The Light of Western Stars

Z >> Zane Grey >> The Light of Western Stars

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The bouncing of the huge car, throwing Madeline up, directed her
attention and fastened it upon the way Link Stevens was driving
and upon the immediate foreground. Then she discovered that he
was following an old wagon-road. At the foot of that long slope
they struck into rougher ground, and here Link took to a cautious
zigzag course. The wagon-road disappeared and then presently
reappeared. But Link did not always hold to it. He made cuts,
detours, crosses, and all the time seemed to be getting deeper
into a maze of low, red dunes, of flat canyon-beds lined by banks
of gravel, of ridges mounting higher. Yet Link Stevens kept on
and never turned back. He never headed into a place that he
could not pass. Up to this point of travel he had not been
compelled to back the car, and Madeline began to realize that it
was the cowboy's wonderful judgment of ground that made advance
possible. He knew the country; he was never at a loss; after
making a choice of direction, he never hesitated.

Then at the bottom of a wide canyon he entered a wash where the
wheels just barely turned in dragging sand. The sun beat down
white-hot, the dust arose, there was not a breath of wind; and no
sound save the slide of a rock now and then down the weathered
slopes and the labored chugging of the machine. The snail pace,
like the sand at the wheels, began to drag at Madeline's faith.
Link gave over the wheel to Madeline, and, leaping out, he called
Nels. When they untied the long planks and laid them straight in
front for the wheels to pass over Madeline saw how wise had been
Link's forethought. With the aid of those planks they worked the
car through sand and gravel otherwise impossible to pass.

This canyon widened and opened into space affording an
unobstructed view for miles. The desert sloped up in steps, and
in the morning light, with the sun bright on the mesas and
escarpments, it was gray, drab, stone, slate, yellow, pink, and,
dominating all, a dull rust-red. There was level ground ahead, a
wind-swept floor as hard as rock. Link rushed the car over this
free distance. Madeline's ears filled with a droning hum like
the sound of a monstrous, hungry bee and with a strange,
incessant crinkle which she at length guessed to be the spreading
of sheets of gravel from under the wheels. The giant car
attained such a speed that Madeline could only distinguish the
colored landmarks to the fore, and these faded as the wind stung
her eyes.

Then Link began the ascent of the first step, a long, sweeping,
barren waste with dunes of wonderful violet and heliotrope hues.
Here were well-defined marks of an old wagon-road lately
traversed by cattle. The car climbed steadily, surmounted the
height, faced another long bench that had been cleaned smooth by
desert winds. The sky was an intense, light, steely blue, hard
on the eyes. Madeline veiled her face, and did not uncover it
until Link had reduced the racing speed. From the summit of the
next ridge she saw more red ruin of desert.

A deep wash crossing the road caused Link Stevens to turn due
south. There was a narrow space along the wash just wide enough
for the car. Link seemed oblivious to the fact that the outside
wheels were perilously close to the edge. Madeline heard the
rattle of loosened gravel and earth sliding into the gully. The
wash widened and opened out into a sandy flat. Link crossed this
and turned up on the opposite side. Rocks impeded the progress of
the car, and these had to be rolled out of the way. The shelves
of silt, apparently ready to slide with the slightest weight, the
little tributary washes, the boulder-strewn stretches of slope,
the narrow spaces allowing no more than a foot for the outside
wheels, the spear-pointed cactus that had to be avoided--all
these obstacles were as nothing to the cowboy driver. He kept
on, and when he came to the road again he made up for the lost
time by speed.

Another height was reached, and here Madeline fancied that Link
had driven the car to the summit of a high pass between two
mountain ranges. The western slope of that pass appeared to be
exceedingly rough and broken. Below it spread out another gray
valley, at the extreme end of which glistened a white spot that
Link grimly called Douglas. Part of that white spot was Agua
Prieta, the sister town across the line. Madeline looked with
eyes that would fain have pierced the intervening distance.

The descent of the pass began under difficulties. Sharp stones
and cactus spikes penetrated the front tires, bursting them with
ripping reports. It took time to replace them. The planks were
called into requisition to cross soft places. A jagged point of
projecting rock had to be broken with a sledge. At length a huge
stone appeared to hinder any further advance. Madeline caught
her breath. There was no room to turn the car. But Link Stevens
had no intention of such a thing. He backed the car to a
considerable distance, then walked forward. He appeared to be
busy around the boulder for a moment and returned down the road
on the run. A heavy explosion, a cloud of dust, and a rattle of
falling fragments told Madeline that her indomitable driver had
cleared a passage with dynamite. He seemed to be prepared for
every emergency. Madeline looked to see what effect the discovery
of Link carrying dynamite would have upon the silent Nels.

"Shore, now, Miss Majesty, there ain't nothin' goin' to stop
Link," said Nels, with a reassuring smile. The significance of
the incident had not dawned upon Nels, or else he was heedless of
it. After all, he was afraid only of the car and Link, and that
fear was an idiosyncrasy. Madeline began to see her cowboy
driver with clearer eyes and his spirit awoke something in her
that made danger of no moment. Nels likewise subtly responded,
and, though he was gray-faced, tight-lipped, his eyes took on the
cool, bright gleam of Link's.

Cactus barred the way, rocks barred the way, gullies barred the
way, and these Nels addressed in the grim humor with which he was
wont to view tragic things. A mistake on Link's part, a slip of
a wheel, a bursting of a tire at a critical moment, an instant of
the bad luck which might happen a hundred times on a less
perilous ride--any one of these might spell disaster for the car,
perhaps death to the occupants. Again and again Link used the
planks to cross washes in sand. Sometimes the wheels ran all the
length of the planks, sometimes slipped off. Presently Link came
to a ditch where water had worn deep into the road. Without
hesitation he placed them, measuring distance carefully, and then
started across. The danger was in ditching the machine. One of
the planks split, sagged a little, but Link made the crossing
without a slip.

The road led round under an overhanging cliff and was narrow,
rocky, and slightly downhill. Bidding Madeline and Nels walk
round this hazardous corner, Link drove the car. Madeline
expected to hear it crash down into the canyon, but presently she
saw Link waiting to take them aboard again. Then came steeper
parts of the road, places that Link could run down if he had
space below to control the car, and on the other hand places
where the little inclines ended in abrupt ledges upon one side or
a declivity upon the other. Here the cowboy, with ropes on the
wheels and half-hitches upon the spurs of rock, let the car slide
down.

Once at a particularly bad spot Madeline exclaimed involuntarily,
"Oh, time is flying!" Link Stevens looked up at her as if he had
been reproved for his care. His eyes shone like the glint of
steel on ice. Perhaps that utterance of Madeline's was needed to
liberate his recklessness to its utmost. Certainly he put the
car to seemingly impossible feats. He rimmed gullies, he hurdled
rising ground, he leaped little breaks in the even road. He made
his machine cling like a goat to steep inclines; he rounded
corners with the inside wheels higher than the outside; he passed
over banks of soft earth that caved in the instant he crossed
weak places. He kept on and on, threading tortuous passages
through rock-strewn patches, keeping to the old road where it was
clear, abandoning it for open spaces, and always going down.

At length a mile of clean, brown slope, ridged and grooved like a
washboard, led gently down to meet the floor of the valley, where
the scant grama-grass struggled to give a tinge of gray. The
road appeared to become more clearly defined, and could be seen
striking straight across the valley.

To Madeline's dismay, that road led down to a deep, narrow wash.
It plunged on one side, ascended on the other at a still steeper
angle. The crossing would have been laborsome for a horse; for
an automobile it was unpassable. Link turned the car to the
right along the rim and drove as far along the wash as the ground
permitted. The gully widened, deepened all the way. Then he
took the other direction. When he made this turn Madeline
observed that the sun had perceptibly begun its slant westward.
It shone in her face, glaring and wrathful. Link drove back to
the road, crossed it, and kept on down the line of the wash. It
was a deep cut in red earth, worn straight down by swift water in
the rainy seasons. It narrowed. In some places it was only five
feet wide. Link studied these points and looked up the slope,
and seemed to be making deductions. The valley was level now,
and there were nothing but little breaks in the rim of the wash.
Link drove mile after mile, looking for a place to cross, and
there was none. Finally progress to the south was obstructed by
impassable gullies where the wash plunged into the head of a
canyon. It was necessary to back the car a distance before there
was room to turn. Madeline looked at the imperturbable driver.
His face revealed no more than the same old hard, immutable
character. When he reached the narrowest points, which had so
interested him, he got out of the car and walked from place to
place. Once with a little jump he cleared the wash. Then
Madeline noted that the farther rim was somewhat lower. In a
flash she divined Link's intention. He was hunting a place to
jump the car over the crack in the ground.

Soon he found one that seemed to suit him, for he tied his red
scarf upon a greasewood-bush. Then, returning to the car, he
clambered in, and, muttering, broke his long silence: "This ain't
no air-ship, but I've outfiggered thet damn wash." He backed up
the gentle slope and halted just short of steeper ground. His
red scarf waved in the wind. Hunching low over the wheel, he
started, slowly at first, then faster, and then faster. The
great car gave a spring like a huge tiger. The impact of
suddenly formed wind almost tore Madeline out of her seat. She
felt Nels's powerful hands on her shoulders. She closed her
eyes. The jolting headway of the car gave place to a gliding
rush. This was broken by a slight jar, and then above the hum
and roar rose a cowboy yell. Madeline waited with strained
nerves for the expected crash. It did not come. Opening her
eyes, she saw the level valley floor without a break. She had
not even noticed the instant when the car had shot over the wash.

A strange breathlessness attacked her, and she attributed it to
the celerity with which she was being carried along. Pulling the
hood down over her face, she sank low in the seat. The whir of
the car now seemed to be a world-filling sound. Again the
feeling of excitement, the poignancy of emotional heights, the
ever-present impending sense of catastrophe became held in
abeyance to the sheer intensity of physical sensations. There
came a time when all her strength seemed to unite in an effort to
lift her breast against the terrific force of the wind--to draw
air into her flattened lungs. She became partly dazed. The
darkness before her eyes was not all occasioned by the blood that
pressed like a stone mask on her face. She had a sense that she
was floating, sailing, drifting, reeling, even while being borne
swiftly as a thunderbolt. Her hands and arms were immovable
under the weight of mountains. There was a long, blank period
from which she awakened to feel an arm supporting her. Then she
rallied. The velocity of the car had been cut to the speed to
which she was accustomed. Throwing back the hood, she breathed
freely again, recovered fully.

The car was bowling along a wide road upon the outskirts of a
city. Madeline asked what place it could be.

"Douglas," replied Link. "An' jest around is Agua Prieta!"

That last name seemed to stun Madeline. She heard no more, and
saw little until the car stopped. Nels spoke to some one. Then
sight of khaki-clad soldiers quickened Madeline's faculties. She
was on the boundary-line between the United States and Mexico,
and Agua Prieta, with its white and blue walled houses, its
brown-tiled roofs, lay before her. A soldier, evidently
despatched by Nels, returned and said an officer would come at
once. Madeline's attention was centered in the foreground, upon
the guard over the road, upon the dry, dusty town beyond; but she
was aware of noise and people in the rear. A cavalry officer
approached the car, stared, and removed his sombrero.

"Can you tell me anything about Stewart, the American cowboy who
was captured by rebels a few days ago?" asked Madeline.

"Yes," replied the officer. "There was a skirmish over the line
between a company of Federals and a large force of guerrillas and
rebels. The Federals were driven west along the line. Stewart
is reported to have done reckless fighting and was captured. He
got a Mexican sentence. He is known here along the border, and
the news of his capture stirred up excitement. We did all we
could to get his release. The guerrillas feared to execute him
here, and believed he might be aided to escape. So a detachment
departed with him for Mezquital."

"He was sentenced to be shot Thursday at sunset--to-night?"

"Yes. It was rumored there was a personal resentment against
Stewart. I regret that I can't give you definite information.
If you are friends of Stewart--relatives--I might find--"

"I am his wife," interrupted Madeline. "Will you please read
these." She handed him the telegrams. "Advise me--help me, if
you can?"

With a wondering glance at her the officer received the
telegrams. He read several, and whistled low in amaze. His
manner became quick, alert, serious.

"I can't read these written in Spanish, but I know the names
signed." Swiftly he ran through the others.

"Why, these mean Stewart's release has been authorized. They
explain mysterious rumors we have heard here. Greaser treachery!
For some strange reason messages from the rebel junta have failed
to reach their destination. We heard reports of an exchange for
Stewart, but nothing came of it. No one departed for Mezquital
with authority. What an outrage! Come, I'll go with you to
General Salazar, the rebel chief in command. I know him.
Perhaps we can find out something."

Nels made room for the officer. Link sent the car whirring
across the line into Mexican territory. Madeline's sensibilities
were now exquisitely alive. The white road led into Agua Prieta,
a town of colored walls and roofs. Goats and pigs and buzzards
scattered before the roar of the machine. Native women wearing
black mantles peeped through iron-barred windows. Men wearing
huge sombreros, cotton shirts and trousers, bright sashes round
their waists, and sandals, stood motionless, watching the car go
by. The road ended in an immense plaza, in the center of which
was a circular structure that in some measure resembled a corral.
It was a bull-ring, where the national sport of bull-fighting was
carried on. Just now it appeared to be quarters for a
considerable army. Ragged, unkempt rebels were everywhere, and
the whole square was littered with tents, packs, wagons, arms.
There were horses, mules, burros, and oxen.

The place was so crowded that Link was compelled to drive slowly
up to the entrance to the bull-ring. Madeline caught a glimpse
of tents inside, then her view was obstructed by a curious,
pressing throng. The cavalry officer leaped from the car and
pushed his way into the entrance.

"Link, do you know the road to this Mezquital?" asked Madeline.

"Yes. I've been there."

"How far is it?"

"Aw, not so very far," he mumbled.

"Link! How many miles?" she implored.

"I reckon only a few."

Madeline knew that he lied. She asked him no more; nor looked at
him, nor at Nels. How stifling was this crowded, ill-smelling
plaza! The sun, red and lowering, had sloped far down in the
west, but still burned with furnace heat. A swarm of flies
whirled over the car. The shadows of low-sailing buzzards
crossed Madeline's sight. Then she saw a row of the huge,
uncanny black birds sitting upon the tiled roof of a house. They
had neither an air of sleeping nor resting. They were waiting.
She fought off a horrible ghastly idea before its full
realization. These rebels and guerrillas--what lean, yellow,
bearded wretches! They curiously watched Link as he went working
over the car. No two were alike, and all were ragged. They had
glittering eyes sunk deep in their heads. They wore huge
sombreros of brown and black felt, of straw, of cloth. Every man
wore a belt or sash into which was thrust some kind of weapon.
Some wore boots, some shoes, some moccasins, some sandals, and
many were barefooted. They were an excited, jabbering,
gesticulating mob. Madeline shuddered to think how a frenzy to
spill blood could run through these poor revolutionists. If it
was liberty they fought for, they did not show the intelligence
in their faces. They were like wolves upon a scent. They
affronted her, shocked her. She wondered if their officers were
men of the same class. What struck her at last and stirred pity
in her was the fact that every man of the horde her swift glance
roamed over, however dirty and bedraggled he was, wore upon him
some ornament, some tassel or fringe or lace, some ensign, some
band, bracelet, badge, or belt, some twist of scarf, something
that betrayed the vanity which was the poor jewel of their souls.
It was in the race.

Suddenly the crowd parted to let the cavalry officer and a rebel
of striking presence get to the car.

"Madam, it is as I suspected," said the officer, quickly. "The
messages directing Stewart's release never reached Salazar. They
were intercepted. But even without them we might have secured
Stewart's exchange if it had not been for the fact that one of
his captors wanted him shot. This guerrilla intercepted the
orders, and then was instrumental in taking Stewart to Mezquital.
It is exceedingly sad. Why, he should be a free man this
instant. I regret--"

"Who did this--this thing?" cried Madeline, cold and sick. "Who
is the guerrilla?"

"Senor Don Carlos Martinez. He has been a bandit, a man of
influence in Sonora. He is more of a secret agent in the affairs
of the revolution than an active participator. But he has seen
guerrilla service."

"Don Carlos! Stewart in his power! O God!" Madeline sank down,
almost overcome. Then two great hands, powerful, thrilling,
clasped her shoulders, and Nels bent over her.

"Miss Majesty, shore we're wastin' time here," he said. His
voice, like his hands, was uplifting. She wheeled to him in
trembling importunity. How cold, bright, blue the flash of his
eyes! They told Madeline she must not weaken. But she could not
speak her thought to Nels--could only look at Link.

"It figgers impossible, but I'll do it!" said Link Stevens, in
answer to her voiceless query. The cold, grim, wild something
about her cowboys blanched Madeline's face, steeled her nerve,
called to the depths of her for that last supreme courage of a
woman. The spirit of the moment was nature with Link and Nels;
with her it must be passion.

"Can I get a permit to go into the interior--to Mezquital?" asked
Madeline of the officer.

"You are going on? Madam, it's a forlorn hope. Mezquital is a
hundred miles away. But there's a chance--the barest chance if
your man can drive this car. The Mexicans are either murderous
or ceremonious in their executions. The arrangements for
Stewart's will be elaborate. But, barring unusual circumstances,
it will take place precisely at the hour designated. You need no
permit. Your messages are official papers. But to save time,
perhaps delay, I suggest you take this Mexican, Senor Montes,
with you. He outranks Don Carlos and knows the captain of the
Mezquital detachment."

"Ah! Then Don Carlos is not in command of the forces holding
Stewart?"

"No."

"I thank you, sir. I shall not forget your kindness," concluded
Madeline.

She bowed to Senor Montes, and requested him to enter the car.
Nels stowed some of the paraphernalia away, making room in the
rear seat. Link bent over the wheel. The start was so sudden,
with such crack and roar, that the crowd split in wild disorder.
Out of the plaza the car ran, gathering headway; down a street
lined by white and blue walls; across a square where rebels were
building barricades; along a railroad track full of iron
flat-cars that carried mounted pieces of artillery; through the
outlying guards, who waved to the officer, Montes.

Madeline bound her glasses tightly over her eyes, and wound veils
round the lower part of her face. She was all in a strange glow,
she had begun to burn, to throb, to thrill, to expand, and she
meant to see all that was possible. The sullen sun, red as fire,
hung over the mountain range in the west. How low it had sunk!
Before her stretched a narrow, white road, dusty, hard as stone--
a highway that had been used for centuries. If it had been wide
enough to permit passing a vehicle it would have been a
magnificent course for automobiles. But the weeds and the dusty
flowers and the mesquite boughs and arms of cactus brushed the
car as it sped by.

Faster, faster, faster! That old resistless weight began to
press Madeline back; the old incessant bellow of wind filled her
ears. Link Stevens hunched low over the wheel. His eyes were
hidden under leather helmet and goggles, but the lower part of
his face was unprotected. He resembled a demon, so dark and
stone-hard and strangely grinning was he. All at once Madeline
realized how matchless, how wonderful a driver was this cowboy.
She divined that weakening could not have been possible to Link
Stevens. He was a cowboy, and he really was riding that car,
making it answer to his will, as it had been born in him to
master a horse. He had never driven to suit himself, had never
reached an all-satisfying speed until now. Beyond that his
motive was to save Stewart--to make Madeline happy. Life was
nothing to him. That fact gave him the superhuman nerve to face
the peril of this ride. Because of his disregard of self he was
able to operate the machine, to choose the power, the speed, the
guidance, the going with the best judgment and highest efficiency
possible. Madeline knew he would get her to Mezquital in time to
save Stewart or he would kill her in the attempt.

The white, narrow road flashed out of the foreground, slipped
with inconceivable rapidity under the car. When she marked a
clump of cactus far ahead it seemed to shoot at her, to speed
behind her even the instant she noticed it. Nevertheless,
Madeline knew Link was not putting the car to its limit. Swiftly
as he was flying, he held something in reserve. But he took the
turns of the road as if he knew the way was cleared before him.
He trusted to a cowboy's luck. A wagon in one of those curves, a
herd of cattle, even a frightened steer, meant a wreck. Madeline
never closed her eyes at these fateful moments. If Link could
stake himself, the others, and her upon such chance, what could
not she stake with her motive? So while the great car hummed and
thrummed, and darted round the curves on two wheels, and sped on
like a bullet, Madeline lived that ride, meant to feel it to the
uttermost.

But it was not all swift going. A stretch of softer ground
delayed Link, made the car labor and pant and pound and grind
through gravel. Moreover, the cactus plants assumed an alarming
ability to impede progress. Long, slender arms of the ocotillo
encroached upon the road; broad, round leaves did likewise;
fluted columns, fallen like timbers in a forest, lay along the
narrow margins; the bayonet cactus and the bisnagi leaned
threateningly; clusters of maguey, shadowed by the huge, looming
saguaro, infringed upon the highway to Mezquital. And every leaf
and blade and branch of cactus bore wicked thorns, any one of
which would be fatal to a tire.

It came at length, the bursting report. The car lurched, went on
like a crippled thing, and halted, obedient to the master hand at
the wheel. Swift as Link was in replacing the tire, he lost
time. The red sun, more sullen, duskier as it neared the black,
bold horizon, appeared to mock Madeline, to eye her in derision.

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