The Light of Western Stars

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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.

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