The Light of Western Stars

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The dinner began quietly enough with the cowboys divided between
embarrassment and voracious appetites that they evidently feared
to indulge. Wine, however, loosened their tongues, and when
Stillwell got up to make the speech everybody seemed to expect of
him they greeted him with a roar.

Stillwell was now one huge, mountainous smile. He was so happy
that he appeared on the verge of tears. He rambled on
ecstatically till he came to raise his glass.

"An' now, girls an' boys, let's all drink to the bride an' groom;
to their sincere an' lastin' love; to their happiness an'
prosperity; to their good health an' long life. Let's drink to
the unitin' of the East with the West. No man full of red blood
an' the real breath of life could resist a Western girl an' a
good hoss an' God's free hand--that open country out there. So
we claim Al Hammond, an' may we be true to him. An', friends, I
think it fittin' that we drink to his sister an' to our hopes.
Heah's to the lady we hope to make our Majesty! Heah's to the
man who'll come ridin' out of the West, a fine, big-hearted man
with a fast hoss an' a strong rope, an' may he win an' hold her!
Come, friends, drink."

A heavy pound of horses' hoofs and a yell outside arrested
Stillwell's voice and halted his hand in midair.

The patio became as silent as an unoccupied room.

Through the open doors and windows of Madeline's chamber burst
the sounds of horses stamping to a halt, then harsh speech of
men, and a low cry of a woman in pain.

Rapid steps crossed the porch, entered Madeline's room. Nels
appeared in the doorway. Madeline was surprised to see that be
had not been at the dinner-table. She was disturbed at sight of
his face.

"Stewart, you're wanted outdoors," called Nels, bluntly. "Monty,
you slope out here with me. You, Nick, an' Stillwell--I reckon
the rest of you hed better shut the doors an' stay inside."

Nels disappeared. Quick as a cat Monty glided out. Madeline
heard his soft, swift steps pass from her room into her office.
He had left his guns there. Madeline trembled. She saw Stewart
get up quietly and without any change of expression on his dark,
sad face leave the patio. Nick Steele followed him. Stillwell
dropped his wine-glass. As it broke, shivering the silence, his
huge smile vanished. His face set into the old cragginess and
the red slowly thickened into black. Stillwell went out and
closed the door behind him.

Then there was a blank silence. The enjoyment of the moment had
been rudely disrupted. Madeline glanced down the lines of brown
faces to see the pleasure fade into the old familiar hardness.

"What's wrong?" asked Alfred, rather stupidly. The change of
mood had been too rapid for him. Suddenly he awakened,
thoroughly aroused at the interruption. "I'm going to see who's
butted in here to spoil our dinner," he said, and strode out.

He returned before any one at the table had spoken or moved, and
now the dull red of anger mottled his forehead.

"It's the sheriff of El Cajon!" he exclaimed, contemptuously.
"Pat Hawe with some of his tough deputies come to arrest Gene
Stewart. They've got that poor little Mexican girl out there
tied on a horse. Confound that sheriff!"

Madeline calmly rose from the table, eluding Florence's
entreating hand, and started for the door. The cowboys jumped
up. Alfred barred her progress.

"Alfred, I am going out," she said.

"No, I guess not," he replied. "That's no place for you."

"I am going." She looked straight at him.

"Madeline! Why, what is it? You look-- Dear, there's pretty
sure to be trouble outside. Maybe there'll be a fight. You can
do nothing. You must not go."

"Perhaps I can prevent trouble," she replied.

As she left the patio she was aware that Alfred, with Florence at
his side and the cowboys behind, were starting to follow her.
When she got out of her room upon the porch she heard several men
in loud, angry discussion. Then, at sight of Bonita helplessly
and cruelly bound upon a horse, pale and disheveled and
suffering, Madeline experienced the thrill that sight or mention
of this girl always gave her. It yielded to a hot pang in her
breast--that live pain which so shamed her. But almost instantly,
as a second glance showed an agony in Bonita's face, her bruised
arms where the rope bit deep into the flesh, her little brown
hands stained with blood, Madeline was overcome by pity for the
unfortunate girl and a woman's righteous passion at such
barbarous treatment of one of her own sex.

The man holding the bridle of the horse on which Bonita had been
bound was at once recognized by Madeline as the big-bodied,
bullet-headed guerrilla who had found the basket of wine in the
spring at camp. Redder of face, blacker of beard, coarser of
aspect, evidently under the influence of liquor, he was as
fierce-looking as a gorilla and as repulsive. Besides him there
were three other men present, all mounted on weary horses. The
one in the foreground, gaunt, sharp-featured, red-eyed, with a
pointed beard, she recognized as the sheriff of El Cajon.

Madeline hesitated, then stopped in the middle of the porch.
Alfred, Florence, and several others followed her out; the rest
of the cowboys and guests crowded the windows and doors.
Stillwell saw Madeline, and, throwing up his hands, roared to be
heard. This quieted the gesticulating, quarreling men.

"Wal now, Pat Hawe, what's drivin' you like a locoed steer on the
rampage?" demanded Stillwell.

"Keep in the traces, Bill," replied Hawe. "You savvy what I come
fer. I've been bidin' my time. But I'm ready now. I'm hyar to
arrest a criminal."

The huge frame of the old cattleman jerked as if he had been
stabbed. His face turned purple.

"What criminal?" he shouted, hoarsely.

The sheriff flicked his quirt against his dirty boot, and he
twisted his thin lips into a leer. The situation was agreeable
to him.

"Why, Bill, I knowed you hed a no-good outfit ridin' this range;
but I wasn't wise thet you hed more 'n one criminal."

"Cut that talk! Which cowboy are you wantin' to arrest?"

Hawe's manner altered.

"Gene Stewart," he replied, curtly.

"On what charge?"

"Fer killin' a Greaser one night last fall."

"So you're still harpin' on that? Pat, you're on the wrong
trail. You can't lay that killin' onto Stewart. The thing's
ancient by now. But if you insist on bringin' him to court, let
the arrest go to-day--we're hevin' some fiesta hyar--an' I'll
fetch Gene in to El Cajon."

"Nope. I reckon I'll take him when I got the chance, before he
slopes."

"I'm givin' you my word," thundered Stillwell.

"I reckon I don't hev to take your word, Bill, or anybody
else's."

Stillwell's great bulk quivered with his rage, yet he made a
successful effort to control it.

"See hyar, Pat Hawe, I know what's reasonable. Law is law. But
in this country there always has been an' is now a safe an' sane
way to proceed with the law. Mebbe you've forgot that. The law
as invested in one man in a wild country is liable, owin' to that
man's weaknesses an' onlimited authority, to be disputed even by
a decent ole cattleman like myself. I'm a-goin' to give you a
hunch. Pat, you're not overliked in these parts. You've rid too
much with a high hand. Some of your deals hev been shady, an'
don't you overlook what I'm sayin'. But you're the sheriff, an'
I'm respectin' your office. I'm respectin' it this much. If the
milk of human decency is so soured in your breast that you can't
hev a kind feelin', then try to avoid the onpleasantness that'll
result from any contrary move on your part to-day. Do you get
that hunch?"

"Stillwell, you're threatenin' an officer," replied Hawe,
angrily.

"Will you hit the trail quick out of hyar?" queried Stillwell, in
strained voice. "I guarantee Stewart's appearance in El Cajon
any day you say."

"No. I come to arrest him, an' I'm goin' to."

"So that's your game!" shouted Stillwell. "We-all are glad to
get you straight, Pat. Now listen, you cheap, red-eyed coyote of
a sheriff! You don't care how many enemies you make. You know
you'll never get office again in this county. What do you care
now? It's amazin' strange how earnest you are to hunt down the
man who killed that particular Greaser. I reckon there's been
some dozen or more killin's of Greasers in the last year. Why
don't you take to trailin' some of them killin's? I'll tell you
why. You're afraid to go near the border. An' your hate of Gene
Stewart makes you want to hound him an' put him where he's never
been yet--in jail. You want to spite his friends. Wal, listen,
you lean-jawed, skunk-bitten coyote! Go ahead an' try to arrest
him!"

Stillwell took one mighty stride off the porch. His last words
had been cold. His rage appeared to have been transferred to
Hawe. The sheriff had begun to stutter and shake a lanky red
hand at the cattleman when Stewart stepped out.

"Here, you fellows, give me a chance to say a word."

As Stewart appeared the Mexican girl suddenly seemed vitalized
out of her stupor. She strained at her bonds, as if to lift her
hands beseechingly. A flush animated her haggard face, and her
big dark eyes lighted.

"Senor Gene!" she moaned. "Help me! I so seek. They beat me,
rope me, 'mos' keel me. Oh, help me, Senor Gene!"

"Shut up, er I'll gag you," said the man who held Bonita's horse.

"Muzzle her, Sneed, if she blabs again," called Hawe. Madeline
felt something tense and strained working in the short silence.
Was it only a phase of her thrilling excitement? Her swift
glance showed the faces of Nels and Monty and Nick to be
brooding, cold, watchful. She wondered why Stewart did not look
toward Bonita. He, too, was now dark-faced, cool, quiet, with
something ominous about him.

"Hawe, I'll submit to arrest without any fuss," he said, slowly,
"if you'll take the ropes off that girl."

"Nope," replied the sheriff. "She got away from me onct. She's
hawg-tied now, an' she'll stay hawg-tied."

Madeline thought she saw Stewart give a slight start. But an
unaccountable dimness came over her eyes, at brief intervals
obscuring her keen sight. Vaguely she was conscious of a clogged
and beating tumult in her breast.

"All right, let's hurry out of here," said Stewart. "You've made
annoyance enough. Ride down to the corral with me. I'll get my
horse and go with you."

"Hold on!" yelled Hawe, as Stewart turned away. "Not so fast.
Who's doin' this? You don't come no El Capitan stunts on me.
You'll ride one of my pack-horses, an' you'll go in irons."

"You want to handcuff me?" queried Stewart, with sudden swift
start of passion.

"Want to? Haw, haw! Nope, Stewart, thet's jest my way with
hoss-thieves, raiders, Greasers, murderers, an' sich. See hyar,
you Sneed, git off an' put the irons on this man."

The guerrilla called Sneed slid off his horse and began to fumble
in his saddle-bags.

"You see, Bill," went on Hawe, "I swore in a new depooty fer this
particular job. Sneed is some handy. He rounded up thet little
Mexican cat fer me."

Stillwell did not hear the sheriff; he was gazing at Stewart in a
kind of imploring amaze.

"Gene, you ain't goin' to stand fer them handcuffs?" he pleaded.

"Yes," replied the cowboy. "Bill, old friend, I'm an outsider
here. There's no call for Miss Hammond and--and her brother and
Florence to be worried further about me. Their happy day has
already been spoiled on my account. I want to get out quick."

"Wal, you might be too damn considerate of Miss Hammond's
sensitive feelin's." There was now no trace of the courteous,
kindly old rancher. He looked harder than stone. "How about my
feelin's? I want to know if you're goin' to let this sneakin'
coyote, this last gasp of the old rum-guzzlin' frontier sheriffs,
put you in irons an' hawg-tie you an' drive you off to jail?"

"Yes," replied Stewart, steadily.

"Wal, by Gawd! You, Gene Stewart! What's come over you? Why,
man, go in the house, an' I'll 'tend to this feller. Then
to-morrow you can ride in an' give yourself up like a gentleman."

"No. I'll go. Thanks, Bill, for the way you and the boys would
stick to me. Hurry, Hawe, before my mind changes."

His voice broke at the last, betraying the wonderful control he
had kept over his passions. As he ceased speaking he seemed
suddenly to become spiritless. He dropped his head.

Madeline saw in him then a semblance to the hopeless, shamed
Stewart of earlier days. The vague riot in her breast leaped
into conscious fury--a woman's passionate repudiation of
Stewart's broken spirit. It was not that she would have him be a
lawbreaker; it was that she could not bear to see him deny his
manhood. Once she had entreated him to become her kind of a
cowboy--a man in whom reason tempered passion. She had let him
see how painful and shocking any violence was to her. And the
idea had obsessed him, softened him, had grown like a stultifying
lichen upon his will, had shorn him of a wild, bold spirit she
now strangely longed to see him feel. When the man Sneed came
forward, jingling the iron fetters, Madeline's blood turned to
fire. She would have forgiven Stewart then for lapsing into the
kind of cowboy it had been her blind and sickly sentiment to
abhor. This was a man's West--a man's game. What right had a
woman reared in a softer mold to use her beauty and her influence
to change a man who was bold and free and strong? At that
moment, with her blood hot and racing, she would have gloried in
the violence which she had so deplored: she would have welcomed
the action that had characterized Stewart's treatment of Don
Carlos; she had in her the sudden dawning temper of a woman who
had been assimilating the life and nature around her and who
would not have turned her eyes away from a harsh and bloody deed.

But Stewart held forth his hands to be manacled. Then Madeline
heard her own voice burst out in a ringing, imperious "Wait!"

In the time it took her to make the few steps to the edge of the
porch, facing the men, she not only felt her anger and justice
and pride summoning forces to her command, but there was
something else calling--a deep, passionate, mysterious thing not
born of the moment.

Sneed dropped the manacles. Stewart's face took on a chalky
whiteness. Hawe, in a slow, stupid embarrassment beyond his
control, removed his sombrero in a respect that seemed wrenched
from him.

"Mr. Hawe, I can prove to you that Stewart was not concerned in
any way whatever with the crime for which you want to arrest
him."

The sheriff's stare underwent a blinking change. He coughed,
stammered, and tried to speak. Manifestly, he had been thrown
completely off his balance. Astonishment slowly merged into
discomfiture.

"It was absolutely impossible for Stewart to have been connected
with that assault," went on Madeline, swiftly, "for he was with
me in the waiting-room of the station at the moment the assault
was made outside. I assure you I have a distinct and vivid
recollection. The door was open. I heard the voices of
quarreling men. They grew louder. The language was Spanish.
Evidently these men had left the dance-hall opposite and were
approaching the station. I heard a woman's voice mingling with
the others. It, too, was Spanish, and I could not understand.
But the tone was beseeching. Then I heard footsteps on the
gravel. I knew Stewart heard them. I could see from his face
that something dreadful was about to happen. Just outside the
door then there were hoarse, furious voices, a scuffle, a muffled
shot, a woman's cry, the thud of a falling body, and rapid
footsteps of a man running away. Next, the girl Bonita staggered
into the door. She was white, trembling, terror-stricken. She
recognized Stewart, appealed to him. Stewart supported her and
endeavored to calm her. He was excited. He asked her if Danny
Mains had been shot, or if he had done the shooting. The girl
said no. She told Stewart that she had danced a little, flirted
a little with vaqueros, and they had quarreled over her. Then
Stewart took her outside and put her upon his horse. I saw the
girl ride that horse down the street to disappear in the
darkness."

While Madeline spoke another change appeared to be working in the
man Hawe. He was not long disconcerted, but his discomfiture
wore to a sullen fury, and his sharp features fixed in an
expression of craft.

"Thet's mighty interestin', Miss Hammond, 'most as interestin' as
a story-book," he said. "Now, since you're so obligin' a
witness, I'd sure like to put a question or two. What time did
you arrive at El Cajon thet night?"

"It was after eleven o'clock," replied Madeline.

"Nobody there to meet you?"

"No."

"The station agent an' operator both gone?"

"Yes."

"Wal, how soon did this feller Stewart show up?" Hawe continued,
with a wry smile.

"Very soon after my arrival. I think--perhaps fifteen minutes,
possibly a little more."

"Some dark an' lonesome around thet station, wasn't it?"

"Indeed yes."

"An' what time was the Greaser shot?" queried Hawe, with his
little eyes gleaming like coals.

"Probably close to half past one. It was two o'clock when I
looked at my watch at Florence Kingsley's house. Directly after
Stewart sent Bonita away he took me to Miss Kingsley's. So,
allowing for the walk and a few minutes' conversation with her, I
can pretty definitely say the shooting took place at about half
past one."

Stillwell heaved his big frame a step closer to the sheriff.
"What 're you drivin' at?" he roared, his face black again.

"Evidence," snapped Hawe.

Madeline marveled at this interruption; and as Stewart
irresistibly drew her glance she saw him gray-faced as ashes,
shaking, utterly unnerved.

"I thank you, Miss Hammond," he said, huskily. "But you needn't
answer any more of Hawe's questions. He's--he's-- It's not
necessary. I'll go with him now, under arrest. Bonita will
corroborate your testimony in court, and that will save me from
this--this man's spite."

Madeline, looking at Stewart, seeing a humility she at first took
for cowardice, suddenly divined that it was not fear for himself
which made him dread further disclosures of that night, but fear
for her--fear of shame she might suffer through him.

Pat Hawe cocked his head to one side, like a vulture about to
strike with his beak, and cunningly eyed Madeline.

"Considered as testimony, what you've said is sure important an'
conclusive. But I'm calculatin' thet the court will want to hev
explained why you stayed from eleven-thirty till one-thirty in
thet waitin'-room alone with Stewart."

His deliberate speech met with what Madeline imagined a
remarkable reception from Stewart, who gave a tigerish start;
from Stillwell, whose big hands tore at the neck of his shirt, as
if he was choking; from Alfred, who now strode hotly forward, to
be stopped by the cold and silent Nels; from Monty Price, who
uttered a violent "Aw!" which was both a hiss and a roar.

In the rush of her thought Madeline could not interpret the
meaning of these things which seemed so strange at that moment.
But they were portentous. Even as she was forming a reply to
Hawe's speech she felt a chill creep over her.

"Stewart detained me in the waiting-room," she said, clear-voiced
as a bell. "But we were not alone--all the time."

For a moment the only sound following her words was a gasp from
Stewart. Hawe's face became transformed with a hideous amaze and
joy.

"Detained?" he whispered, craning his lean and corded neck.
"How's thet?"

"Stewart was drunk. He--"

With sudden passionate gesture of despair Stewart appealed to
her:

"Oh, Miss Hammond, don't! don't! DON'T! . . ."

Then he seemed to sink down, head lowered upon his breast, in
utter shame. Stillwell's great hand swept to the bowed shoulder,
and he turned to Madeline.

"Miss Majesty, I reckon you'd be wise to tell all," said the old
cattleman, gravely. "There ain't one of us who could
misunderstand any motive or act of yours. Mebbe a stroke of
lightnin' might clear this murky air. Whatever Gene Stewart did
that onlucky night--you tell it."

Madeline's dignity and self-possession had been disturbed by
Stewart's importunity. She broke into swift, disconnected
speech:

"He came into the station--a few minutes after I got there. I
asked-to be shown to a hotel. He said there wasn't any that
would accommodate married women. He grasped my hand--looked for
a wedding-ring. Then I saw he was--he was intoxicated. He told
me he would go for a hotel porter. But he came back with a
padre--Padre Marcos. The poor priest was--terribly frightened.
So was I. Stewart had turned into a devil. He fired his gun at
the padre's feet. He pushed me into a bench. Again he shot--
right before my face. I--I nearly fainted. But I heard him
cursing the padre--heard the padre praying or chanting--I didn't
know what. Stewart tried to make me say things in Spanish. All
at once he asked my name. I told him. He jerked at my veil. I
took it off. Then he threw his gun down--pushed the padre out of
the door. That was just before the vaqueros approached with
Bonita. Padre Marcos must have seen them--must have heard them.
After that Stewart grew quickly sober. He was mortified--
distressed--stricken with shame. He told me he had been drinking
at a wedding--I remember, it was Ed Linton's wedding. Then he
explained--the boys were always gambling--he wagered he would
marry the first girl who arrived at El Cajon. I happened to be
the first one. He tried to force me to marry him. The rest--
relating to the assault on the vaquero--I have already told you."

Madeline ended, out of breath and panting, with her hands pressed
upon her heaving bosom. Revelation of that secret liberated
emotion; those hurried outspoken words had made her throb and
tremble and burn. Strangely then she thought of Alfred and his
wrath. But he stood motionless, as if dazed. Stillwell was
trying to holster up the crushed Stewart.

Hawe rolled his red eyes and threw back his head.

"Ho, ho, ho! Ho, ho, ho! Say, Sneed, you didn't miss any of it,
did ye? Haw, haw! Best I ever heerd in all my born days. Ho,
ho!"

Then he ceased laughing, and with glinting gaze upon Madeline,
insolent and vicious and savage, he began to drawl:

"Wal now, my lady, I reckon your story, if it tallies with
Bonita's an' Padre Marcos's, will clear Gene Stewart in the eyes
of the court." Here he grew slower, more biting, sharper and
harder of face. "But you needn't expect Pat Hawe or the court to
swaller thet part of your story--about bein' detained unwillin'!"

Madeline had not time to grasp the sense of his last words.
Stewart had convulsively sprung upward, white as chalk. As he
leaped at Hawe Stillwell interposed his huge bulk and wrapped his
arms around Stewart. There was a brief, whirling, wrestling
struggle. Stewart appeared to be besting the old cattleman.

"Help, boys, help!" yelled Stillwell. "I can't hold him. Hurry,
or there's goin' to be blood spilled!"

Nick Steele and several cowboys leaped to Stillwell's assistance.
Stewart, getting free, tossed one aside and then another. They
closed in on him. For an instant a furious straining wrestle of
powerful bodies made rasp and shock and blow. Once Stewart
heaved them from him. But they plunged back upon him--conquered
him.

"Gene! Why, Gene!" panted the old cattleman. "Sure you're
locoed--to act this way. Cool down! Cool down! Why, boy, it's
all right. Jest stand still--give us a chance to talk to you.
It's only ole Bill, you know--your ole pal who's tried to be a
daddy to you. He's only wantin' you to hev sense--to be cool--to
wait."

"Let me go! Let me go!" cried Stewart; and the poignancy of that
cry pierced Madeline's heart. "Let me go, Bill, if you're my
friend. I saved your life once--over in the desert. You swore
you'd never forget. Boys, make him let me go! Oh, I don't care
what Hawe's said or done to me! It was that about her! Are you
all a lot of Greasers? How can you stand it? Damn you for a lot
of cowards! There's a limit, I tell you." Then his voice broke,
fell to a whisper. "Bill, dear old Bill, let me go. I'll kill
him! You know I'll kill him!"

"Gene, I know you'd kill him if you hed an even break," replied
Stillwell, soothingly. "But, Gene, why, you ain't even packin' a
gun! An' there's Pat lookin' nasty, with his hand nervous-like.
He seen you hed no gun. He'd jump at the chance to plug you now,
an' then holler about opposition to the law. Cool down, son;
it'll all come right."

Suddenly Madeline was transfixed by a terrible sound.

Her startled glance shifted from the anxious group round Stewart
to see that Monty Price had leaped off the porch. He crouched
down with his bands below his hips, where the big guns swung.
From his distorted lips issued that which was combined roar and
bellow and Indian war-whoop, and, more than all, a horrible
warning cry. He resembled a hunchback about to make the leap of
a demon. He was quivering, vibrating. His eyes, black and hot,
were fastened with most piercing intentness upon Hawe and Sneed.

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