The Light of Western Stars

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Ambrose whispered so low that Madeline scarcely heard him. "If
the Greaser goes that way he'll find our horses and get wise to
the trick. Oh, he's wise now! But I'll gamble he never even
starts on that trail."

Neither hurriedly nor guardedly Stewart rose out of his leaning
posture and took a couple of long strides toward Don Carlos.

"Go back the way you came," he fairly yelled; and his voice had
the ring of a bugle.

Ambrose nudged Madeline; his whisper was tense and rapid: "Don't
miss nothin'. Gene's called him. Whatever's comin' off will be
here quick as lightnin'. See! I guess maybe that Greaser don't
savvy good U. S. lingo. Look at that dirty yaller face turn
green. Put one eye on Nels and Monty! That's great--just to see
'em. Just as quiet and easy. But oh, the difference! Bent and
stiff--that means every muscle is like a rawhide riata. They're
watchin' with eyes that can see the workin's of them Greasers'
minds. Now there ain't a hoss-hair between them Greasers and
hell!"

Don Carlos gave Stewart one long malignant stare; then he threw
back his head, swept up the sombrero, and his evil smile showed
gleaming teeth.

"Senor--" he began.

With magnificent bound Stewart was upon him. The guerrilla's cry
was throttled in his throat. A fierce wrestling ensued, too
swift to see clearly; then heavy, sodden blows, and Don Carlos
was beaten to the ground. Stewart leaped back. Then, crouching
with his hands on the butts of guns at his hips, he yelled, he
thundered at the guerrillas. He had been quicker than a panther,
and now his voice was so terrible that it curdled Madeline's
blood, and the menace of deadly violence in his crouching
position made her shut her eyes. But she had to open them. In
that single instant Nels and Monty had leaped to Stewart's side.
Both were bent down, with hands on the butts of guns at their
hips. Nels's piercing yell seemed to divide Monty's roar of
rage. Then they ceased, and echoes clapped from the crags. The
silence of those three men crouching like tigers about to leap
was more menacing than the nerve-racking yells.

Then the guerrillas wavered and broke and ran for their horses.
Don Carlos rolled over, rose, and staggered away, to be helped
upon his mount. He looked back, his pale and bloody face that of
a thwarted demon. The whole band got into action and were gone
in a moment.

"I knew it," declared Ambrose. "Never seen a Greaser who could
face gun-play. That was some warm. And Monty Price never
flashed a gun! He'll never get over that. I reckon, Miss
Harnmond, we're some lucky to avoid trouble. Gene had his way,
as you seen. We'll be makin' tracks for the ranch in about two
shakes."

"Why?" whispered Madeline, breathlessly. She became conscious
that she was weak and shaken.

"Because the guerrillas sure will get their nerve back, and come
sneakin' on our trail or try to head us off by ambushin',"
replied Ambrose. "That's their way. Otherwise three cowboys
couldn't bluff a whole gang like that. Gene knows the nature of
Greasers. They're white-livered. But I reckon we're in more
danger now than before, unless we get a good start down the
mountain. There! Gene's callin'. Come! Hurry!"

Helen had slipped down from her vantage-point, and therefore had
not seen the last act in that little camp-fire drama. It seemed,
however, that her desire for excitement was satisfied, for her
face was pale and she trembled when she asked if the guerrillas
were gone.

"I didn't see the finish, but those horrible yells were enough
for me."

Ambrose hurried the three women over the rough rocks, down the
cliff. The cowboys below were saddling horses in haste.
Evidently all the horses had been brought out of hiding.
Swiftly, with regard only for life and limb, Madeline, Helen, and
Christine were lowered by lassoes and half carried down to the
level. By the time they were safely down the other members of
the party appeared on the cliff above. They were in excellent
spirits, appearing to treat the matter as a huge joke.

Ambrose put Christine on a horse and rode away through the pines;
Frankie Slade did likewise with Helen. Stewart led Madeline's
horse up to her, helped her to mount, and spoke one stern word,
"Wait!" Then as fast as one of the women reached the level she
was put upon a horse and taken away by a cowboy escort. Few
words were spoken. Haste seemed to be the great essential. The
horses were urged, and, once in the trail, spurred and led into a
swift trot. One cowboy drove up four pack-horses, and these were
hurriedly loaded with the party's baggage. Castleton and his
companions mounted, and galloped off to catch the others in the
lead. This left Madeline behind with Stewart and Nels and Monty.

"They're goin' to switch off at the holler thet heads near the
trail a few miles down," Nels was saying, as he tightened his
saddle-girth. "Thet holler heads into a big canyon. Once in
thet, it'll be every man fer hisself. I reckon there won't be
anythin' wuss than a rough ride."

Nels smiled reassuringly at Madeline, but he did not speak to
her. Monty took her canteen and filled it at the spring and hung
it over the pommel of her saddle. He put a couple of biscuits in
the saddle-bag.

"Don't fergit to take a drink an' a bite as you're ridin' along,"
he said. "An' don't worry, Miss Majesty. Stewart'll be with you,
an' me an' Nels hangin' on the back-trail."

His somber and sullen face did not change in its strange
intensity, but the look in his eyes Madeline felt she would never
forget. Left alone with these three men, now stripped of all
pretense, she realized how fortune had favored her and what peril
still hung in the balance. Stewart swung astride his big black,
spurred him, and whistled. At the whistle Majesty jumped, and
with swift canter followed Stewart. Madeline looked back to see
Nels already up and Monty handing him a rifle. Then the pines
hid her view.

Once in the trail, Stewart's horse broke into a gallop. Majesty
changed his gait and kept at the black's heels. Stewart called
back a warning. The low, wide-spreading branches of trees might
brush Madeline out of the saddle. Fast riding through the forest
along a crooked, obstructed trail called forth all her alertness.
Likewise the stirring of her blood, always susceptible to the
spirit and motion of a ride, let alone one of peril, now began to
throb and burn away the worry, the dread, the coldness that had
weighted her down.

Before long Stewart wheeled at right angles off the trail and
entered a hollow between two low bluffs. Madeline saw tracks in
the open patches of ground. Here Stewart's horse took to a brisk
walk. The hollow deepened, narrowed, became rocky, full of logs
and brush. Madeline exerted all her keenness, and needed it, to
keep close to Stewart. She did not think of him, nor her own
safety, but of keeping Majesty close in the tracks of the black,
of eluding the sharp spikes in the dead brush, of avoiding the
treacherous loose stones.

At last Madeline was brought to a dead halt by Stewart and his
horse blocking the trail. Looking up, she saw they were at the
head of a canyon that yawned beneath and widened its gray-walled,
green-patched slopes down to a black forest of fir. The drab
monotony of the foothills made contrast below the forest, and
away in the distance, rosy and smoky, lay the desert. Retracting
her gaze, Madeline saw pack-horses cross an open space a mile
below, and she thought she saw the stag-hounds. Stewart's dark
eyes searched the slopes high up along the craggy escarpments.
Then he put the black to the descent.

If there had been a trail left by the leading cowboys, Stewart
did not follow it. He led off to the right, zigzagging an
intricate course through the roughest ground Madeline had ever
ridden over. He crashed through cedars, threaded a tortuous way
among boulders, made his horse slide down slanting banks of soft
earth, picked a slow and cautious progress across weathered
slopes of loose rock. Madeline followed, finding in this ride a
tax on strength and judgment. On an ordinary horse she never
could have kept in Stewart's trail. It was dust and heat, a
parching throat, that caused Madeline to think of time; and she
was amazed to see the sun sloping to the west. Stewart never
stopped; he never looked back; he never spoke. He must have
heard the horse close behind him. Madeline remembered Monty's
advice about drinking and eating as she rode along. The worst of
that rough travel came at the bottom of the canyon. Dead cedars
and brush and logs were easy to pass compared with the miles, it
seemed, of loose boulders. The horses slipped and stumbled.
Stewart proceeded here with exceeding care. At last, when the
canyon opened into a level forest of firs, the sun was setting red
in the west.

Stewart quickened the gait of his horse. After a mile or so of
easy travel the ground again began to fall decidedly, sloping in
numerous ridges, with draws between. Soon night shadowed the
deeper gullies. Madeline was refreshed by the cooling of the
air.

Stewart traveled slowly now. The barks of coyotes seemed to
startle him. Often he stopped to listen. And during one of
those intervals the silence was broken by sharp rifle-shots.
Madeline could not tell whether they were near or far, to right
or left, behind or before. Evidently Stewart was both alarmed
and baffled. He dismounted. He went cautiously forward to
listen. Madeline fancied she heard a cry, low and far away. It
was only that of a coyote, she convinced herself, yet it was so
wailing, so human, that she shuddered. Stewart came back. He
slipped the bridles of both horses, and he led them. Every few
paces he stopped to listen. He changed his direction several
times, and the last time he got among rough, rocky ridges. The
iron shoes of the horses cracked on the rocks. That sound must
have penetrated far into the forest. It perturbed Stewart, for he
searched for softer ground. Meanwhile the shadows merged into
darkness. The stars shone. The wind rose. Madeline believed
hours passed.

Stewart halted again. In the gloom Madeline discerned a log
cabin, and beyond it pear-pointed dark trees piercing the
sky-line. She could just make out Stewart's tall form as he
leaned against his horse. Either he was listening or debating
what to do--perhaps both. Presently he went inside the cabin.
Madeline heard the scratching of a match; then she saw a faint
light. The cabin appeared to be deserted. Probably it was one
of the many habitations belonging to prospectors and foresters
who lived in the mountains. Stewart came out again. He walked
around the horses, out into the gloom, then back to Madeline. For
a long moment he stood as still as a statue and listened. Then
she heard him mutter, "If we have to start quick I can ride
bareback." With that he took the saddle and blanket off his
horse and carried them into the cabin.

"Get off," he said, in a low voice, as he stepped out of the
door.

He helped her down and led her inside, where again he struck a
match. Madeline caught a glimpse of a rude fireplace and
rough-hewn logs. Stewart's blanket and saddle lay on the
hard-packed earthen floor.

"Rest a little," he said. "I'm going into the woods a piece to
listen. Gone only a minute or so."

Madeline had to feel round in the dark to locate the saddle and
blanket. When she lay down it was with a grateful sense of ease
and relief. As her body rested, however, her mind became the old
thronging maze for sensation and thought. All day she had
attended to the alert business of helping her horse. Now, what
had already happened, the night, the silence, the proximity of
Stewart and his strange, stern caution, the possible happenings
to her friends--all claimed their due share of her feeling. She
went over them all with lightning swiftness of thought. She
believed, and she was sure Stewart believed, that her friends,
owing to their quicker start down the mountain, had not been
headed off in their travel by any of the things which had delayed
Stewart. This conviction lifted the suddenly returning dread
from her breast; and as for herself, somehow she had no fear.
But she could not sleep; she did not try to.

Stewart's soft steps sounded outside. His dark form loomed in
the door. As he sat down Madeline heard the thump of a gun that
he laid beside him on the sill; then the thump of another as he
put that down, too. The sounds thrilled her. Stewart's wide
shoulders filled the door; his finely shaped head and strong,
stern profile showed clearly in outline against the sky; the wind
waved his hair. He turned his ear to that wind and listened.
Motionless he sat for what to her seemed hours.

Then the stirring memory of the day's adventure, the feeling of
the beauty of the night, and a strange, deep-seated, sweetly
vague consciousness of happiness portending, were all burned out
in hot, pressing pain at the remembrance of Stewart's disgrace in
her eyes. Something had changed within her so that what had been
anger at herself was sorrow for him. He was such a splendid man.
She could not feel the same; she knew her debt to him, yet she
could not thank him, could not speak to him. She fought an
unintelligible bitterness.

Then she rested with closed eyes, and time seemed neither short
nor long. When Stewart called her she opened her eyes to see the
gray of dawn. She rose and stepped outside. The horses whinnied.
In a moment she was in the saddle, aware of cramped muscles and a
weariness of limbs. Stewart led off at a sharp trot into the fir
forest. They came to a trail into which he turned. The horses
traveled steadily; the descent grew less steep; the firs thinned
out; the gray gloom brightened.

When Madeline rode out of the firs the sun had arisen and the
foothills rolled beneath her; and at their edge, where the gray
of valley began, she saw a dark patch that she knew was the
ranch-house.

XX The Sheriff of El Cajon

About the middle of the forenoon of that day Madeline reached the
ranch. Her guests had all arrived there late the night before,
and wanted only her presence and the assurance of her well-being
to consider the last of the camping trip a rare adventure.
Likewise, they voted it the cowboys' masterpiece of a trick.
Madeline's delay, they averred, had been only a clever coup to
give a final effect. She did not correct their impression, nor
think it needful to state that she had been escorted home by only
one cowboy.

Her guests reported an arduous ride down the mountain, with only
one incident to lend excitement. On the descent they had fallen
in with Sheriff Hawe and several of his deputies, who were
considerably under the influence of drink and very greatly
enraged by the escape of the Mexican girl Bonita. Hawe had used
insulting language to the ladies and, according to Ambrose, would
have inconvenienced the party on some pretext or other if he had
not been sharply silenced by the cowboys.

Madeline's guests were two days in recovering from the hard ride.
On the third day they leisurely began to prepare for departure.
This period was doubly trying for Madeline. She had her own
physical need of rest, and, moreover, had to face a mental
conflict that could scarcely be postponed further. Her sister
and friends were kindly and earnestly persistent in their
entreaties that she go back East with them. She desired to go.
It was not going that mattered; it was how and when and under
what circumstances she was to return that roused in her
disturbing emotion. Before she went East she wanted to have
fixed in mind her future relation to the ranch and the West.
When the crucial hour arrived she found that the West had not
claimed her yet. These old friends had warmed cold ties.

It turned out, however, that there need be no hurry about making
the decision. Madeline would have welcomed any excuse to
procrastinate; but, as it happened, a letter from Alfred made her
departure out of the question for the present. He wrote that his
trip to California had been very profitable, that he had a
proposition for Madeline from a large cattle company, and,
particularly, that he wanted to marry Florence soon after his
arrival home and would bring a minister from Douglas for that
purpose.

Madeline went so far, however, as to promise Helen and her
friends that she would go East soon, at the very latest by
Thanksgiving. With that promise they were reluctantly content to
say good-by to the ranch and to her. At the last moment there
seemed a great likelihood of a hitch in plans for the first stage
of that homeward journey. All of Madeline's guests held up their
hands, Western fashion, when Link Stevens appeared with the big
white car. Link protested innocently, solemnly, that he would
drive slowly and safely; but it was necessary for Madeline to
guarantee Link's word and to accompany them before they would
enter the car. At the station good-bys were spoken and repeated,
and Madeline's promise was exacted for the hundredth time.

Dorothy Coombs's last words were: "Give my love to Monty Price.
Tell him I'm--I'm glad he kissed me!"

Helen's eyes had a sweet, grave, yet mocking light as she said:

"Majesty, bring Stewart with you when you come. He'll be the
rage."

Madeline treated the remark with the same merry lightness with
which it was received by the others; but after the train had
pulled out and she was on her way home she remembered Helen's
words and looks with something almost amounting to a shock. Any
mention of Stewart, any thought of him, displeased her.

"What did Helen mean?" mused Madeline. And she pondered. That
mocking light in Helen's eyes had been simply an ironical glint,
a cynical gleam from that worldly experience so suspicious and
tolerant in its wisdom. The sweet gravity of Helen's look had
been a deeper and more subtle thing. Madeline wanted to
understand it, to divine in it a new relation between Helen and
herself, something fine and sisterly that might lead to love.
The thought, however, revolving around a strange suggestion of
Stewart, was poisoned at its inception, and she dismissed it.

Upon the drive in to the ranch, as she was passing the lower
lake, she saw Stewart walking listlessly along the shore. When he
became aware of the approach of the car he suddenly awakened from
his aimless sauntering and disappeared quickly in the shade of
the shrubbery. This was not by any means the first time Madeline
had seen him avoid a possible meeting with her. Somehow the act
had pained her, though affording her a relief. She did not want
to meet him face to face.

It was annoying for her to guess that Stillwell had something to
say in Stewart's defense. The old cattleman was evidently
distressed. Several times he had tried to open a conversation
with Madeline relating to Stewart; she had evaded him until the
last time, when his persistence had brought a cold and final
refusal to hear another word about the foreman. Stillwell had
been crushed.

As days passed Stewart remained at the ranch without his old
faithfulness to his work. Madeline was not moved to a kinder
frame of mind to see him wandering dejectedly around. It hurt
her, and because it hurt her she grew all the harder. Then she
could not help hearing snatches of conversation which
strengthened her suspicions that Stewart was losing his grip on
himself, that he would soon take the downward course again.
Verification of her own suspicion made it a belief, and belief
brought about a sharp conflict between her generosity and some
feeling that she could not name. It was not a question of
justice or mercy or sympathy. If a single word could have saved
Stewart from sinking his splendid manhood into the brute she had
recoiled from at Chiricahua, she would not have spoken it. She
could not restore him to his former place in her regard; she
really did not want him at the ranch at all. Once, considering
in wonder her knowledge of men, she interrogated herself to see
just why she could not overlook Stewart's transgression. She
never wanted to speak to him again, or see him, or think of him.
In some way, through her interest in Stewart, she had come to
feel for herself an inexplicable thing close to scorn.

A telegram from Douglas, heralding the coming of Alfred and a
minister, put an end to Madeline's brooding, and she shared
something of Florence Kingsley's excitement. The cowboys were as
eager and gossipy as girls. It was arranged to have the wedding
ceremony performed in Madeline's great hall-chamber, and the
dinner in the cool, flower-scented patio.

Alfred and his minister arrived at the ranch in the big white
car. They appeared considerably wind-blown. In fact, the
minister was breathless, almost sightless, and certainly hatless.
Alfred, used as he was to wind and speed, remarked that he did
not wonder at Nels's aversion to riding a fleeting cannon-ball.
The imperturbable Link took off his cap and goggles and,
consulting his watch, made his usual apologetic report to
Madeline, deploring the fact that a teamster and a few stray
cattle on the road had held him down to the manana time of only a
mile a minute.

Arrangements for the wedding brought Alfred's delighted approval.
When he had learned all Florence and Madeline would tell him he
expressed a desire to have the cowboys attend; and then he went
on to talk about California, where he was going take Florence on
a short trip. He was curiously interested to find out all about
Madeline's guests and what had happened to them. His keen glance
at Madeline grew softer as she talked.

"I breathe again," he said, and laughed. "I was afraid. Well, I
must have missed some sport. I can just fancy what Monty and
Nels did to that Englishman. So you went up to the crags.
That's a wild place. I'm not surprised at guerrillas falling in
with you up there. The crags were a famous rendezvous for
Apaches--it's near the border--almost inaccessible--good water
and grass. I wonder what the U. S. cavalry would think if they
knew these guerrillas crossed the border right under their noses.
Well, it's practically impossible to patrol some of that
border-line. It's desert, mountain, and canyon, exceedingly wild
and broken. I'm sorry to say that there seems to be more trouble
in sight with these guerrillas than at any time heretofore.
Orozco, the rebel leader, has failed to withstand Madero's army.
The Federals are occupying Chihuahua now, and are driving the
rebels north. Orozco has broken up his army into guerrilla bands.
They are moving north and west, intending to carry on guerrilla
warfare in Sonora. I can't say just how this will affect us
here. But we're too close to the border for comfort. These
guerrillas are night-riding hawks; they can cross the border,
raid us here, and get back the same night. Fighting, I imagine,
will not be restricted to northern Mexico. With the revolution a
failure the guerrillas will be more numerous, bolder, and
hungrier. Unfortunately, we happen to be favorably situated for
them down here in this wilderness corner of the state."

On the following day Alfred and Florence were married. Florence's
sister and several friends from El Cajon were present, besides
Madeline, Stillwell, and his men. It was Alfred's express wish
that Stewart attend the ceremony. Madeline was amused when she
noticed the painfully suppressed excitement of the cowboys. For
them a wedding must have been an unusual and impressive event.
She began to have a better understanding of the nature of it when
they cast off restraint and pressed forward to kiss the bride.
In all her life Madeline had never seen a bride kissed so much
and so heartily, nor one so flushed and disheveled and happy.
This indeed was a joyful occasion. There was nothing of the
"effete East" about Alfred Hammond; he might have been a
Westerner all his days. When Madeline managed to get through the
press of cowboys to offer her congratulations Alfred gave her a
bear hug and a kiss. This appeared to fascinate the cowboys.
With shining eyes and faces aglow, with smiling, boyish boldness,
they made a rush at Madeline. For one instant her heart leaped
to her throat. They looked as if they could most shamelessly
kiss and maul her. That little, ugly-faced, soft-eyed, rude,
tender-hearted ruffian, Monty Price, was in the lead. He
resembled a dragon actuated by sentiment. All at once Madeline's
instinctive antagonism to being touched by strange hands or lips
battled with a real, warm, and fun-loving desire to let the
cowboys work their will with her. But she saw Stewart hanging at
the back of the crowd, and something--some fierce, dark
expression of pain--amazed her, while it froze her desire to be
kind. Then she did not know what change must have come to her
face and bearing; but she saw Monty fall back sheepishly and the
other cowboys draw aside to let her lead the way into the patio.

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