The Light of Western Stars

Z >> Zane Grey >> The Light of Western Stars

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28

"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.

IX 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.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28