The Light of Western Stars

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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?"

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