The Light of Western Stars

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Suddenly aware that she had been led beyond the line of houses,
she spoke:

"Where are you taking me?"

"To Florence Kingsley," he replied.

"Who is she?"

"I reckon she's your brother's best friend out here." Madeline
kept pace with the cowboy for a few moments longer, and then she
stopped. It was as much from necessity to catch her breath as it
was from recurring fear. All at once she realized what little
use her training had been for such an experience as this. The
cowboy, missing her, came back the few intervening steps. Then
he waited, still silent, looming beside her.

"It's so dark, so lonely," she faltered. "How do I know . . .
what warrant can you give me that you--that no harm will befall
me if I go farther?"

"None, Miss Hammond, except that I've seen your face."

II A Secret Kept

Because of that singular reply Madeline found faith to go farther
with the cowboy. But at the moment she really did not think
about what he had said. Any answer to her would have served if
it had been kind. His silence had augmented her nervousness,
compelling her to voice her fear. Still, even if he had not
replied at all she would have gone on with him. She shuddered at
the idea of returning to the station, where she believed there
had been murder; she could hardly have forced herself to go back
to those dim lights in the street; she did not want to wander
around alone in the dark.

And as she walked on into the windy darkness, much relieved that
he had answered as he had, reflecting that he had yet to prove
his words true, she began to grasp the deeper significance of
them. There was a revival of pride that made her feel that she
ought to scorn to think at all about such a man. But Madeline
Hammond discovered that thought was involuntary, that there were
feelings in her never dreamed of before this night.

Presently Madeline's guide turned off the walk and rapped at a
door of a low-roofed house.

"Hullo--who's there?" a deep voice answered.

"Gene Stewart," said the cowboy. "Call Florence--quick!"

Thump of footsteps followed, a tap on a door, and voices.
Madeline heard a woman exclaim: "Gene! here when there's a dance
in town! Something wrong out on the range." A light flared up
and shone bright through a window. In another moment there came
a patter of soft steps, and the door opened to disclose a woman
holding a lamp.

"Gene! Al's not--"

"Al is all right," interrupted the cowboy.

Madeline had two sensations then--one of wonder at the note of
alarm and love in the woman's voice, and the other of unutterable
relief to be safe with a friend of her brother's.

"It's Al's sister--came on to-night's train," the cowboy was
saying. "I happened to be at the station, and I've fetched her
up to you."

Madeline came forward out of the shadow.

"Not--not really Majesty Hammond!" exclaimed Florence Kingsley.
She nearly dropped the lamp, and she looked and looked, astounded
beyond belief.

"Yes, I am really she," replied Madeline. "My train was late,
and for some reason Alfred did not meet me. Mr.--Mr. Stewart saw
fit to bring me to you instead of taking me to a hotel."

"Oh, I'm so glad to meet you," replied Florence, warmly. "Do
come in. I'm so surprised, I forget my manners. Why, Al never
mentioned your coming."

"He surely could not have received my messages," said Madeline,
as she entered.

The cowboy, who came in with her satchel, had to stoop to enter
the door, and, once in, he seemed to fill the room. Florence set
the lamp down upon the table. Madeline saw a young woman with a
smiling, friendly face, and a profusion of fair hair hanging down
over her dressing-gown.

"Oh, but Al will be glad!" cried Florence. "Why, you are white
as a sheet. You must be tired. What a long wait you had at the
station! I heard the train come in hours ago as I was going to
bed. That station is lonely at night. If I had known you were
coming! Indeed, you are very pale. Are you ill?"

"No. Only I am very tired. Traveling so far by rail is harder
than I imagined. I did have rather a long wait after arriving at
the station, but I can't say that it was lonely."

Florence Kingsley searched Madeline's face with keen eyes, and
then took a long, significant look at the silent Stewart. With
that she deliberately and quietly closed a door leading into
another room.

"Miss Hammond, what has happened?" She had lowered her voice.

"I do not wish to recall all that has happened," replied
Madeline. "I shall tell Alfred, however, that I would rather
have met a hostile Apache than a cowboy."

"Please don't tell Al that!" cried Florence. Then she grasped
Stewart and pulled him close to the light. "Gene, you're drunk!"

"I was pretty drunk," he replied, hanging his head.

"Oh, what have you done?"

"Now, see here, Flo, I only--"

"I don't want to know. I'd tell it. Gene, aren't you ever going
to learn decency? Aren't you ever going to stop drinking?
You'll lose all your friends. Stillwell has stuck to you. Al's
been your best friend. Molly and I have pleaded with you, and
now you've gone and done--God knows what!"

"What do women want to wear veils for?" he growled. "I'd have
known her but for that veil."

"And you wouldn't have insulted her. But you would the next girl
who came along. Gene, you are hopeless. Now, you get out of
here and don't ever come back."

"Flo!" he entreated.

"I mean it."

"I reckon then I'll come back to-morrow and take my medicine," he
replied.

"Don't you dare!" she cried.

Stewart went out and closed the door.

"Miss Hammond, you--you don't know how this hurts me," said
Florence. "What you must think of us! It's so unlucky that you
should have had this happen right at first. Now, maybe you won't
have the heart to stay. Oh, I've known more than one Eastern
girl to go home without ever learning what we really are cut
here. Miss Hammond, Gene Stewart is a fiend when he's drunk.
All the same I know, whatever he did, he meant no shame to you.
Come now, don't think about it again to-night." She took up the
lamp and led Madeline into a little room. "This is out West,"
she went on, smiling, as she indicated the few furnishings; "but
you can rest. You're perfectly safe. Won't you let me help you
undress--can't I do anything for you?"

"You are very kind, thank you, but I can manage," replied
Madeline.

"Well, then, good night. The sooner I go the sooner you'll rest.
Just forget what happened and think how fine a surprise you're to
give your brother to-morrow."

With that she slipped out and softly shut the door.

As Madeline laid her watch on the bureau she noticed that the
time was past two o'clock. It seemed long since she had gotten
off the train. When she had turned out the lamp and crept
wearily into bed she knew what it was to be utterly spent. She
was too tired to move a finger. But her brain whirled.

She had at first no control over it, and a thousand thronging
sensations came and went and recurred with little logical
relation. There were the roar of the train; the feeling of being
lost; the sound of pounding hoofs; a picture of her brother's
face as she had last seen it five years before; a long, dim line
of lights; the jingle of silver spurs; night, wind, darkness,
stars. Then the gloomy station, the shadowy blanketed Mexican,
the empty room, the dim lights across the square, the tramp of
the dancers and vacant laughs and discordant music, the door
flung wide and the entrance of the cowboy. She did not recall
how he had looked or what he had done. And the next instant she
saw him cool, smiling, devilish--saw him in violence; the next
his bigness, his apparel, his physical being were vague as
outlines in a dream. The white face of the padre flashed along in
the train of thought, and it brought the same dull, half-blind,
indefinable state of mind subsequent to that last nerve-breaking
pistol-shot. That passed, and then clear and vivid rose memories
of the rest that had happened--strange voices betraying fury of
men, a deadened report, a moan of mortal pain, a woman's poignant
cry. And Madeline saw the girl's great tragic eyes and the wild
flight of the big horse into the blackness, and the dark,
stalking figure of the silent cowboy, and the white stars that
seemed to look down remorselessly.

This tide of memory rolled over Madeline again and again, and
gradually lost its power and faded. All distress left her, and
she felt herself drifting. How black the room was--as black with
her eyes open as it was when they were shut! And the silence--it
was like a cloak. There was absolutely no sound. She was in
another world from that which she knew. She thought of this
fair-haired Florence and of Alfred; and, wondering about them,
she dropped to sleep.

When she awakened the room was bright with sunlight. A cool wind
blowing across the bed caused her to put her hands under the
blanket. She was lazily and dreamily contemplating the mud walls
of this little room when she remembered where she was and how she
had come there.

How great a shock she had been subjected to was manifest in a
sensation of disgust that overwhelmed her. She even shut her
eyes to try and blot out the recollection. She felt that she had
been contaminated.

Presently Madeline Hammond again awoke to the fact she had
learned the preceding night--that there were emotions to which
she had heretofore been a stranger. She did not try to analyze
them, but she exercised her self-control to such good purpose
that by the time she had dressed she was outwardly her usual
self. She scarcely remembered when she had found it necessary to
control her emotions. There had been no trouble, no excitement,
no unpleasantness in her life. It had been ordered for her--
tranquil, luxurious, brilliant, varied, yet always the same.

She was not surprised to find the hour late, and was going to
make inquiry about her brother when a voice arrested her. She
recognized Miss Kingsley's voice addressing some one outside, and
it had a sharpness she had not noted before.

"So you came back, did you? Well, you don't look very proud of
yourself this mawnin'. Gene Stewart, you look like a coyote."

"Say, Flo if I am a coyote I'm not going to sneak," he said.

"What 'd you come for?" she demanded.

"I said I was coming round to take my medicine."

"Meaning you'll not run from Al Hammond? Gene, your skull is as
thick as an old cow's. Al will never know anything about what
you did to his sister unless you tell him. And if you do that
he'll shoot you. She won't give you away. She's a thoroughbred.
Why, she was so white last night I thought she'd drop at my feet,
but she never blinked an eyelash. I'm a woman, Gene Stewart and
if I couldn't feel like Miss Hammond I know how awful an ordeal
she must have had. Why, she's one of the most beautiful, the
most sought after, the most exclusive women in New York City.
There's a crowd of millionaires and lords and dukes after her.
How terrible it'd be for a woman like her to be kissed by a
drunken cowpuncher! I say it--"

"Flo, I never insulted her that way," broke out Stewart.

"It was worse, then?" she queried, sharply.

"I made a bet that I'd marry the first girl who came to town. I
was on the watch and pretty drunk. When she came--well, I got
Padre Marcos and tried to bully her into marrying me."

"Oh, Lord!" Florence gasped. "It's worse than I feared. . . .
Gene, Al will kill you."

"That'll be a good thing," replied the cowboy, dejectedly.

"Gene Stewart, it certainly would, unless you turn over a new
leaf," retorted Florence. "But don't be a fool." And here she
became earnest and appealing. "Go away, Gene. Go join the
rebels across the border--you're always threatening that.
Anyhow, don't stay here and run any chance of stirring Al up.
He'd kill you just the same as you would kill another man for
insulting your sister. Don't make trouble for Al. That'd only
make sorrow for her, Gene."

The subtle import was not lost upon Madeline. She was distressed
because she could not avoid hearing what was not meant for her
ears. She made an effort not to listen, and it was futile.

"Flo, you can't see this a man's way," he replied, quietly.
"I'll stay and take my medicine."

"Gene, I could sure swear at you or any other pig-head of a
cowboy. Listen. My brother-in-law, Jack, heard something of
what I said to you last night. He doesn't like you. I'm afraid
he'll tell Al. For Heaven's sake, man, go down-town and shut him
up and yourself, too."

Then Madeline heard her come into the house and presently rap on
the door and call softly:

"Miss Hammond. Are you awake?"

"Awake and dressed, Miss Kingsley. Come in."

"Oh! You've rested. You look so--so different. I'm sure glad.
Come out now. We'll have breakfast, and then you may expect to
meet your brother any moment."

"Wait, please. I heard you speaking to Mr. Stewart. It was
unavoidable. But I am glad. I must see him. Will you please
ask him to come into the parlor a moment?"

"Yes," replied Florence, quickly; and as she turned at the door
she flashed at Madeline a woman's meaning glance. "Make him keep
his mouth shut!"

Presently there were slow, reluctant steps outside the front
door, then a pause, and the door opened. Stewart stood
bareheaded in the sunlight. Madeline remembered with a kind of
shudder the tall form, the embroidered buckskin vest, the red
scarf, the bright leather wristbands, the wide silver-buckled
belt and chaps. Her glance seemed to run over him swift as
lightning. But as she saw his face now she did not recognize it.
The man's presence roused in her a revolt. Yet something in her,
the incomprehensible side of her nature, thrilled in the look of
this splendid dark-faced barbarian.

"Mr. Stewart, will you please come in?" she asked, after that
long pause.

"I reckon not," he said. The hopelessness of his tone meant that
he knew he was not fit to enter a room with her, and did not care
or cared too much.

Madeline went to the door. The man's face was hard, yet it was
sad, too. And it touched her.

"I shall not tell my brother of your--your rudeness to me," she
began. It was impossible for her to keep the chill out of her
voice, to speak with other than the pride and aloofness of her
class. Nevertheless, despite her loathing, when she had spoken
so far it seemed that kindness and pity followed involuntarily.
"I choose to overlook what you did because you were not wholly
accountable, and because there must be no trouble between Alfred
and you. May I rely on you to keep silence and to seal the lips
of that priest? And you know there was a man killed or injured
there last night. I want to forget that dreadful thing. I don't
want it known that I heard--"

"The Greaser didn't die," interrupted Stewart.

"Ah! then that's not so bad, after all. I am glad for the sake
of your friend--the little Mexican girl."

A slow scarlet wave overspread his face, and his shame was
painful to see. That fixed in Madeline's mind a conviction that
if he was a heathen he was not wholly bad. And it made so much
difference that she smiled down at him.

"You will spare me further distress, will you not, please?" His
hoarse reply was incoherent, but she needed only to see his
working face to know his remorse and gratitude.

Madeline went back to her room; and presently Florence came for
her, and directly they were sitting at breakfast. Madeline
Hammond's impression of her brother's friend had to be
reconstructed in the morning light. She felt a wholesome, frank,
sweet nature. She liked the slow Southern drawl. And she was
puzzled to know whether Florence Kingsley was pretty or striking
or unusual. She had a youthful glow and flush, the clear tan of
outdoors, a face that lacked the soft curves and lines of Eastern
women, and her eyes were light gray, like crystal, steady, almost
piercing, and her hair was a beautiful bright, waving mass.

Florence's sister was the elder of the two, a stout woman with a
strong face and quiet eyes. It was a simple fare and service
they gave to their guest; but they made no apologies for that.
Indeed, Madeline felt their simplicity to be restful. She was
sated with respect, sick of admiration, tired of adulation; and
it was good to see that these Western women treated her as very
likely they would have treated any other visitor. They were
sweet, kind; and what Madeline had at first thought was a lack of
expression or vitality she soon discovered to be the natural
reserve of women who did not live superficial lives. Florence
was breezy and frank, her sister quaint and not given much to
speech. Madeline thought she would like to have these women near
her if she were ill or in trouble. And she reproached herself
for a fastidiousness, a hypercritical sense of refinement that
could not help distinguishing what these women lacked.

"Can you ride?" Florence was asking. "That's what a Westerner
always asks any one from the East. Can you ride like a man--
astride, I mean? Oh, that's fine. You look strong enough to
hold a horse. We have some fine horses out here. I reckon when
Al comes we'll go out to Bill Stillwell's ranch. We'll have to
go, whether we want to or not, for when Bill learns you are here
he'll just pack us all off. You'll love old Bill. His ranch is
run down, but the range and the rides up in the mountains--they
are beautiful. We'll hunt and climb, and most of all we'll ride.
I love a horse--I love the wind in my face, and a wide stretch
with the mountains beckoning. You must have the best horse on
the ranges. And that means a scrap between Al and Bill and all
the cowboys. We don't all agree about horses, except in case of
Gene Stewart's iron-gray."

"Does Mr. Stewart own the best horse in the country?" asked
Madeline. Again she had an inexplicable thrill as she remembered
the wild flight of Stewart's big dark steed and rider.

"Yes, and that's all he does own," replied Florence. "Gene can't
keep even a quirt. But he sure loves that horse and calls him--"

At this juncture a sharp knock on the parlor door interrupted the
conversation. Florence's sister went to open it. She returned
presently and said:

"It's Gene. He's been dawdlin' out there on the front porch, and
he knocked to let us know Miss Hammond's brother is comin'."

Florence hurried into the parlor, followed by Madeline. The door
stood open, and disclosed Stewart sitting on the porch steps.
From down the road came a clatter of hoofs. Madeline looked out
over Florence's shoulder and saw a cloud of dust approaching, and
in it she distinguished outlines of horses and riders. A warmth
spread over her, a little tingle of gladness, and the feeling
recalled her girlish love for her brother. What would he be like
after long years?

"Gene, has Jack kept his mouth shut?" queried Florence; and again
Madeline was aware of a sharp ring in the girl's voice.

"No," replied Stewart.

"Gene! You won't let it come to a fight? Al can be managed.
But Jack hates you and he'll have his friends with him."

"There won't be any fight."

"Use your brains now," added Florence; and then she turned to
push Madeline gently back into the parlor.

Madeline's glow of warmth changed to a blank dismay. Was she to
see her brother act with the violence she now associated with
cowboys? The clatter of hoofs stopped before the door. Looking
out, Madeline saw a bunch of dusty, wiry horses pawing the gravel
and tossing lean heads. Her swift glance ran over the lithe
horsemen, trying to pick out the one who was her brother. But
she could not. Her glance, however, caught the same rough dress
and hard aspect that characterized the cowboy Stewart. Then one
rider threw his bridle, leaped from the saddle, and came bounding
up the porch steps. Florence met him at the door.

"Hello, Flo. Where is she?" he called, eagerly. With that he
looked over her shoulder to espy Madeline. He actually jumped at
her. She hardly knew the tall form and the bronzed face, but the
warm flash of blue eyes was familiar. As for him, he had no
doubt of his sister, it appeared, for with broken welcome he
threw his arms around her, then held her off and looked
searchingly at her.

"Well, sister," he began, when Florence turned hurriedly from the
door and interrupted him.

"Al, I think you'd better stop the wrangling out there." He
stared at her, appeared suddenly to hear the loud voices from the
street, and then, releasing Madeline, he said:

"By George! I forgot, Flo. There is a little business to see
to. Keep my sister in here, please, and don't be fussed up now."

He went out on the porch and called to his men:

"Shut off your wind, Jack! And you, too, Blaze! I didn't want
you fellows to come here. But as you would come, you've got to
shut up. This is my business."

Whereupon he turned to Stewart, who was sitting on the fence.

"Hello, Stewart!" he said.

It was a greeting; but there was that in the voice which alarmed
Madeline.

Stewart leisurely got up and leisurely advanced to the porch.

"Hello, Hammond!" he drawled.

"Drunk again last night?"

"Well, if you want to know, and if it's any of your mix, yes, I
was-pretty drunk," replied Stewart.

It was a kind of cool speech that showed the cowboy in control of
himself and master of the situation--not an easy speech to follow
up with undue inquisitiveness. There was a short silence.

"Damn it, Stewart," said the speaker, presently, "here's the
situation: It's all over town that you met my sister last night
at the station and--and insulted her. Jack's got it in for you,
so have these other boys. But it's my affair. Understand, I
didn't fetch them here. They can see you square yourself, or
else--Gene, you've been on the wrong trail for some time,
drinking and all that. You're going to the bad. But Bill
thinks, and I think, you're still a man. We never knew you to
lie. Now what have you to say for yourself?"

"Nobody is insinuating that I am a liar?" drawled Stewart.

"No."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that. You see, Al, I was pretty drunk
last night, but not drunk enough to forget the least thing I did.
I told Pat Hawe so this morning when he was curious. And that's
polite for me to be to Pat. Well, I found Miss Hammond waiting
alone at the station. She wore a veil, but I knew she was a
lady, of course. I imagine, now that I think of it, that Miss
Hammond found my gallantry rather startling, and--"

At this point Madeline, answering to unconsidered impulse, eluded
Florence and walked out upon the porch.

Sombreros flashed down and the lean horses jumped.

"Gentlemen," said Madeline, rather breathlessly; and it did not
add to her calmness to feel a hot flush in her cheeks, "I am very
new to Western ways, but I think you are laboring under a
mistake, which, in justice to Mr. Stewart, I want to correct.
Indeed, he was rather--rather abrupt and strange when he came up
to me last night; but as I understand him now, I can attribute
that to his gallantry. He was somewhat wild and sudden and--
sentimental in his demand to protect me--and it was not clear
whether he meant his protection for last night or forever; but I
am happy to say be offered me no word that was not honorable. And
he saw me safely here to Miss Kingsley's home."

III Sister and Brother

Then Madeline returned to the little parlor with the brother whom
she had hardly recognized.

"Majesty!" he exclaimed. "To think of your being here!"

The warmth stole back along her veins. She remembered how that
pet name had sounded from the lips of this brother who had given
it to her.

"Alfred!"

Then his words of gladness at sight of her, his chagrin at not
being at the train to welcome her, were not so memorable of him
as the way he clasped her, for he had held her that way the day
he left home, and she had not forgotten. But now he was so much
taller and bigger, so dusty and strange and different and
forceful, that she could scarcely think him the same man. She
even had a humorous thought that here was another cowboy bullying
her, and this time it was her brother.

"Dear old girl," he said, more calmly, as he let her go, "you
haven't changed at all, except to grow lovelier. Only you're a
woman now, and you've fulfilled the name I gave you. God! how
sight of you brings back home! It seems a hundred years since I
left. I missed you more than all the rest."

Madeline seemed to feel with his every word that she was
remembering him. She was so amazed at the change in him that she
could not believe her eyes. She saw a bronzed, strong-jawed,
eagle-eyed man, stalwart, superb of height, and, like the
cowboys, belted, booted, spurred. And there was something hard
as iron in his face that quivered with his words. It seemed that
only in those moments when the hard lines broke and softened
could she see resemblance to the face she remembered. It was his
manner, the tone of his voice, and the tricks of speech that
proved to her he was really Alfred. She had bidden good-by to a
disgraced, disinherited, dissolute boy. Well she remembered the
handsome pale face with its weakness and shadows and careless
smile, with the ever-present cigarette hanging between the lips.
The years had passed, and now she saw him a man--the West had
made him a man. And Madeline Hammond felt a strong, passionate
gladness and gratefulness, and a direct check to her suddenly
inspired hatred of the West.

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