The Light of Western Stars

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"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."

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