—streaks of smoke. Then a +crashing volley deafened her. It ceased as quickly. Smoke veiled the +scene. Slowly it drifted away to disclose three fallen men, one of whom, +Monty, leaned on his left hand, a smoking gun in his right. He watched +for a movement from the other two. It did not come. Then, with a +terrible smile, he slid back and stretched out. + + + + +XXI. Unbridled + + +In waking and sleeping hours Madeline Hammond could not release herself +from the thralling memory of that tragedy. She was haunted by Monty +Price’s terrible smile. Only in action of some kind could she escape; +and to that end she worked, she walked and rode. She even overcame +a strong feeling, which she feared was unreasonable disgust, for the +Mexican girl Bonita, who lay ill at the ranch, bruised and feverish, in +need of skilful nursing. + +Madeline felt there was something inscrutable changing her soul. That +strife—the struggle to decide her destiny for East or West—held still +further aloof. She was never spiritually alone. There was a step on her +trail. Indoors she was oppressed. She required the open—the light and +wind, the sight of endless slope, the sounds of corral and pond and +field, physical things, natural things. + +One afternoon she rode down to the alfalfa-fields, round them, and back +up to the spillway of the lower lake, where a group of mesquite-trees, +owing to the water that seeped through the sand to their roots, had +taken on bloom and beauty of renewed life. Under these trees there was +shade enough to make a pleasant place to linger. Madeline dismounted, +desiring to rest a little. She liked this quiet, lonely spot. It was +really the only secluded nook near the house. If she rode down into the +valley or out to the mesa or up on the foothills she could not go alone. +Probably now Stillwell or Nels knew her whereabouts. But as she was +comparatively hidden here, she imagined a solitude that was not actually +hers. + +Her horse, Majesty, tossed his head and flung his mane and switched his +tail at the flies. He would rather have been cutting the wind down the +valley slope. Madeline sat with her back against a tree, and took off +her sombrero. The soft breeze, fanning her hot face, blowing strands +of her hair, was refreshingly cool. She heard the slow tramp of cattle +going in to drink. That sound ceased, and the grove of mesquites +appeared to be lifeless, except for her and her horse. It was, however, +only after moments of attention that she found the place was far from +being dead. Keen eyes and ears brought reward. Desert quail, as gray as +the bare earth, were dusting themselves in a shady spot. A bee, swift as +light, hummed by. She saw a horned toad, the color of stone, squatting +low, hiding fearfully in the sand within reach of her whip. She extended +the point of the whip, and the toad quivered and swelled and hissed. It +was instinct with fight. The wind faintly stirred the thin foliage of +the mesquites, making a mournful sigh. From far up in the foothills, +barely distinguishable, came the scream of an eagle. The bray of a burro +brought a brief, discordant break. Then a brown bird darted down from +an unseen perch and made a swift, irregular flight after a fluttering +winged insect. Madeline heard the sharp snapping of a merciless beak. +Indeed, there was more than life in the shade of the mesquites. + +Suddenly Majesty picked up his long ears and snorted. Then Madeline +heard a slow pad of hoofs. A horse was approaching from the direction +of the lake. Madeline had learned to be wary, and, mounting Majesty, she +turned him toward the open. A moment later she felt glad of her caution, +for, looking back between the trees, she saw Stewart leading a horse +into the grove. She would as lief have met a guerrilla as this cowboy. + +Majesty had broken into a trot when a shrill whistle rent the air. The +horse leaped and, wheeling so swiftly that he nearly unseated Madeline, +he charged back straight for the mesquites. Madeline spoke to him, cried +angrily at him, pulled with all her strength upon the bridle, but was +helplessly unable to stop him. He whistled a piercing blast. Madeline +realized then that Stewart, his old master, had called him and that +nothing could turn him. She gave up trying, and attended to the urgent +need of intercepting mesquite boughs that Majesty thrashed into motion. +The horse thumped into an aisle between the trees and, stopping before +Stewart, whinnied eagerly. + +Madeline, not knowing what to expect, had not time for any feeling but +amaze. A quick glance showed her Stewart in rough garb, dressed for +the trail, and leading a wiry horse, saddled and packed. When Stewart, +without looking at her, put his arm around Majesty’s neck and laid his +face against the flowing mane Madeline’s heart suddenly began to beat +with unwonted quickness. Stewart seemed oblivious to her presence. +His eyes were closed. His dark face softened, lost its hardness and +fierceness and sadness, and for an instant became beautiful. + +Madeline instantly divined what his action meant. He was leaving the +ranch; this was his good-by to his horse. How strange, sad, fine was +this love between man and beast! A dimness confused Madeline’s eyes; +she hurriedly brushed it away, and it came back wet and blurring. She +averted her face, ashamed of the tears Stewart might see. She was sorry +for him. He was going away, and this time, judging from the nature of +his farewell to his horse, it was to be forever. Like a stab from a +cold blade a pain shot through Madeline’s heart. The wonder of it, the +incomprehensibility of it, the utter newness and strangeness of this +sharp pain that now left behind a dull pang, made her forget Stewart, +her surroundings, everything except to search her heart. Maybe here was +the secret that had eluded her. She trembled on the brink of something +unknown. In some strange way the emotion brought back her girlhood. +Her mind revolved swift queries and replies; she was living, feeling, +learning; happiness mocked at her from behind a barred door, and the +bar of that door seemed to be an inexplicable pain. Then like lightning +strokes shot the questions: Why should pain hide her happiness? What +was her happiness? What relation had it to this man? Why should she feel +strangely about his departure? And the voices within her were silenced, +stunned, unanswered. + +“I want to talk to you,” said Stewart. + +Madeline started, turned to him, and now she saw the earlier Stewart, +the man who reminded her of their first meeting at El Cajon, of that +memorable meeting at Chiricahua. + +“I want to ask you something,” he went on. “I’ve been wanting to know +something. That’s why I’ve hung on here. You never spoke to me, never +noticed me, never gave me a chance to ask you. But now I’m going +over—over the border. And I want to know. Why did you refuse to listen +to me?” + +At his last words that hot shame, tenfold more stifling than when it had +before humiliated Madeline, rushed over her, sending the scarlet in a +wave to her temples. It seemed that his words made her realize she was +actually face to face with him, that somehow a shame she would rather +have died than revealed was being liberated. Biting her lips to hold +back speech, she jerked on Majesty’s bridle, struck him with her whip, +spurred him. Stewart’s iron arm held the horse. Then Madeline, in a +flash of passion, struck at Stewart’s face, missed it, struck again, and +hit. With one pull, almost drawing her from the saddle, he tore the whip +from her hands. It was not that action on his part, or the sudden strong +masterfulness of his look, so much as the livid mark on his face where +the whip had lashed that quieted, if it did not check, her fury. + +“That’s nothing,” he said, with something of his old audacity. “That’s +nothing to how you’ve hurt me.” + +Madeline battled with herself for control. This man would not be denied. +Never before had the hardness of his face, the flinty hardness of these +desert-bred men, so struck her with its revelation of the unbridled +spirit. He looked stern, haggard, bitter. The dark shade was changing to +gray—the gray to ash-color of passion. About him now there was only the +ghost of that finer, gentler man she had helped to bring into being. The +piercing dark eyes he bent upon her burned her, went through her as +if he were looking into her soul. Then Madeline’s quick sight caught a +fleeting doubt, a wistfulness, a surprised and saddened certainty in his +eyes, saw it shade and pass away. Her woman’s intuition, as keen as her +sight, told her Stewart in that moment had sustained a shock of bitter, +final truth. + +For the third time he repeated his question to her. Madeline did not +answer; she could not speak. + +“You don’t know I love you, do you?” he continued, passionately. “That +ever since you stood before me in that hole at Chiricahua I’ve loved +you? You can’t see I’ve been another man, loving you, working for you, +living for you? You won’t believe I’ve turned my back on the old wild +life, that I’ve been decent and honorable and happy and useful—your +kind of a cowboy? You couldn’t tell, though I loved you, that I never +wanted you to know it, that I never dared to think of you except as my +angel, my holy Virgin? What do you know of a man’s heart and soul? How +could you tell of the love, the salvation of a man who’s lived his +life in the silence and loneliness? Who could teach you the actual +truth—that a wild cowboy, faithless to mother and sister, except in +memory, riding a hard, drunken trail straight to hell; had looked into +the face, the eyes of a beautiful woman infinitely beyond him, above +him, and had so loved her that he was saved—that he became faithful +again—that he saw her face in every flower and her eyes in the blue +heaven? Who could tell you, when at night I stood alone under these +Western stars, how deep in my soul I was glad just to be alive, to be +able to do something for you, to be near you, to stand between you and +worry, trouble, danger, to feel somehow that I was a part, just a little +part of the West you had come to love?” + +Madeline was mute. She heard her heart thundering in her ears. + +Stewart leaped at her. His powerful hand closed on her arm. She +trembled. His action presaged the old instinctive violence. + +“No; but you think I kept Bonita up in the mountains, that I went +secretly to meet her, that all the while I served you I was—Oh, I know +what you think! I know now. I never knew till I made you look at me. +Now, say it! Speak!” + +White-hot, blinded, utterly in the fiery grasp of passion, powerless to +stem the rush of a word both shameful and revealing and fatal, Madeline +cried: + +“YES!” + +He had wrenched that word from her, but he was not subtle enough, not +versed in the mystery of woman’s motive enough, to divine the deep +significance of her reply. + +For him the word had only literal meaning confirming the dishonor in +which she held him. Dropping her arm, he shrank back, a strange action +for the savage and crude man she judged him to be. + +“But that day at Chiricahua you spoke of faith,” he burst out. “You said +the greatest thing in the world was faith in human nature. You said the +finest men had been those who had fallen low and had risen. You said you +had faith in me! You made me have faith in myself!” + +His reproach, without bitterness or scorn, was a lash to her old +egoistic belief in her fairness. She had preached a beautiful principle +that she had failed to live up to. She understood his rebuke, she +wondered and wavered, but the affront to her pride had been too great, +the tumult within her breast had been too startlingly fierce; she could +not speak, the moment passed, and with it his brief, rugged splendor of +simplicity. + +“You think I am vile,” he said. “You think that about Bonita! And all +the time I’ve been... I could make you ashamed—I could tell you—” + +His passionate utterance ceased with a snap of his teeth. His lips set +in a thin, bitter line. The agitation of his face preceded a convulsive +wrestling of his shoulders. All this swift action denoted an inner +combat, and it nearly overwhelmed him. + +“No, no!” he panted. Was it his answer to some mighty temptation? Then, +like a bent sapling released, he sprang erect. “But I’ll be the man—the +dog—you think me!” + +He laid hold of her arm with rude, powerful clutch. One pull drew her +sliding half out of the saddle into his arms. She fell with her breast +against his, not wholly free of stirrups or horse, and there she hung, +utterly powerless. Maddened, writhing, she tore to release herself. All +she could accomplish was to twist herself, raise herself high enough to +see his face. That almost paralyzed her. Did he mean to kill her? Then +he wrapped his arms around her and crushed her tighter, closer to him. +She felt the pound of his heart; her own seemed to have frozen. Then he +pressed his burning lips to hers. It was a long, terrible kiss. She felt +him shake. + +“Oh, Stewart! I—implore—you—let—me—go!” she whispered. + +His white face loomed over hers. She closed her eyes. He rained kisses +upon her face, but no more upon her mouth. On her closed eyes, her hair, +her cheeks, her neck he pressed swift lips—lips that lost their fire +and grew cold. Then he released her, and, lifting and righting her in +the saddle, he still held her arm to keep her from falling. + +For a moment Madeline sat on her horse with shut eyes. She dreaded the +light. + +“Now you can’t say you’ve never been kissed,” Stewart said. His voice +seemed a long way off. “But that was coming to you, so be game. Here!” + +She felt something hard and cold and metallic thrust into her hand. He +made her fingers close over it, hold it. The feel of the thing revived +her. She opened her eyes. Stewart had given her his gun. He stood with +his broad breast against her knee, and she looked up to see that old +mocking smile on his face. + +“Go ahead! Throw my gun on me! Be a thoroughbred!” + +Madeline did not yet grasp his meaning. + +“You can put me down in that quiet place on the hill—beside Monty +Price.” + +Madeline dropped the gun with a shuddering cry of horror. The sense +of his words, the memory of Monty, the certainty that she would +kill Stewart if she held the gun an instant longer, tortured the +self-accusing cry from her. + +Stewart stooped to pick up the weapon. + +“You might have saved me a hell of a lot of trouble,” he said, with +another flash of the mocking smile. “You’re beautiful and sweet and +proud, but you’re no thoroughbred! Majesty Hammond, adios!” + +Stewart leaped for the saddle of his horse, and with the flying mount +crashed through the mesquites to disappear. + + + + +XXII. The Secret Told + + +In the shaded seclusion of her room, buried face down deep among the +soft cushions on her couch, Madeline Hammond lay prostrate and quivering +under the outrage she had suffered. + +The afternoon wore away; twilight fell; night came; and then Madeline +rose to sit by the window to let the cool wind blow upon her hot face. +She passed through hours of unintelligible shame and impotent rage and +futile striving to reason away her defilement. + +The train of brightening stars seemed to mock her with their +unattainable passionless serenity. She had loved them, and now she +imagined she hated them and everything connected with this wild, +fateful, and abrupt West. + +She would go home. + +Edith Wayne had been right; the West was no place for Madeline Hammond. +The decision to go home came easily, naturally, she thought, as the +result of events. It caused her no mental strife. Indeed, she fancied +she felt relief. The great stars, blinking white and cold over the dark +crags, looked down upon her, and, as always, after she had watched +them for a while they enthralled her. “Under Western stars,” she mused, +thinking a little scornfully of the romantic destiny they had blazed for +her idle sentiment. But they were beautiful; they were speaking; they +were mocking; they drew her. “Ah!” she sighed. “It will not be so very +easy to leave them, after all.” + +Madeline closed and darkened the window. She struck a light. It was +necessary to tell the anxious servants who knocked that she was well and +required nothing. A soft step on the walk outside arrested her. Who was +there—Nels or Nick Steele or Stillwell? Who shared the guardianship +over her, now that Monty Price was dead and that other—that savage—? +It was monstrous and unfathomable that she regretted him. + +The light annoyed her. Complete darkness fitted her strange mood. She +retired and tried to compose herself to sleep. Sleep for her was not a +matter of will. Her cheeks burned so hotly that she rose to bathe +them. Cold water would not alleviate this burn, and then, despairing +of forgetfulness, she lay down again with a shameful gratitude for the +cloak of night. Stewart’s kisses were there, scorching her lips, her +closed eyes, her swelling neck. They penetrated deeper and deeper into +her blood, into her heart, into her soul—the terrible farewell kisses +of a passionate, hardened man. Despite his baseness, he had loved her. + +Late in the night Madeline fell asleep. In the morning she was pale and +languid, but in a mental condition that promised composure. + +It was considerably after her regular hour that Madeline repaired to her +office. The door was open, and just outside, tipped back in a chair, sat +Stillwell. + +“Mawnin’, Miss Majesty,” he said, as he rose to greet her with his usual +courtesy. There were signs of trouble in his lined face. Madeline shrank +inwardly, fearing his old lamentations about Stewart. Then she saw a +dusty, ragged pony in the yard and a little burro drooping under a heavy +pack. Both animals bore evidence of long, arduous travel. + +“To whom do they belong?” asked Madeline. + +“Them critters? Why, Danny Mains,” replied Stillwell, with a cough that +betrayed embarrassment. + +“Danny Mains?” echoed Madeline, wonderingly. + +“Wal, I said so.” + +Stillwell was indeed not himself. + +“Is Danny Mains here?” she asked, in sudden curiosity. + +The old cattleman nodded gloomily. + +“Yep, he’s hyar, all right. Sloped in from the hills, an’ he hollered to +see Bonita. He’s locoed, too, about that little black-eyed hussy. Why, +he hardly said, ‘Howdy, Bill,’ before he begun to ask wild an’ eager +questions. I took him in to see Bonita. He’s been there more ’n a +half-hour now.” + +Evidently Stillwell’s sensitive feelings had been ruffled. Madeline’s +curiosity changed to blank astonishment, which left her with a thrilling +premonition. She caught her breath. A thousand thoughts seemed thronging +for clear conception in her mind. + +Rapid footsteps with an accompaniment of clinking spurs sounded in the +hallway. Then a young man ran out upon the porch. He resembled a cowboy +in his lithe build, his garb and action, in the way he wore his gun, but +his face, instead of being red, was clear brown tan. His eyes were blue; +his hair was light and curly. He was a handsome, frank-faced boy. At +sight of Madeline he slammed down his sombrero and, leaping at her, he +possessed himself of her hands. His swift violence not only alarmed her, +but painfully reminded her of something she wished to forget. + +This cowboy bent his head and kissed her hands and wrung them, and when +he straightened up he was crying. + +“Miss Hammond, she’s safe an’ almost well, an’ what I feared most ain’t +so, thank God,” he cried. “Sure I’ll never be able to pay you for all +you’ve done for her. She’s told me how she was dragged down here, how +Gene tried to save her, how you spoke up for Gene an’ her, too, how +Monty at the last throwed his guns. Poor Monty! We were good friends, +Monty an’ I. But it wasn’t friendship for me that made Monty stand in +there. He would have saved her, anyway. Monty Price was the whitest man +I ever knew. There’s Nels an’ Nick an’ Gene, he’s been some friend to +me; but Monty Price was—he was grand. He never knew, any more than you +or Bill, here, or the boys, what Bonita was to me.” + +Stillwell’s kind and heavy hand fell upon the cowboy’s shoulder. + +“Danny, what’s all this queer gab?” he asked. “An’ you’re takin’ some +liberty with Miss Hammond, who never seen you before. Sure I’m makin’ +allowance fer amazin’ strange talk. I see you’re not drinkin’. Mebbe +you’re plumb locoed. Come, ease up now an’ talk sense.” + +The cowboy’s fine, frank face broke into a smile. He dashed the tears +from his eyes. Then he laughed. His laugh had a pleasant, boyish ring—a +happy ring. + +“Bill, old pal, stand bridle down a minute, will you?” Then he bowed to +Madeline. “I beg your pardon, Miss Hammond, for seemin’ rudeness. I’m +Danny Mains. An’ Bonita is my wife. I’m so crazy glad she’s safe an’ +unharmed—so grateful to you that—why, sure it’s a wonder I didn’t kiss +you outright.” + +“Bonita’s your wife!” ejaculated Stillwell. + +“Sure. We’ve been married for months,” replied Danny, happily. “Gene +Stewart did it. Good old Gene, he’s hell on marryin’. I guess maybe I +haven’t come to pay him up for all he’s done for me! You see, I’ve been +in love with Bonita for two years. An’ Gene—you know, Bill, what a way +Gene has with girls—he was—well, he was tryin’ to get Bonita to have +me.” + +Madeline’s quick, varying emotions were swallowed up in a boundless +gladness. Something dark, deep, heavy, and somber was flooded from her +heart. She had a sudden rich sense of gratitude toward this smiling, +clean-faced cowboy whose blue eyes flashed through tears. + +“Danny Mains!” she said, tremulously and smilingly. “If you are as glad +as your news has made me—if you really think I merit such a reward—you +may kiss me outright.” + +With a bashful wonder, but with right hearty will, Danny Mains availed +himself of this gracious privilege. Stillwell snorted. The signs of his +phenomenal smile were manifest, otherwise Madeline would have thought +that snort an indication of furious disapproval. + +“Bill, straddle a chair,” said Danny. “You’ve gone back a heap these +last few months, frettin’ over your bad boys, Danny an’ Gene. You’ll +need support under you while I’m throwin’ my yarn. Story of my life, +Bill.” He placed a chair for Madeline. “Miss Hammond, beggin’ your +pardon again, I want you to listen, also. You’ve the face an’ eyes of a +woman who loves to hear of other people’s happiness. Besides, somehow, +it’s easy for me to talk lookin’ at you.” + +His manner subtly changed then. Possibly it took on a little swagger; +certainly he lost the dignity that he had shown under stress of feeling; +he was now more like a cowboy about to boast or affect some stunning +maneuver. Walking off the porch, he stood before the weary horse and +burro. + +“Played out!” he exclaimed. + +Then with the swift violence so characteristic of men of his class he +slipped the pack from the burro and threw saddle and bridle from the +horse. + +“There! See ’em! Take a look at the last dog-gone weight you ever +packed! You’ve been some faithful to Danny Mains. An’ Danny Mains pays! +Never a saddle again or a strap or a halter or a hobble so long as you +live! So long as you live nothin’ but grass an’ clover, an’ cool water +in shady places, an’ dusty swales to roll in an’ rest an’ sleep!” + +Then he untied the pack and, taking a small, heavy sack from it, he came +back upon the porch. Deliberately he dumped the contents of the sack at +Stillwell’s feet. Piece after piece of rock thumped upon the floor. The +pieces were sharp, ragged, evidently broken from a ledge; the body +of them was white in color, with yellow veins and bars and streaks. +Stillwell grasped up one rock after another, stared and stuttered, put +the rocks to his lips, dug into them with his shaking fingers; then he +lay back in his chair, head against the wall, and as he gaped at Danny +the old smile began to transform his face. + +“Lord, Danny if you hevn’t been an’ gone an’ struck it rich!” + +Danny regarded Stillwell with lofty condescension. + +“Some rich,” he said. “Now, Bill, what’ve we got here, say, offhand?” + +“Oh, Lord, Danny! I’m afraid to say. Look, Miss Majesty, jest look at +the gold. I’ve lived among prospectors an’ gold-mines fer thirty years, +an’ I never seen the beat of this.” + +“The Lost Mine of the Padres!” cried Danny, in stentorian voice. “An’ it +belongs to me!” + +Stillwell made some incoherent sound as he sat up fascinated, quite +beside himself. + +“Bill, it was some long time ago since you saw me,” said Danny. “Fact +is, I know how you felt, because Gene kept me posted. I happened to run +across Bonita, an’ I wasn’t goin’ to let her ride away alone, when she +told me she was in trouble. We hit the trail for the Peloncillos. Bonita +had Gene’s horse, an’ she was to meet him up on the trail. We got to the +mountains all right, an’ nearly starved for a few days till Gene found +us. He had got in trouble himself an’ couldn’t fetch much with him. + +“We made for the crags an’ built a cabin. I come down that day Gene sent +his horse Majesty to you. Never saw Gene so broken-hearted. Well, after +he sloped for the border Bonita an’ I were hard put to it to keep alive. +But we got along, an’ I think it was then she began to care a little for +me. Because I was decent. I killed cougars an’ went down to Rodeo to get +bounties for the skins, an’ bought grub an’ supplies I needed. Once +I went to El Cajon an’ run plumb into Gene. He was back from the +revolution an’ cuttin’ up some. But I got away from him after doin’ all +I could to drag him out of town. A long time after that Gene trailed +up to the crags an’ found us. Gene had stopped drinkin’, he’d changed +wonderful, was fine an’ dandy. It was then he began to pester the life +out of me to make me marry Bonita. I was happy, so was she, an’ I was +some scared of spoilin’ it. Bonita had been a little flirt, an’ I was +afraid she’d get shy of a halter, so I bucked against Gene. But I was +all locoed, as it turned out. Gene would come up occasionally, packin’ +supplies for us, an’ always he’d get after me to do the right thing by +Bonita. Gene’s so dog-gone hard to buck against! I had to give in, an’ +I asked Bonita to marry me. Well, she wouldn’t at first—said she wasn’t +good enough for me. But I saw the marriage idea was workin’ deep, an’ +I just kept on bein’ as decent as I knew how. So it was my wantin’ to +marry Bonita—my bein’ glad to marry her—that made her grow soft an’ +sweet an’ pretty as—as a mountain quail. Gene fetched up Padre Marcos, +an’ he married us.” + +Danny paused in his narrative, breathing hard, as if the memory of the +incident described had stirred strong and thrilling feeling in him. +Stillwell’s smile was rapturous. Madeline leaned toward Danny with her +eyes shining. + +“Miss Hammond, an’ you, Bill Stillwell, now listen, for this is strange +I’ve got to tell you. The afternoon Bonita an’ I were married, when Gene +an’ the padre had gone, I was happy one minute an’ low-hearted the next. +I was miserable because I had a bad name. I couldn’t buy even a decent +dress for my pretty wife. Bonita heard me, an’ she was some mysterious. +She told me the story of the lost mine of the padres, an’ she kissed +me an made joyful over me in the strangest way. I knew marriage went to +women’s heads, an’ I thought even Bonita had a spell. + +“Well, she left me for a little, an’ when she came back she wore some +pretty yellow flowers in her hair. Her eyes were big an’ black an’ +beautiful. She said some queer things about spirits rollin’ rocks down +the canyon. Then she said she wanted to show me where she always sat an’ +waited an’ watched for me when I was away. + +“She led me around under the crags to a long slope. It was some pretty +there—clear an’ open, with a long sweep, an’ the desert yawnin’ deep +an’ red. There were yellow flowers on that slope, the same kind she had +in her hair—the same kind that Apache girl wore hundreds of years ago +when she led the padre to the gold-mine. + +“When I thought of that, an’ saw Bonita’s eyes, an’ then heard the +strange crack of rollin’ rocks—heard them rattle down an’ roll an’ +grow faint—I was some out of my head. But not for long. Them rocks were +rollin’ all right, only it was the weatherin’ of the cliffs. + +“An’ there under the crags was a gold pocket. + +“Then I was worse than locoed. I went gold-crazy. I worked like +seventeen burros. Bill, I dug a lot of goldbearin’ quartz. Bonita +watched the trails for me, brought me water. That was how she come to +get caught by Pat Hawe an’ his guerrillas. Sure! Pat Hawe was so set on +doin’ Gene dirt that he mixed up with Don Carlos. Bonita will tell you +some staggerin’ news about that outfit. Just now my story is all gold.” + +Danny Mains got up and kicked back his chair. Blue lightning gleamed +from his eyes as he thrust a hand toward Stillwell. + +“Bill, old pal, put her there—give me your hand,” he said. “You were +always my friend. You had faith in me. Well, Danny Mains owes you, +an’ he owes Gene Stewart a good deal, an’ Danny Mains pays. I want two +pardners to help me work my gold-mine. You an’ Gene. If there’s any +ranch hereabouts that takes your fancy I’ll buy it. If Miss Hammond ever +gets tired of her range an stock an’ home I’ll buy them for Gene. If +there’s any railroad or town round here that she likes I’ll buy it. If +I see anythin’ myself that I like I’ll buy it. Go out; find Gene for me. +I’m achin’ to see him, to tell him. Go fetch him; an’ right here in +this house, with my wife an’ Miss Hammond as witnesses, we’ll draw up a +pardnership. Go find him, Bill. I want to show him this gold, show him +how Danny Mains pays! An’ the only bitter drop in my cup to-day is that +I can’t ever pay Monty Price.” + + ***** + +Madeline’s lips tremblingly formed to tell Danny Mains and Stillwell +that the cowboy they wanted so much had left the ranch; but the flame +of fine loyalty that burned in Danny’s eyes, the happiness that made the +old cattleman’s face at once amazing and beautiful, stiffened her lips. +She watched the huge Stillwell and the little cowboy, both talking +wildly, as they walked off arm in arm to find Stewart. She imagined +something of what Danny’s disappointment would be, of the elder man’s +consternation and grief, when he learned Stewart had left for the +border. At this juncture she looked up to see a strange, yet familiar +figure approaching. Padre Marcos! Certain it was that Madeline felt +herself trembling. What did his presence mean on this day? He had always +avoided meeting her whenever possible. He had been exceedingly grateful +for all she had done for his people, his church, and himself; but he had +never thanked her in person. Perhaps he had come for that purpose now. +But Madeline did not believe so. + +Mention of Padre Marcos, sight of him, had always occasioned Madeline +a little indefinable shock; and now, as he stepped to the porch, a +shrunken, stooped, and sad-faced man, she was startled. + +The padre bowed low to her. + +“Senora, will you grant me audience?” he asked, in perfect English, and +his voice was low-toned and grave. + +“Certainly, Padre Marcos,” replied Madeline; and she led him into her +office. + +“May I beg to close the doors?” he asked. “It is a matter of great +moment, which you might not care to have any one hear.” + +Wonderingly Madeline inclined her head. The padre gently closed one door +and then the others. + +“Senora, I have come to disclose a secret—my own sinfulness in keeping +it—and to implore your pardon. Do you remember that night Senor Stewart +dragged me before you in the waiting-room at El Cajon?” + +“Yes,” replied Madeline. + +“Senora, since that night you have been Senor Stewart’s wife!” + +Madeline became as motionless as stone. She seemed to feel nothing, only +to hear. + +“You are Senor Stewart’s wife. I have kept the secret under fear of +death. But I could keep it no longer. Senor Stewart may kill me now. Ah, +Senora, it is very strange to you. You were so frightened that night, +you knew not what happened. Senor Stewart threatened me. He forced you. +He made me speak the service. He made you speak the Spanish yes. And I, +Senora, knowing the deeds of these sinful cowboys, fearing worse than +disgrace to one so beautiful and so good as you, I could not do less +than marry you truly. At least you should be his wife. So I married you, +truly, in the service of my church.” + +“My God!” cried Madeline, rising. + +“Hear me! I implore you, Senora, hear me out! Do not leave me! Do not +look so—so—Ah, Senora, let me speak a word for Senor Stewart. He was +drunk that night. He did not know what he was about. In the morning +he came to me, made me swear by my cross that I would not reveal the +disgrace he had put upon you. If I did he would kill me. Life is nothing +to the American vaquero, Senora. I promised to respect his command. +But I did not tell him you were his wife. He did not dream I had truly +married you. He went to fight for the freedom of my country—Senora, he +is one splendid soldier—and I brooded over the sin of my secret. If he +were killed I need never tell you. But if he lived I knew that I must +some day. + +“Strange indeed that Senor Stewart and Padre Marcos should both come +to this ranch together. The great change your goodness wrought in my +beloved people was no greater than the change in Senor Stewart. Senora, +I feared you would go away one day, go back to your Eastern home, +ignorant of the truth. The time came when I confessed to Stewart—said +I must tell you. Senor, the man went mad with joy. I have never seen +so supreme a joy. He threatened no more to kill me. That strong, +cruel vaquero begged me not to tell the secret—never to reveal it. He +confessed his love for you—a love something like the desert storm. He +swore by all that was once sacred to him, and by my cross and my +church, that he would be a good man, that he would be worthy to have you +secretly his wife for the little time life left him to worship at your +shrine. You needed never to know. So I held my tongue, half pitying him, +half fearing him, and praying for some God-sent light. + +“Senora, it was a fool’s paradise that Stewart lived in. I saw him, +often. When he took me up into the mountains to have me marry that +wayward Bonita and her lover I came to have respect for a man whose +ideas about nature and life and God were at a variance with mine. But +the man is a worshiper of God in all material things. He is a part of +the wind and sun and desert and mountain that have made him. I have +never heard more beautiful words than those in which he persuaded Bonita +to accept Senor Mains, to forget her old lovers, and henceforth to be +happy. He is their friend. I wish I could tell you what that means. +It sounds so simple. It is really simple. All great things are so. For +Senor Stewart it was natural to be loyal to his friend, to have a fine +sense of the honor due to a woman who had loved and given, to bring +about their marriage, to succor them in their need and loneliness. It +was natural for him never to speak of them. It would have been natural +for him to give his life in their defense if peril menaced them. Senora, +I want you to understand that to me the man has the same stability, the +same strength, the same elements which I am in the habit of attributing +to the physical life around me in this wild and rugged desert.” + +Madeline listened as one under a spell. It was not only that this +soft-voiced, eloquent priest knew how to move the heart, stir the soul; +but his defense, his praise of Stewart, if they had been couched in the +crude speech of cowboys, would have been a glory to her. + +“Senora, I pray you, do not misunderstand my mission. Beyond my +confession to you I have only a duty to tell you of the man whose wife +you are. But I am a priest and I can read the soul. The ways of God are +inscrutable. I am only a humble instrument. You are a noble woman, and +Senor Stewart is a man of desert iron forged anew in the crucible of +love. Quien sabe? Senor Stewart swore he would kill me if I betrayed +him. But he will not lift his hand against me. For the man bears you a +very great and pure love, and it has changed him. I no longer fear his +threat, but I do fear his anger, should he ever know I spoke of his +love, of his fool’s paradise. I have watched his dark face turned to the +sun setting over the desert. I have watched him lift it to the light +of the stars. Think, my gracious and noble lady, think what is his +paradise? To love you above the spirit of the flesh; to know you are his +wife, his, never to be another’s except by his sacrifice; to watch you +with a secret glory of joy and pride; to stand, while he might, between +you and evil; to find his happiness in service; to wait, with never a +dream of telling you, for the hour to come when to leave you free he +must go out and get himself shot! Senora, that is beautiful, it is +sublime, it is terrible. It has brought me to you with my confession. I +repeat, Senora, the ways of God are inscrutable. What is the meaning of +your influence upon Senor Stewart? Once he was merely an animal, brutal, +unquickened; now he is a man—I have not seen his like! So I beseech you +in my humble office as priest, as a lover of mankind, before you +send Stewart to his death, to be sure there is here no mysterious +dispensation of God. Love, that mighty and blessed and unknown thing, +might be at work. Senora, I have heard that somewhere in the rich +Eastern cities you are a very great lady. I know you are good and noble. +That is all I want to know. To me you are only a woman, the same as +Senor Stewart is only a man. So I pray you, Senora, before you let +Stewart give you freedom at such cost be sure you do not want his love, +lest you cast away something sweet and ennobling which you yourself have +created.” + + + + +XXIII. The Light of Western Stars + + +Blinded, like a wild creature, Madeline Hammond ran to her room. She +felt as if a stroke of lightning had shattered the shadowy substance of +the dream she had made of real life. The wonder of Danny Mains’s story, +the strange regret with which she had realized her injustice to Stewart, +the astounding secret as revealed by Padre Marcos—these were forgotten +in the sudden consciousness of her own love. + +Madeline fled as if pursued. With trembling hands she locked the doors, +drew the blinds of the windows that opened on the porch, pushed chairs +aside so that she could pace the length of her room. She was now alone, +and she walked with soft, hurried, uneven steps. She could be herself +here; she needed no mask; the long habit of serenely hiding the truth +from the world and from herself could be broken. The seclusion of her +darkened chamber made possible that betrayal of herself to which she was +impelled. + +She paused in her swift pacing to and fro. She liberated the thought +that knocked at the gates of her mind. With quivering lips she whispered +it. Then she spoke aloud: + +“I will say it—hear it. I—I love him!” + +“I love him!” she repeated the astounding truth, but she doubted her +identity. + +“Am I still Madeline Hammond? What has happened? Who am I?” She stood +where the light from one unclosed window fell upon her image in the +mirror. “Who is this woman?” + +She expected to see a familiar, dignified person, a quiet, unruffled +figure, a tranquil face with dark, proud eyes and calm, proud lips. No, +she did not see Madeline Hammond. She did not see any one she knew. Were +her eyes, like her heart, playing her false? The figure before her +was instinct with pulsating life. The hands she saw, clasped together, +pressed deep into a swelling bosom that heaved with each panting breath. +The face she saw—white, rapt, strangely glowing, with parted, quivering +lips, with great, staring, tragic eyes—this could not be Madeline +Hammond’s face. + +Yet as she looked she knew no fancy could really deceive her, that she +was only Madeline Hammond come at last to the end of brooding dreams. +She swiftly realized the change in her, divined its cause and meaning, +accepted it as inevitable, and straightway fell back again into the mood +of bewildering amaze. + +Calmness was unattainable. The surprise absorbed her. She could not go +back to count the innumerable, imperceptible steps of her undoing. Her +old power of reflecting, analyzing, even thinking at all, seemed to have +vanished in a pulse-stirring sense of one new emotion. She only felt +all her instinctive outward action that was a physical relief, all her +involuntary inner strife that was maddening, yet unutterably sweet; and +they seemed to be just one bewildering effect of surprise. + +In a nature like hers, where strength of feeling had long been inhibited +as a matter of training, such a transforming surprise as sudden +consciousness of passionate love required time for its awakening, time +for its sway. + +By and by that last enlightening moment came, and Madeline Hammond faced +not only the love in her heart, but the thought of the man she loved. + +Suddenly, as she raged, something in her—this dauntless new +personality—took arms against indictment of Gene Stewart. Her mind +whirled about him and his life. She saw him drunk, brutal; she saw him +abandoned, lost. Then out of the picture she had of him thus slowly grew +one of a different man—weak, sick, changed by shock, growing strong, +strangely, spiritually altered, silent, lonely like an eagle, secretive, +tireless, faithful, soft as a woman, hard as iron to endure, and at the +last noble. + +She softened. In a flash her complex mood changed to one wherein she +thought of the truth, the beauty, the wonder of Stewart’s uplifting. +Humbly she trusted that she had helped him to climb. That influence +had been the best she had ever exerted. It had wrought magic in her own +character. By it she had reached some higher, nobler plane of trust in +man. She had received infinitely more than she had given. + +Her swiftly flying memory seemed to assort a vast mine of treasures +of the past. Of that letter Stewart had written to her brother she +saw vivid words. But ah! she had known, and if it had not made any +difference then, now it made all in the world. She recalled how her +loosened hair had blown across his lips that night he had ridden down +from the mountains carrying her in his arms. She recalled the strange +joy of pride in Stewart’s eyes when he had suddenly come upon her +dressed to receive her Eastern guests in the white gown with the red +roses at her breast. + +Swiftly as they had come these dreamful memories departed. There was +to be no rest for her mind. All she had thought and felt seemed only to +presage a tumult. + +Heedless, desperate, she cast off the last remnant of self-control, +turned from the old proud, pale, cold, self-contained ghost of herself +to face this strange, strong, passionate woman. Then, with hands pressed +to her beating heart, with eyes shut, she listened to the ringing +trip-hammer voice of circumstance, of truth, of fatality. The whole +story was revealed, simple enough in the sum of its complicated details, +strange and beautiful in part, remorseless in its proof of great love +on Stewart’s side, in dreaming blindness on her own, and, from the first +fatal moment to the last, prophetic of tragedy. + +Madeline, like a prisoner in a cell, began again to pace to and fro. + +“Oh, it is all terrible!” she cried. “I am his wife. His wife! That +meeting with him—the marriage—then his fall, his love, his rise, +his silence, his pride! And I can never be anything to him. Could I be +anything to him? I, Madeline Hammond? But I am his wife, and I love him! +His wife! I am the wife of a cowboy! That might be undone. Can my love +be undone? Ah, do I want anything undone? He is gone. Gone! Could he +have meant—I will not, dare not think of that. He will come back. No, +he never will come back. Oh, what shall I do?” + + ***** + +For Madeline Hammond the days following that storm of feeling were +leaden-footed, endless, hopeless—a long succession of weary hours, +sleepless hours, passionate hours, all haunted by a fear slowly growing +into torture, a fear that Stewart had crossed the border to invite the +bullet which would give her freedom. The day came when she knew this +to be true. The spiritual tidings reached her, not subtly as so many +divinations had come, but in a clear, vital flash of certainty. Then she +suffered. She burned inwardly, and the nature of that deep fire showed +through her eyes. She kept to herself, waiting, waiting for her fears to +be confirmed. + +At times she broke out in wrath at the circumstances she had failed to +control, at herself, at Stewart. + +“He might have learned from Ambrose!” she exclaimed, sick with a +bitterness she knew was not consistent with her pride. She recalled +Christine’s trenchant exposition of Ambrose’s wooing: “He tell me he +love me; he kees me; he hug me; he put me on his horse; he ride away +with me; he marry me.” + +Then in the next breath Madeline denied this insistent clamoring of +a love that was gradually breaking her spirit. Like a somber shadow +remorse followed her, shading blacker. She had been blind to a man’s +honesty, manliness, uprightness, faith, and striving. She had been dead +to love, to nobility that she had herself created. Padre Marcos’s grave, +wise words returned to haunt her. She fought her bitterness, scorned her +intelligence, hated her pride, and, weakening, gave up more and more to +a yearning, hopeless hope. + +She had shunned the light of the stars as she had violently dismissed +every hinting suggestive memory of Stewart’s kisses. But one night she +went deliberately to her window. There they shone. Her stars! Beautiful, +passionless as always, but strangely closer, warmer, speaking a kinder +language, helpful as they had never been, teaching her now that regret +was futile, revealing to her in their one grand, blazing task the +supreme duty of life—to be true. + +Those shining stars made her yield. She whispered to them that they had +claimed her—the West claimed her—Stewart claimed her forever, whether +he lived or died. She gave up to her love. And it was as if he was there +in person, dark-faced, fire-eyed, violent in his action, crushing her to +his breast in that farewell moment, kissing her with one burning kiss of +passion, then with cold, terrible lips of renunciation. + +“I am your wife!” she whispered to him. In that moment, throbbing, +exalted, quivering in her first sweet, tumultuous surrender to love, she +would have given her all, her life, to be in his arms again, to meet his +lips, to put forever out of his power any thought of wild sacrifice. + + ***** + +And on the morning of the next day, when Madeline went out upon the +porch, Stillwell, haggard and stern, with a husky, incoherent word, +handed her a message from El Cajon. She read: + + +El Capitan Stewart captured by rebel soldiers in fight at Agua Prieta +yesterday. He was a sharpshooter in the Federal ranks. Sentenced to +death Thursday at sunset. + + + + +XXIV. The Ride + + +“Stillwell!” + +Madeline’s cry was more than the utterance of a breaking heart. It was +full of agony. But also it uttered the shattering of a structure built +of false pride, of old beliefs, of bloodless standards, of ignorance +of self. It betrayed the final conquest of her doubts, and out of +their darkness blazed the unquenchable spirit of a woman who had found +herself, her love, her salvation, her duty to a man, and who would not +be cheated. + +The old cattleman stood mute before her, staring at her white face, at +her eyes of flame. + +“Stillwell! I am Stewart’s wife!” + +“My Gawd, Miss Majesty!” he burst out. “I knowed somethin’ turrible was +wrong. Aw, sure it’s a pity—” + +“Do you think I’ll let him be shot when I know him now, when I’m no +longer blind, when I love him?” she asked, with passionate swiftness. +“I will save him. This is Wednesday morning. I have thirty-six hours to +save his life. Stillwell, send for Link and the car!” + +She went into her office. Her mind worked with extraordinary rapidity +and clearness. Her plan, born in one lightning-like flash of thought, +necessitated the careful wording of telegrams to Washington, to New +York, to San Antonio. These were to Senators, Representatives, men high +in public and private life, men who would remember her and who would +serve her to their utmost. Never before had her position meant anything +to her comparable with what it meant now. Never in all her life had +money seemed the power that it was then. If she had been poor! A +shuddering chill froze the thought at its inception. She dispelled +heartbreaking thoughts. She had power. She had wealth. She would set +into operation all the unlimited means these gave her—the wires +and pulleys and strings underneath the surface of political and +international life, the open, free, purchasing value of money or the +deep, underground, mysterious, incalculably powerful influence moved +by gold. She could save Stewart. She must await results—deadlocked in +feeling, strained perhaps almost beyond endurance, because the suspense +would be great; but she would allow no possibility of failure to enter +her mind. + +When she went outside the car was there with Link, helmet in hand, a +cool, bright gleam in his eyes, and with Stillwell, losing his haggard +misery, beginning to respond to Madeline’s spirit. + +“Link, drive Stillwell to El Cajon in time for him to catch the El Paso +train,” she said. “Wait there for his return, and if any message comes +from him, telephone it at once to me.” + +Then she gave Stillwell the telegrams to send from El Cajon and drafts +to cash in El Paso. She instructed him to go before the rebel junta, +then stationed at Juarez, to explain the situation, to bid them expect +communications from Washington officials requesting and advising +Stewart’s exchange as a prisoner of war, to offer to buy his release +from the rebel authorities. + +When Stillwell had heard her through his huge, bowed form straightened, +a ghost of his old smile just moved his lips. He was no longer young, +and hope could not at once drive away stern and grim realities. As he +bent over her hand his manner appeared courtly and reverent. But either +he was speechless or felt the moment not one for him to break silence. + +He climbed to a seat beside Link, who pocketed the watch he had been +studying and leaned over the wheel. There was a crack, a muffled sound +bursting into a roar, and the big car jerked forward to bound over the +edge of the slope, to leap down the long incline, to shoot out upon the +level valley floor and disappear in moving dust. + +For the first time in days Madeline visited the gardens, the corrals, +the lakes, the quarters of the cowboys. Though imagining she was calm, +she feared she looked strange to Nels, to Nick, to Frankie Slade, to +those boys best known to her. The situation for them must have been one +of tormenting pain and bewilderment. They acted as if they wanted to +say something to her, but found themselves spellbound. She wondered—did +they know she was Stewart’s wife? Stillwell had not had time to tell +them; besides, he would not have mentioned the fact. These cowboys only +knew that Stewart was sentenced to be shot; they knew if Madeline had +not been angry with him he would not have gone in desperate fighting +mood across the border. She spoke of the weather, of the horses and +cattle, asked Nels when he was to go on duty, and turned away from the +wide, sunlit, adobe-arched porch where the cowboys stood silent and +bareheaded. Then one of her subtle impulses checked her. + +“Nels, you and Nick need not go on duty to-day,” she said. “I may want +you. I—I—” + +She hesitated, paused, and stood lingering there. Her glance had fallen +upon Stewart’s big black horse prancing in a near-by corral. + +“I have sent Stillwell to El Paso,” she went on, in a low voice she +failed to hold steady. “He will save Stewart. I have to tell you—I am +Stewart’s wife!” + +She felt the stricken amaze that made these men silent and immovable. +With level gaze averted she left them. Returning to the house and her +room, she prepared for something—for what? To wait! + +Then a great invisible shadow seemed to hover behind her. She essayed +many tasks, to fail of attention, to find that her mind held only +Stewart and his fortunes. Why had he become a Federal? She reflected +that he had won his title, El Capitan, fighting for Madero, the rebel. +But Madero was now a Federal, and Stewart was true to him. In crossing +the border had Stewart any other motive than the one he had implied to +Madeline in his mocking smile and scornful words, “You might have saved +me a hell of a lot of trouble!” What trouble? She felt again the cold +shock of contact with the gun she had dropped in horror. He meant the +trouble of getting himself shot in the only way a man could seek death +without cowardice. But had he any other motive? She recalled Don Carlos +and his guerrillas. Then the thought leaped up in her mind with gripping +power that Stewart meant to hunt Don Carlos, to meet him, to kill him. +It would be the deed of a silent, vengeful, implacable man driven by +wild justice such as had been the deadly leaven in Monty Price. It was +a deed to expect of Nels or Nick Steel—and, aye, of Gene Stewart. +Madeline felt regret that Stewart, as he had climbed so high, had not +risen above deliberate seeking to kill his enemy, however evil that +enemy. + +The local newspapers, which came regularly a day late from El Paso +and Douglas, had never won any particular interest from Madeline; +now, however, she took up any copies she could find and read all the +information pertaining to the revolution. Every word seemed vital to +her, of moving significant force. + + +AMERICANS ROBBED BY MEXICAN REBELS + +MADERA, STATE OF CHIHUAHUA, MEXICO, July 17.—Having looted the Madera +Lumber Company’s storehouses of $25,000 worth of goods and robbed scores +of foreigners of horses and saddles, the rebel command of Gen. Antonio +Rojas, comprising a thousand men, started westward to-day through the +state of Sonora for Agnaymas and Pacific coast points. + +The troops are headed for Dolores, where a mountain pass leads into +the state of Sonora. Their entrance will be opposed by 1,000 Maderista +volunteers, who are reported to be waiting the rebel invasion. + +The railroad south of Madera is being destroyed and many Americans who +were traveling to Chihuahua from Juarez are marooned here. + +General Rojas executed five men while here for alleged offenses of a +trivial character. Gen. Rosalio y Hernandez, Lieut. Cipriano Amador, and +three soldiers were the unfortunates. + +WASHINGTON, July 17.—Somewhere in Mexico Patrick Dunne, an American +citizen, is in prison under sentence of death. This much and no more +the State Department learned through Representative Kinkaid of Nebraska. +Consular officers in various sections of Mexico have been directed to +make every effort to locate Dunne and save his life. + +JUAREZ, MEXICO, July 31.—General Orozco, chief of the rebels, declared +to-day: + +“If the United States will throw down the barriers and let us have +all the ammunition we can buy, I promise in sixty days to have peace +restored in Mexico and a stable government in charge.” + +CASAS GRANDES, CHIHUAHUA, July 31.—Rebel soldiers looted many homes +of Mormons near here yesterday. All the Mormon families have fled to +El Paso. Although General Salazar had two of his soldiers executed +yesterday for robbing Mormons, he has not made any attempt to stop his +men looting the unprotected homes of Americans. + +Last night’s and to-day’s trains carried many Americans from Pearson, +Madera, and other localities outside the Mormon settlements. Refugees +from Mexico continued to pour into El Paso. About one hundred came last +night, the majority of whom were men. Heretofore few men came. + + +Madeline read on in feverish absorption. It was not a real war, but a +starving, robbing, burning, hopeless revolution. Five men executed for +alleged offenses of a trivial nature! What chance had, then, a Federal +prisoner, an enemy to be feared, an American cowboy in the clutches of +those crazed rebels? + +Madeline endured patiently, endured for long interminable hours while +holding to her hope with indomitable will. + +No message came. At sunset she went outdoors, suffering a torment +of accumulating suspense. She faced the desert, hoping, praying for +strength. The desert did not influence her as did the passionless, +unchangeable stars that had soothed her spirit. It was red, mutable, +shrouded in shadows, terrible like her mood. A dust-veiled sunset +colored the vast, brooding, naked waste of rock and sand. The grim +Chiricahua frowned black and sinister. The dim blue domes of the +Guadalupes seemed to whisper, to beckon to her. Beyond them somewhere +was Stewart, awaiting the end of a few brief hours—hours that to her +were boundless, endless, insupportable. + +Night fell. But now the white, pitiless stars failed her. Then she +sought the seclusion and darkness of her room, there to lie with wide +eyes, waiting, waiting. She had always been susceptible to the somber, +mystic unrealities of the night, and now her mind slowly revolved round +a vague and monstrous gloom. Nevertheless, she was acutely sensitive to +outside impressions. She heard the measured tread of a guard, the rustle +of wind stirring the window-curtain, the remote, mournful wail of a +coyote. By and by the dead silence of the night insulated her with +leaden oppression. There was silent darkness for so long that when the +window casements showed gray she believed it was only fancy and that +dawn would never come. She prayed for the sun not to rise, not to begin +its short twelve-hour journey toward what might be a fatal setting for +Stewart. But the dawn did lighten, swiftly she thought, remorselessly. +Daylight had broken, and this was Thursday! + +Sharp ringing of the telephone bell startled her, roused her into +action. She ran to answer the call. + +“Hello—hello—Miss Majesty!” came the hurried reply. “This is Link +talkin’. Messages for you. Favorable, the operator said. I’m to ride out +with them. I’ll come a-hummin’.” + +That was all. Madeline heard the bang of the receiver as Stevens threw +it down. She passionately wanted to know more, but was immeasurably +grateful for so much! Favorable! Then Stillwell had been successful. +Her heart leaped. Suddenly she became weak and her hands failed of their +accustomed morning deftness. It took her what seemed a thousand years to +dress. Breakfast meant nothing to her except that it helped her to pass +dragging minutes. + +Finally a low hum, mounting swiftly to a roar and ending with a sharp +report, announced the arrival of the car. If her feet had kept pace with +her heart she would have raced out to meet Link. She saw him, helmet +thrown back, watch in hand, and he looked up at her with his cool, +bright smile, with his familiar apologetic manner. + +“Fifty-three minutes, Miss Majesty,” he said, “but I hed to ride round a +herd of steers an’ bump a couple off the trail.” + +He gave her a packet of telegrams. Madeline tore them open with shaking +fingers, began to read with swift, dim eyes. Some were from Washington, +assuring her of every possible service; some were from New York; others +written in Spanish were from El Paso, and these she could not wholly +translate in a brief glance. Would she never find Stillwell’s message? +It was the last. It was lengthy. It read: + + +Bought Stewart’s release. Also arranged for his transfer as prisoner +of war. Both matters official. He’s safe if we can get notice to his +captors. Not sure I’ve reached them by wire. Afraid to trust it. You go +with Link to Agua Prieta. Take the messages sent you in Spanish. They +will protect you and secure Stewart’s freedom. Take Nels with you. Stop +for nothing. Tell Link all—trust him—let him drive that car. + +STILLWELL. + + ***** + +The first few lines of Stillwell’s message lifted Madeline to the +heights of thanksgiving and happiness. Then, reading on, she experienced +a check, a numb, icy, sickening pang. At the last line she flung off +doubt and dread, and in white, cold passion faced the issue. + +“Read,” she said, briefly, handing the telegram to Link. He scanned it +and then looked blankly up at her. + +“Link, do you know the roads, the trails—the desert between here and +Agua Prieta?” she asked. + +“Thet’s sure my old stampin’-ground. An’ I know Sonora, too.” + +“We must reach Agua Prieta before sunset—long before, so if Stewart is +in some near-by camp we can get to it in—in time.” + +“Miss Majesty, it ain’t possible!” he exclaimed. “Stillwell’s crazy to +say thet.” + +“Link, can an automobile be driven from here into northern Mexico?” + +“Sure. But it ’d take time.” + +“We must do it in little time,” she went on, in swift eagerness. +“Otherwise Stewart may be—probably will be—be shot.” + +Link Stevens appeared suddenly to grow lax, shriveled, to lose all his +peculiar pert brightness, to weaken and age. + +“I’m only a—a cowboy, Miss Majesty.” He almost faltered. It was a +singular change in him. “Thet’s an awful ride—down over the border. If +by some luck I didn’t smash the car I’d turn your hair gray. You’d never +be no good after thet ride!” + +“I am Stewart’s wife,” she answered him and she looked at him, not +conscious of any motive to persuade or allure, but just to let him know +the greatness of her dependence upon him. + +He started violently—the old action of Stewart, the memorable action of +Monty Price. This man was of the same wild breed. + +Then Madeline’s words flowed in a torrent. “I am Stewart’s wife. I love +him; I have been unjust to him; I must save him. Link, I have faith in +you. I beseech you to do your best for Stewart’s sake—for my sake. I’ll +risk the ride gladly—bravely. I’ll not care where or how you drive. I’d +far rather plunge into a canyon—go to my death on the rocks—than not +try to save Stewart.” + +How beautiful the response of this rude cowboy—to realize his absolute +unconsciousness of self, to see the haggard shade burn out of his face, +the old, cool, devil-may-care spirit return to his eyes, and to feel +something wonderful about him then! It was more than will or daring or +sacrifice. A blood-tie might have existed between him and Madeline. She +sensed again that indefinable brother-like quality, so fine, so almost +invisible, which seemed to be an inalienable trait in these wild +cowboys. + +“Miss Majesty, thet ride figgers impossible, but I’ll do it!” he +replied. His cool, bright glance thrilled her. “I’ll need mebbe half an +hour to go over the car an’ to pack on what I’ll want.” + +She could not thank him, and her reply was merely a request that he tell +Nels and other cowboys off duty to come up to the house. When Link had +gone Madeline gave a moment’s thought to preparations for the ride. She +placed what money she had and the telegrams in a satchel. The gown she +had on was thin and white, not suitable for travel, but she would not +risk the losing of one moment in changing it. She put on a long coat +and wound veils round her head and neck, arranging them in a hood so +she could cover her face when necessary. She remembered to take an extra +pair of goggles for Nels’s use, and then, drawing on her gloves, she +went out ready for the ride. + +A number of cowboys were waiting. She explained the situation and left +them in charge of her home. With that she asked Nels to accompany her +down into the desert. He turned white to his lips, and this occasioned +Madeline to remember his mortal dread of the car and Link’s driving. + +“Nels, I’m sorry to ask you,” she added. “I know you hate the car. But I +need you—may need you, oh! so much.” + +“Why, Miss Majesty, thet’s shore all a mistaken idee of yours about me +hatin’ the car,” he said, in his slow, soft drawl. “I was only jealous +of Link; an’ the boys, they made thet joke up on me about bein’ scared +of ridin’ fast. Shore I’m powerful proud to go. An’ I reckon if you +hedn’t asked me my feelin’s might hev been some hurt. Because if you’re +goin’ down among the Greasers you want me.” + +His cool, easy speech, his familiar swagger, the smile with which he +regarded her did not in the least deceive Madeline. The gray was still +in his face. Incomprehensible as it seemed, Nels had a dread, an uncanny +fear, and it was of that huge white automobile. But he lied about it. +Here again was that strange quality of faithfulness. + +Madeline heard the buzz of the car. Link appeared driving up the slope. +He made a short, sliding turn and stopped before the porch. Link had +tied two long, heavy planks upon the car, one on each side, and in every +available space he had strapped extra tires. A huge cask occupied one +back seat, and another seat was full of tools and ropes. There was +just room in this rear part of the car for Nels to squeeze in. Link put +Madeline in front beside him, then bent over the wheel. Madeline waved +her hand at the silent cowboys on the porch. Not an audible good-by was +spoken. + +The car glided out of the yard, leaped from level to slope, and started +swiftly down the road, out into the open valley. Each stronger rush of +dry wind in Madeline’s face marked the increase of speed. She took one +glance at the winding cattle-road, smooth, unobstructed, disappearing +in the gray of distance. She took another at the leather-garbed, +leather-helmeted driver beside her, and then she drew the hood of veils +over her face and fastened it round her neck so there was no possibility +of its blowing loose. + +Harder and stronger pressed the wind till it was like sheeted +lead forcing her back in her seat. There was a ceaseless, intense, +inconceivably rapid vibration under her; occasionally she felt a long +swing, as if she were to be propelled aloft; but no jars disturbed the +easy celerity of the car. The buzz, the roar of wheels, of heavy body +in flight, increased to a continuous droning hum. The wind became an +insupportable body moving toward her, crushing her breast, making the +task of breathing most difficult. To Madeline the time seemed to +fly with the speed of miles. A moment came when she detected a faint +difference in hum and rush and vibration, in the ceaseless sweeping of +the invisible weight against her. This difference became marked. Link +was reducing speed. Then came swift change of all sensation, and she +realized the car had slowed to normal travel. + +Madeline removed her hood and goggles. It was a relief to breathe +freely, to be able to use her eyes. To her right, not far distant, lay +the little town of Chiricahua. Sight of it made her remember Stewart in +a way strange to her constant thought of him. To the left inclined the +gray valley. The red desert was hidden from view, but the Guadalupe +Mountains loomed close in the southwest. + +Opposite Chiricahua, where the road forked, Link Stevens headed the car +straight south and gradually increased speed. Madeline faced another +endless gray incline. It was the San Bernardino Valley. The singing of +the car, the stinging of the wind warned her to draw the hood securely +down over her face again, and then it was as if she was riding at night. +The car lurched ahead, settled into that driving speed which wedged +Madeline back as in a vise. Again the moments went by fleet as the +miles. Seemingly, there was an acceleration of the car till it reached a +certain swiftness—a period of time in which it held that pace, and then +a diminishing of all motion and sound which contributed to Madeline’s +acute sensation. Uncovering her face, she saw Link was passing another +village. Could it be Bernardino? She asked Link—repeated the question. + +“Sure,” he replied. “Eighty miles.” + +Link did not this time apologize for the work of his machine. Madeline +marked the omission with her first thrill of the ride. Leaning over, she +glanced at Link’s watch, which he had fastened upon the wheel in front +of his eyes. A quarter to ten! Link had indeed made short work of the +valley miles. + +Beyond Bernardino Link sheered off the road and put the car to a long, +low-rising slope. Here the valley appeared to run south under the dark +brows of the Guadalupes. Link was heading southwest. Madeline observed +that the grass began to fail as they climbed the ridge; bare, white, +dusty spots appeared; there were patches of mesquite and cactus and +scattering areas of broken rock. + +She might have been prepared for what she saw from the ridge-top. +Beneath them the desert blazed. Seen from afar, it was striking enough, +but riding down into its red jaws gave Madeline the first affront to her +imperious confidence. All about her ranch had been desert, the valleys +were desert; but this was different. Here began the red desert, +extending far into Mexico, far across Arizona and California to the +Pacific. She saw a bare, hummocky ridge, down which the car was +gliding, bounding, swinging, and this long slant seemed to merge into a +corrugated world of rock and sand, patched by flats and basins, streaked +with canyons and ranges of ragged, saw-toothed stone. The distant Sierra +Madres were clearer, bluer, less smoky and suggestive of mirage than she +had ever seen them. Madeline’s sustaining faith upheld her in the +face of this appalling obstacle. Then the desert that had rolled its +immensity beneath her gradually began to rise, to lose its distant +margins, to condense its varying lights and shades, at last to hide its +yawning depths and looming heights behind red ridges, which were only +little steps, little outposts, little landmarks at its gates. + +The bouncing of the huge car, throwing Madeline up, directed her +attention and fastened it upon the way Link Stevens was driving and upon +the immediate foreground. Then she discovered that he was following an +old wagon-road. At the foot of that long slope they struck into rougher +ground, and here Link took to a cautious zigzag course. The wagon-road +disappeared and then presently reappeared. But Link did not always hold +to it. He made cuts, detours, crosses, and all the time seemed to be +getting deeper into a maze of low, red dunes, of flat canyon-beds lined +by banks of gravel, of ridges mounting higher. Yet Link Stevens kept on +and never turned back. He never headed into a place that he could not +pass. Up to this point of travel he had not been compelled to back the +car, and Madeline began to realize that it was the cowboy’s wonderful +judgment of ground that made advance possible. He knew the country; +he was never at a loss; after making a choice of direction, he never +hesitated. + +Then at the bottom of a wide canyon he entered a wash where the wheels +just barely turned in dragging sand. The sun beat down white-hot, the +dust arose, there was not a breath of wind; and no sound save the +slide of a rock now and then down the weathered slopes and the labored +chugging of the machine. The snail pace, like the sand at the wheels, +began to drag at Madeline’s faith. Link gave over the wheel to Madeline, +and, leaping out, he called Nels. When they untied the long planks and +laid them straight in front for the wheels to pass over Madeline saw +how wise had been Link’s forethought. With the aid of those planks they +worked the car through sand and gravel otherwise impossible to pass. + +This canyon widened and opened into space affording an unobstructed view +for miles. The desert sloped up in steps, and in the morning light, with +the sun bright on the mesas and escarpments, it was gray, drab, stone, +slate, yellow, pink, and, dominating all, a dull rust-red. There was +level ground ahead, a wind-swept floor as hard as rock. Link rushed the +car over this free distance. Madeline’s ears filled with a droning hum +like the sound of a monstrous, hungry bee and with a strange, incessant +crinkle which she at length guessed to be the spreading of sheets of +gravel from under the wheels. The giant car attained such a speed that +Madeline could only distinguish the colored landmarks to the fore, and +these faded as the wind stung her eyes. + +Then Link began the ascent of the first step, a long, sweeping, barren +waste with dunes of wonderful violet and heliotrope hues. Here were +well-defined marks of an old wagon-road lately traversed by cattle. The +car climbed steadily, surmounted the height, faced another long bench +that had been cleaned smooth by desert winds. The sky was an intense, +light, steely blue, hard on the eyes. Madeline veiled her face, and did +not uncover it until Link had reduced the racing speed. From the summit +of the next ridge she saw more red ruin of desert. + +A deep wash crossing the road caused Link Stevens to turn due south. +There was a narrow space along the wash just wide enough for the +car. Link seemed oblivious to the fact that the outside wheels were +perilously close to the edge. Madeline heard the rattle of loosened +gravel and earth sliding into the gully. The wash widened and opened out +into a sandy flat. Link crossed this and turned up on the opposite side. +Rocks impeded the progress of the car, and these had to be rolled out +of the way. The shelves of silt, apparently ready to slide with the +slightest weight, the little tributary washes, the boulder-strewn +stretches of slope, the narrow spaces allowing no more than a foot for +the outside wheels, the spear-pointed cactus that had to be avoided—all +these obstacles were as nothing to the cowboy driver. He kept on, and +when he came to the road again he made up for the lost time by speed. + +Another height was reached, and here Madeline fancied that Link had +driven the car to the summit of a high pass between two mountain ranges. +The western slope of that pass appeared to be exceedingly rough and +broken. Below it spread out another gray valley, at the extreme end of +which glistened a white spot that Link grimly called Douglas. Part +of that white spot was Agua Prieta, the sister town across the line. +Madeline looked with eyes that would fain have pierced the intervening +distance. + +The descent of the pass began under difficulties. Sharp stones and +cactus spikes penetrated the front tires, bursting them with ripping +reports. It took time to replace them. The planks were called into +requisition to cross soft places. A jagged point of projecting rock had +to be broken with a sledge. At length a huge stone appeared to hinder +any further advance. Madeline caught her breath. There was no room to +turn the car. But Link Stevens had no intention of such a thing. He +backed the car to a considerable distance, then walked forward. He +appeared to be busy around the boulder for a moment and returned down +the road on the run. A heavy explosion, a cloud of dust, and a rattle of +falling fragments told Madeline that her indomitable driver had cleared +a passage with dynamite. He seemed to be prepared for every emergency. +Madeline looked to see what effect the discovery of Link carrying +dynamite would have upon the silent Nels. + +“Shore, now, Miss Majesty, there ain’t nothin’ goin’ to stop Link,” said +Nels, with a reassuring smile. The significance of the incident had +not dawned upon Nels, or else he was heedless of it. After all, he was +afraid only of the car and Link, and that fear was an idiosyncrasy. +Madeline began to see her cowboy driver with clearer eyes and his spirit +awoke something in her that made danger of no moment. Nels likewise +subtly responded, and, though he was gray-faced, tight-lipped, his eyes +took on the cool, bright gleam of Link’s. + +Cactus barred the way, rocks barred the way, gullies barred the way, and +these Nels addressed in the grim humor with which he was wont to view +tragic things. A mistake on Link’s part, a slip of a wheel, a bursting +of a tire at a critical moment, an instant of the bad luck which might +happen a hundred times on a less perilous ride—any one of these might +spell disaster for the car, perhaps death to the occupants. Again and +again Link used the planks to cross washes in sand. Sometimes the wheels +ran all the length of the planks, sometimes slipped off. Presently +Link came to a ditch where water had worn deep into the road. Without +hesitation he placed them, measuring distance carefully, and then +started across. The danger was in ditching the machine. One of the +planks split, sagged a little, but Link made the crossing without a +slip. + +The road led round under an overhanging cliff and was narrow, rocky, and +slightly downhill. Bidding Madeline and Nels walk round this hazardous +corner, Link drove the car. Madeline expected to hear it crash down +into the canyon, but presently she saw Link waiting to take them aboard +again. Then came steeper parts of the road, places that Link could run +down if he had space below to control the car, and on the other hand +places where the little inclines ended in abrupt ledges upon one side +or a declivity upon the other. Here the cowboy, with ropes on the wheels +and half-hitches upon the spurs of rock, let the car slide down. + +Once at a particularly bad spot Madeline exclaimed involuntarily, +“Oh, time is flying!” Link Stevens looked up at her as if he had been +reproved for his care. His eyes shone like the glint of steel on +ice. Perhaps that utterance of Madeline’s was needed to liberate his +recklessness to its utmost. Certainly he put the car to seemingly +impossible feats. He rimmed gullies, he hurdled rising ground, he leaped +little breaks in the even road. He made his machine cling like a goat +to steep inclines; he rounded corners with the inside wheels higher +than the outside; he passed over banks of soft earth that caved in the +instant he crossed weak places. He kept on and on, threading tortuous +passages through rock-strewn patches, keeping to the old road where it +was clear, abandoning it for open spaces, and always going down. + +At length a mile of clean, brown slope, ridged and grooved like a +washboard, led gently down to meet the floor of the valley, where the +scant grama-grass struggled to give a tinge of gray. The road appeared +to become more clearly defined, and could be seen striking straight +across the valley. + +To Madeline’s dismay, that road led down to a deep, narrow wash. It +plunged on one side, ascended on the other at a still steeper angle. The +crossing would have been laborsome for a horse; for an automobile it was +unpassable. Link turned the car to the right along the rim and drove as +far along the wash as the ground permitted. The gully widened, deepened +all the way. Then he took the other direction. When he made this turn +Madeline observed that the sun had perceptibly begun its slant westward. +It shone in her face, glaring and wrathful. Link drove back to the road, +crossed it, and kept on down the line of the wash. It was a deep cut in +red earth, worn straight down by swift water in the rainy seasons. It +narrowed. In some places it was only five feet wide. Link studied these +points and looked up the slope, and seemed to be making deductions. The +valley was level now, and there were nothing but little breaks in the +rim of the wash. Link drove mile after mile, looking for a place to +cross, and there was none. Finally progress to the south was obstructed +by impassable gullies where the wash plunged into the head of a canyon. +It was necessary to back the car a distance before there was room to +turn. Madeline looked at the imperturbable driver. His face revealed no +more than the same old hard, immutable character. When he reached the +narrowest points, which had so interested him, he got out of the car and +walked from place to place. Once with a little jump he cleared the wash. +Then Madeline noted that the farther rim was somewhat lower. In a flash +she divined Link’s intention. He was hunting a place to jump the car +over the crack in the ground. + +Soon he found one that seemed to suit him, for he tied his red scarf +upon a greasewood-bush. Then, returning to the car, he clambered in, +and, muttering, broke his long silence: “This ain’t no air-ship, but +I’ve outfiggered thet damn wash.” He backed up the gentle slope and +halted just short of steeper ground. His red scarf waved in the wind. +Hunching low over the wheel, he started, slowly at first, then faster, +and then faster. The great car gave a spring like a huge tiger. The +impact of suddenly formed wind almost tore Madeline out of her seat. She +felt Nels’s powerful hands on her shoulders. She closed her eyes. The +jolting headway of the car gave place to a gliding rush. This was broken +by a slight jar, and then above the hum and roar rose a cowboy yell. +Madeline waited with strained nerves for the expected crash. It did not +come. Opening her eyes, she saw the level valley floor without a break. +She had not even noticed the instant when the car had shot over the +wash. + +A strange breathlessness attacked her, and she attributed it to the +celerity with which she was being carried along. Pulling the hood down +over her face, she sank low in the seat. The whir of the car now seemed +to be a world-filling sound. Again the feeling of excitement, the +poignancy of emotional heights, the ever-present impending sense of +catastrophe became held in abeyance to the sheer intensity of physical +sensations. There came a time when all her strength seemed to unite in +an effort to lift her breast against the terrific force of the wind—to +draw air into her flattened lungs. She became partly dazed. The darkness +before her eyes was not all occasioned by the blood that pressed like a +stone mask on her face. She had a sense that she was floating, sailing, +drifting, reeling, even while being borne swiftly as a thunderbolt. Her +hands and arms were immovable under the weight of mountains. There was +a long, blank period from which she awakened to feel an arm supporting +her. Then she rallied. The velocity of the car had been cut to the speed +to which she was accustomed. Throwing back the hood, she breathed freely +again, recovered fully. + +The car was bowling along a wide road upon the outskirts of a city. +Madeline asked what place it could be. + +“Douglas,” replied Link. “An’ jest around is Agua Prieta!” + +That last name seemed to stun Madeline. She heard no more, and saw +little until the car stopped. Nels spoke to some one. Then sight of +khaki-clad soldiers quickened Madeline’s faculties. She was on the +boundary-line between the United States and Mexico, and Agua Prieta, +with its white and blue walled houses, its brown-tiled roofs, lay before +her. A soldier, evidently despatched by Nels, returned and said an +officer would come at once. Madeline’s attention was centered in the +foreground, upon the guard over the road, upon the dry, dusty town +beyond; but she was aware of noise and people in the rear. A cavalry +officer approached the car, stared, and removed his sombrero. + +“Can you tell me anything about Stewart, the American cowboy who was +captured by rebels a few days ago?” asked Madeline. + +“Yes,” replied the officer. “There was a skirmish over the line between +a company of Federals and a large force of guerrillas and rebels. The +Federals were driven west along the line. Stewart is reported to have +done reckless fighting and was captured. He got a Mexican sentence. He +is known here along the border, and the news of his capture stirred +up excitement. We did all we could to get his release. The guerrillas +feared to execute him here, and believed he might be aided to escape. So +a detachment departed with him for Mezquital.” + +“He was sentenced to be shot Thursday at sunset—to-night?” + +“Yes. It was rumored there was a personal resentment against Stewart. I +regret that I can’t give you definite information. If you are friends of +Stewart—relatives—I might find—” + +“I am his wife,” interrupted Madeline. “Will you please read these.” She +handed him the telegrams. “Advise me—help me, if you can?” + +With a wondering glance at her the officer received the telegrams. He +read several, and whistled low in amaze. His manner became quick, alert, +serious. + +“I can’t read these written in Spanish, but I know the names signed.” + Swiftly he ran through the others. + +“Why, these mean Stewart’s release has been authorized. They explain +mysterious rumors we have heard here. Greaser treachery! For some +strange reason messages from the rebel junta have failed to reach their +destination. We heard reports of an exchange for Stewart, but nothing +came of it. No one departed for Mezquital with authority. What an +outrage! Come, I’ll go with you to General Salazar, the rebel chief in +command. I know him. Perhaps we can find out something.” + +Nels made room for the officer. Link sent the car whirring across +the line into Mexican territory. Madeline’s sensibilities were now +exquisitely alive. The white road led into Agua Prieta, a town of +colored walls and roofs. Goats and pigs and buzzards scattered before +the roar of the machine. Native women wearing black mantles peeped +through iron-barred windows. Men wearing huge sombreros, cotton shirts +and trousers, bright sashes round their waists, and sandals, stood +motionless, watching the car go by. The road ended in an immense plaza, +in the center of which was a circular structure that in some measure +resembled a corral. It was a bull-ring, where the national sport of +bull-fighting was carried on. Just now it appeared to be quarters for a +considerable army. Ragged, unkempt rebels were everywhere, and the whole +square was littered with tents, packs, wagons, arms. There were horses, +mules, burros, and oxen. + +The place was so crowded that Link was compelled to drive slowly up +to the entrance to the bull-ring. Madeline caught a glimpse of tents +inside, then her view was obstructed by a curious, pressing throng. +The cavalry officer leaped from the car and pushed his way into the +entrance. + +“Link, do you know the road to this Mezquital?” asked Madeline. + +“Yes. I’ve been there.” + +“How far is it?” + +“Aw, not so very far,” he mumbled. + +“Link! How many miles?” she implored. + +“I reckon only a few.” + +Madeline knew that he lied. She asked him no more; nor looked at him, +nor at Nels. How stifling was this crowded, ill-smelling plaza! The sun, +red and lowering, had sloped far down in the west, but still burned +with furnace heat. A swarm of flies whirled over the car. The shadows of +low-sailing buzzards crossed Madeline’s sight. Then she saw a row of the +huge, uncanny black birds sitting upon the tiled roof of a house. They +had neither an air of sleeping nor resting. They were waiting. She +fought off a horrible ghastly idea before its full realization. These +rebels and guerrillas—what lean, yellow, bearded wretches! They +curiously watched Link as he went working over the car. No two were +alike, and all were ragged. They had glittering eyes sunk deep in their +heads. They wore huge sombreros of brown and black felt, of straw, of +cloth. Every man wore a belt or sash into which was thrust some kind of +weapon. Some wore boots, some shoes, some moccasins, some sandals, and +many were barefooted. They were an excited, jabbering, gesticulating +mob. Madeline shuddered to think how a frenzy to spill blood could run +through these poor revolutionists. If it was liberty they fought for, +they did not show the intelligence in their faces. They were like wolves +upon a scent. They affronted her, shocked her. She wondered if their +officers were men of the same class. What struck her at last and stirred +pity in her was the fact that every man of the horde her swift glance +roamed over, however dirty and bedraggled he was, wore upon him some +ornament, some tassel or fringe or lace, some ensign, some band, +bracelet, badge, or belt, some twist of scarf, something that betrayed +the vanity which was the poor jewel of their souls. It was in the race. + +Suddenly the crowd parted to let the cavalry officer and a rebel of +striking presence get to the car. + +“Madam, it is as I suspected,” said the officer, quickly. “The +messages directing Stewart’s release never reached Salazar. They were +intercepted. But even without them we might have secured Stewart’s +exchange if it had not been for the fact that one of his captors +wanted him shot. This guerrilla intercepted the orders, and then was +instrumental in taking Stewart to Mezquital. It is exceedingly sad. Why, +he should be a free man this instant. I regret—” + +“Who did this—this thing?” cried Madeline, cold and sick. “Who is the +guerrilla?” + +“Senor Don Carlos Martinez. He has been a bandit, a man of influence in +Sonora. He is more of a secret agent in the affairs of the revolution +than an active participator. But he has seen guerrilla service.” + +“Don Carlos! Stewart in his power! O God!” Madeline sank down, almost +overcome. Then two great hands, powerful, thrilling, clasped her +shoulders, and Nels bent over her. + +“Miss Majesty, shore we’re wastin’ time here,” he said. His voice, like +his hands, was uplifting. She wheeled to him in trembling importunity. +How cold, bright, blue the flash of his eyes! They told Madeline she +must not weaken. But she could not speak her thought to Nels—could only +look at Link. + +“It figgers impossible, but I’ll do it!” said Link Stevens, in answer +to her voiceless query. The cold, grim, wild something about her cowboys +blanched Madeline’s face, steeled her nerve, called to the depths of her +for that last supreme courage of a woman. The spirit of the moment was +nature with Link and Nels; with her it must be passion. + +“Can I get a permit to go into the interior—to Mezquital?” asked +Madeline of the officer. + +“You are going on? Madam, it’s a forlorn hope. Mezquital is a hundred +miles away. But there’s a chance—the barest chance if your man can +drive this car. The Mexicans are either murderous or ceremonious in +their executions. The arrangements for Stewart’s will be elaborate. But, +barring unusual circumstances, it will take place precisely at the hour +designated. You need no permit. Your messages are official papers. But +to save time, perhaps delay, I suggest you take this Mexican, Senor +Montes, with you. He outranks Don Carlos and knows the captain of the +Mezquital detachment.” + +“Ah! Then Don Carlos is not in command of the forces holding Stewart?” + +“No.” + +“I thank you, sir. I shall not forget your kindness,” concluded +Madeline. + +She bowed to Senor Montes, and requested him to enter the car. Nels +stowed some of the paraphernalia away, making room in the rear seat. +Link bent over the wheel. The start was so sudden, with such crack and +roar, that the crowd split in wild disorder. Out of the plaza the car +ran, gathering headway; down a street lined by white and blue walls; +across a square where rebels were building barricades; along a railroad +track full of iron flat-cars that carried mounted pieces of artillery; +through the outlying guards, who waved to the officer, Montes. + +Madeline bound her glasses tightly over her eyes, and wound veils round +the lower part of her face. She was all in a strange glow, she had begun +to burn, to throb, to thrill, to expand, and she meant to see all that +was possible. The sullen sun, red as fire, hung over the mountain range +in the west. How low it had sunk! Before her stretched a narrow, white +road, dusty, hard as stone—a highway that had been used for centuries. +If it had been wide enough to permit passing a vehicle it would have +been a magnificent course for automobiles. But the weeds and the dusty +flowers and the mesquite boughs and arms of cactus brushed the car as it +sped by. + +Faster, faster, faster! That old resistless weight began to press +Madeline back; the old incessant bellow of wind filled her ears. Link +Stevens hunched low over the wheel. His eyes were hidden under leather +helmet and goggles, but the lower part of his face was unprotected. He +resembled a demon, so dark and stone-hard and strangely grinning was he. +All at once Madeline realized how matchless, how wonderful a driver was +this cowboy. She divined that weakening could not have been possible to +Link Stevens. He was a cowboy, and he really was riding that car, making +it answer to his will, as it had been born in him to master a horse. He +had never driven to suit himself, had never reached an all-satisfying +speed until now. Beyond that his motive was to save Stewart—to +make Madeline happy. Life was nothing to him. That fact gave him +the superhuman nerve to face the peril of this ride. Because of his +disregard of self he was able to operate the machine, to choose the +power, the speed, the guidance, the going with the best judgment and +highest efficiency possible. Madeline knew he would get her to Mezquital +in time to save Stewart or he would kill her in the attempt. + +The white, narrow road flashed out of the foreground, slipped with +inconceivable rapidity under the car. When she marked a clump of cactus +far ahead it seemed to shoot at her, to speed behind her even the +instant she noticed it. Nevertheless, Madeline knew Link was not putting +the car to its limit. Swiftly as he was flying, he held something in +reserve. But he took the turns of the road as if he knew the way was +cleared before him. He trusted to a cowboy’s luck. A wagon in one of +those curves, a herd of cattle, even a frightened steer, meant a wreck. +Madeline never closed her eyes at these fateful moments. If Link could +stake himself, the others, and her upon such chance, what could not she +stake with her motive? So while the great car hummed and thrummed, +and darted round the curves on two wheels, and sped on like a bullet, +Madeline lived that ride, meant to feel it to the uttermost. + +But it was not all swift going. A stretch of softer ground delayed +Link, made the car labor and pant and pound and grind through gravel. +Moreover, the cactus plants assumed an alarming ability to impede +progress. Long, slender arms of the ocotillo encroached upon the road; +broad, round leaves did likewise; fluted columns, fallen like timbers +in a forest, lay along the narrow margins; the bayonet cactus and the +bisnagi leaned threateningly; clusters of maguey, shadowed by the huge, +looming saguaro, infringed upon the highway to Mezquital. And every +leaf and blade and branch of cactus bore wicked thorns, any one of which +would be fatal to a tire. + +It came at length, the bursting report. The car lurched, went on like +a crippled thing, and halted, obedient to the master hand at the wheel. +Swift as Link was in replacing the tire, he lost time. The red sun, more +sullen, duskier as it neared the black, bold horizon, appeared to mock +Madeline, to eye her in derision. + +Link leaped in, and the car sprang ahead. The road-bed changed, the +trees changed—all the surroundings changed except the cactus. There +were miles of rolling ridges, rough in the hollows, and short rocky bits +of road, and washes to cross, and a low, sandy swale where mesquites +grouped a forest along a trickling inch-deep sheet of water. Green +things softened the hard, dry aspect of the desert. There were birds and +parrots and deer and wild boars. All these Madeline remarked with clear +eyes, with remarkable susceptibility of attention; but what she strained +to see, what she yearned for, prayed for, was straight, unobstructed +road. + +But the road began to wind up; it turned and twisted in tantalizing +lazy curves; it was in no hurry to surmount a hill that began to assume +proportions of a mountain; it was leisurely, as were all things in +Mexico except strife. That was quick, fierce, bloody—it was Spanish. + +The descent from that elevation was difficult, extremely hazardous, yet +Link Stevens drove fast. At the base of the hill rocks and sand all but +halted him for good. Then in taking an abrupt curve a grasping spear +ruined another tire. This time the car rasped across the road into the +cactus, bursting the second front-wheel tire. Like demons indeed Link +and Nels worked. Shuddering, Madeline felt the declining heat of the +sun, saw with gloomy eyes the shading of the red light over the desert. +She did not look back to see how near the sun was to the horizon. She +wanted to ask Nels. Strange as anything on this terrible ride was the +absence of speech. As yet no word had been spoken. Madeline wanted to +shriek to Link to hurry. But he was more than humanly swift in all his +actions. So with mute lips, with the fire in her beginning to chill, +with a lifelessness menacing her spirit, she watched, hoped against +hope, prayed for a long, straight, smooth road. + +Quite suddenly she saw it, seemingly miles of clear, narrow lane +disappearing like a thin, white streak in distant green. Perhaps Link +Stevens’s heart leaped like Madeline’s. The huge car with a roar and a +jerk seemed to answer Madeline’s call, a cry no less poignant because it +was silent. + +Faster, faster, faster! The roar became a whining hum. Then for Madeline +sound ceased to be anything—she could not hear. The wind was now heavy, +imponderable, no longer a swift, plastic thing, but solid, like an +on-rushing wall. It bore down upon Madeline with such resistless weight +that she could not move. The green of desert plants along the road +merged in two shapeless fences, sliding at her from the distance. +Objects ahead began to blur the white road, to grow streaky, like rays +of light, the sky to take on more of a reddening haze. + +Madeline, realizing her sight was failing her, turned for one more look +at Link Stevens. It had come to be his ride almost as much as it was +hers. He hunched lower than ever, rigid, strained to the last degree, a +terrible, implacable driver. This was his hour, and he was great. If he +so much as brushed a flying tire against one of the millions of spikes +clutching out, striking out from the cactus, there would be a shock, +a splitting wave of air—an end. Madeline thought she saw that Link’s +bulging cheek and jaw were gray, that his tight-shut lips were white, +that the smile was gone. Then he really was human—not a demon. She felt +a strange sense of brotherhood. He understood a woman’s soul as Monty +Price had understood it. Link was the lightning-forged automaton, the +driving, relentless, unconquerable instrument of a woman’s will. He was +a man whose force was directed by a woman’s passion. He reached up to +her height, felt her love, understood the nature of her agony. These +made him heroic. But it was the hard life, the wild years of danger on +the desert, the companionship of ruthless men, the elemental, that made +possible his physical achievement. Madeline loved his spirit then and +gloried in the man. + +She had pictured upon her heart, never to be forgotten, this little +hunched, deformed figure of Link’s hanging with dauntless, with +deathless grip over the wheel, his gray face like a marble mask. + +That was Madeline’s last clear sensation upon the ride. Blinded, dazed, +she succumbed to the demands upon her strength. She reeled, fell back, +only vaguely aware of a helping hand. Confusion seized her senses. +All about her was a dark chaos through which she was rushing, rushing, +rushing under the wrathful red eye of a setting sun. Then, as there was +no more sound or sight for her, she felt there was no color. But the +rush never slackened—a rush through opaque, limitless space. +For moments, hours, ages she was propelled with the velocity of a +shooting-star. The earth seemed a huge automobile. And it sped with +her down an endless white track through the universe. Looming, ghostly, +ghastly, spectral forms of cacti plants, large as pine-trees, stabbed +her with giant spikes. She became an unstable being in a shapeless, +colorless, soundless cosmos of unrelated things, but always rushing, +even to meet the darkness that haunted her and never reached her. + +But at an end of infinite time that rush ceased. Madeline lost the queer +feeling of being disembodied by a frightfully swift careening through +boundless distance. She distinguished voices, low at first, apparently +far away. Then she opened her eyes to blurred but conscious sight. + +The car had come to a stop. Link was lying face down over the wheel. +Nels was rubbing her hands, calling to her. She saw a house with clean +whitewashed wall and brown-tiled roof. Beyond, over a dark mountain +range, peeped the last red curve, the last beautiful ray of the setting +sun. + + + + +XXV. At the End of the Road + + +Madeline saw that the car was surrounded by armed Mexicans. They +presented a contrast to the others she had seen that day; she wondered a +little at their silence, at their respectful front. + +Suddenly a sharp spoken order opened up the ranks next to the house. +Senor Montes appeared in the break, coming swiftly. His dark face wore a +smile; his manner was courteous, important, authoritative. + +“Senora, it is not too late!” + +He spoke her language with an accent strange to her, so that it seemed +to hinder understanding. + +“Senora, you got here in time,” he went on. “El Capitan Stewart will be +free.” + +“Free!” she whispered. + +She rose, reeling. + +“Come,” replied Montes, taking her arm. “Perdoneme, Senora.” + +Without his assistance she would have fallen wholly upon Nels, who +supported her on the other side. They helped her alight from the car. +For a moment the white walls, the hazy red sky, the dark figures of the +rebels, whirled before Madeline’s eyes. She took a few steps, swaying +between her escorts; then the confusion of her sight and mind passed +away. It was as if she quickened with a thousand vivifying currents, +as if she could see and hear and feel everything in the world, as if +nothing could be overlooked, forgotten, neglected. + +She turned back, remembering Link. He was lurching from the car, helmet +and goggles thrust back, the gray shade gone from his face, the cool, +bright gleam of his eyes disappearing for something warmer. + +Senor Montes led Madeline and her cowboys through a hall to a patio, +and on through a large room with flooring of rough, bare boards that +rattled, into a smaller room full of armed quiet rebels facing an open +window. + +Madeline scanned the faces of these men, expecting to see Don Carlos. +But he was not present. A soldier addressed her in Spanish too swiftly +uttered, too voluble for her to translate. But, like Senor Montes, he +was gracious and, despite his ragged garb and uncouth appearance, he +bore the unmistakable stamp of authority. + +Montes directed Madeline’s attention to a man by the window. A loose +scarf of vivid red hung from his hand. + +“Senora, they were waiting for the sun to set when we arrived,” said +Montes. “The signal was about to be given for Senor Stewart’s walk to +death.” + +“Stewart’s walk!” echoed Madeline. + +“Ah, Senora, let me tell you his sentence—the sentence I have had the +honor and happiness to revoke for you.” + +Stewart had been court-martialed and sentenced according to a Mexican +custom observed in cases of brave soldiers to whom honorable and fitting +executions were due. His hour had been set for Thursday when the sun had +sunk. Upon signal he was to be liberated and was free to walk out into +the road, to take any direction he pleased. He knew his sentence; knew +that death awaited him, that every possible avenue of escape was blocked +by men with rifles ready. But he had not the slightest idea at what +moment or from what direction the bullets were to come. + +“Senora, we have sent messengers to every squad of waiting soldiers—an +order that El Capitan is not to be shot. He is ignorant of his release. +I shall give the signal for his freedom.” + +Montes was ceremonious, gallant, emotional. Madeline saw his pride, and +divined that the situation was one which brought out the vanity, the +ostentation, as well as the cruelty of his race. He would keep her in +an agony of suspense, let Stewart start upon that terrible walk in +ignorance of his freedom. It was the motive of a Spaniard. Suddenly +Madeline had a horrible quaking fear that Montes lied, that he meant her +to be a witness of Stewart’s execution. But no, the man was honest; +he was only barbarous. He would satisfy certain instincts of his +nature—sentiment, romance, cruelty—by starting Stewart upon that walk, +by watching Stewart’s actions in the face of seeming death, by seeing +Madeline’s agony of doubt, fear, pity, love. Almost Madeline felt that +she could not endure the situation. She was weak and tottering. + +“Senora! Ah, it will be one beautiful thing!” Montes caught the scarf +from the rebel’s hand. He was glowing, passionate; his eyes had a +strange, soft, cold flash; his voice was low, intense. He was living +something splendid to him. “I’ll wave the scarf, Senora. That will be +the signal. It will be seen down at the other end of the road. Senor +Stewart’s jailer will see the signal, take off Stewart’s irons, release +him, open the door for his walk. Stewart will be free. But he will not +know. He will expect death. As he is a brave man, he will face it. He +will walk this way. Every step of that walk he will expect to be shot +from some unknown quarter. But he will not be afraid. Senora, I have +seen El Captain fighting in the field. What is death to him? Ah, will it +not be magnificent to see him come forth—to walk down? Senora, you will +see what a man he is. All the way he will expect cold, swift death. Here +at this end of the road he will meet his beautiful lady!” + +“Is there no—no possibility of a mistake?” faltered Madeline. + +“None. My order included unloading of rifles.” + +“Don Carlos?” + +“He is in irons, and must answer to General Salazar,” replied Montes. + +Madeline looked down the deserted road. How strange to see the last +ruddy glow of the sun over the brow of the mountain range! The thought +of that sunset had been torture for her. Yet it had passed, and now the +afterlights were luminous, beautiful, prophetic. + +With a heart stricken by both joy and agony, she saw Montes wave the +scarf. + +Then she waited. No change manifested itself down the length of that +lonely road. There was absolute silence in the room behind her. How +terribly, infinitely long seemed the waiting! Never in all her future +life would she forget the quaint pink, blue, and white walled houses +with their colored roofs. That dusty bare road resembled one of the +uncovered streets of Pompeii with its look of centuries of solitude. + +Suddenly a door opened and a tall man stepped out. + +Madeline recognized Stewart. She had to place both hands on the +window-sill for support, while a storm of emotion swayed her. Like +a retreating wave it rushed away. Stewart lived. He was free. He had +stepped out into the light. She had saved him. Life changed for her in +that instant of realization and became sweet, full, strange. + +Stewart shook hands with some one in the doorway. Then he looked up +and down the road. The door closed behind him. Leisurely he rolled a +cigarette, stood close to the wall while he scratched a match. Even at +that distance Madeline’s keen eyes caught the small flame, the first +little puff of smoke. + +Stewart then took to the middle of the road and leisurely began his +walk. + +To Madeline he appeared natural, walked as unconcernedly as if he were +strolling for pleasure; but the absence of any other living thing, +the silence, the red haze, the surcharged atmosphere—these were all +unnatural. From time to time Stewart stopped to turn face forward toward +houses and corners. Only silence greeted these significant moves of his. +Once he halted to roll and light another cigarette. After that his step +quickened. + +Madeline watched him, with pride, love, pain, glory combating for a +mastery over her. This walk of his seemingly took longer than all her +hours of awakening, of strife, of remorse, longer than the ride to +find him. She felt that it would be impossible for her to wait till he +reached the end of the road. Yet in the hurry and riot of her feelings +she had fleeting panics. What could she say to him? How meet him? Well +she remembered the tall, powerful form now growing close enough to +distinguish its dress. Stewart’s face was yet only a dark gleam. Soon +she would see it—long before he could know she was there. She wanted to +run to meet him. Nevertheless, she stood rooted to her covert behind the +window, living that terrible walk with him to the uttermost thought of +home, sister, mother, sweetheart, wife, life itself—every thought that +could come to a man stalking to meet his executioners. With all +that tumult in her mind and heart Madeline still fell prey to the +incomprehensible variations of emotion possible to a woman. Every step +Stewart took thrilled her. She had some strange, subtle intuition that +he was not unhappy, and that he believed beyond shadow of doubt that he +was walking to his death. His steps dragged a little, though they had +begun to be swift. The old, hard, physical, wild nerve of the cowboy was +perhaps in conflict with spiritual growth of the finer man, realizing +too late that life ought not to be sacrificed. + +Then the dark gleam that was his face took shape, grew sharper and +clearer. He was stalking now, and there was a suggestion of impatience +in his stride. It took these hidden Mexicans a long time to kill him! At +a point in the middle of the road, even with the corner of a house +and opposite to Madeline’s position, Stewart halted stock-still. He +presented a fair, bold mark to his executioners, and he stood there +motionless a full moment. + +Only silence greeted him. Plain it was to Madeline, and she thought to +all who had eyes to see, that to Stewart, since for some reason he had +been spared all along his walk, this was the moment when he ought to be +mercifully shot. But as no shots came a rugged dignity left him for a +reckless scorn manifest in the way he strolled, across to the corner of +the house, rolled yet another cigarette, and, presenting a broad breast +to the window, smoked and waited. + +That wait was almost unendurable for Madeline. Perhaps it was only a +moment, several moments at the longest, but the time seemed a year. +Stewart’s face was scornful, hard. Did he suspect treachery on the part +of his captors, that they meant to play with him as a cat with a +mouse, to murder him at leisure? Madeline was sure she caught the +old, inscrutable, mocking smile fleeting across his lips. He held that +position for what must have been a reasonable time to his mind, then +with a laugh and a shrug he threw the cigarette into the road. He shook +his head as if at the incomprehensible motives of men who could have no +fair reasons now for delay. + +He made a sudden violent action that was more than a straightening of +his powerful frame. It was the old instinctive violence. Then he faced +north. Madeline read his thought, knew he was thinking of her, calling +her a last silent farewell. He would serve her to his last breath, leave +her free, keep his secret. That picture of him, dark-browed, fire-eyed, +strangely sad and strong, sank indelibly into Madeline’s heart of +hearts. + +The next instant he was striding forward, to force by bold and scornful +presence a speedy fulfilment of his sentence. + +Madeline stepped into the door, crossed the threshold. Stewart staggered +as if indeed the bullets he expected had pierced him in mortal wound. +His dark face turned white. His eyes had the rapt stare, the wild fear +of a man who saw an apparition, yet who doubted his sight. Perhaps he +had called to her as the Mexicans called to their Virgin; perhaps +he imagined sudden death had come unawares, and this was her image +appearing to him in some other life. + +“Who—are—you?” he whispered, hoarsely. + +She tried to lift her hands, failed, tried again, and held them out, +trembling. + +“It is I. Majesty. Your wife!” + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1095 *** |