The Light of Western Stars

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

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Link leaped in, and the car sprang ahead. The road-bed changed,
the trees changed--all the surroundings changed except the
cactus. There were miles of rolling ridges, rough in the
hollows, and short rocky bits of road, and washes to cross, and a
low, sandy swale where mesquites grouped a forest along a
trickling inch-deep sheet of water. Green things softened the
hard, dry aspect of the desert. There were birds and parrots and
deer and wild boars. All these Madeline remarked with clear
eyes, with remarkable susceptibility of attention; but what she
strained to see, what she yearned for, prayed for, was straight,
unobstructed road.

But the road began to wind up; it turned and twisted in
tantalizing lazy curves; it was in no hurry to surmount a hill
that began to assume proportions of a mountain; it was leisurely,
as were all things in Mexico except strife. That was quick,
fierce, bloody--it was Spanish.

The descent from that elevation was difficult, extremely
hazardous, yet Link Stevens drove fast. At the base of the hill
rocks and sand all but halted him for good. Then in taking an
abrupt curve a grasping spear ruined another tire. This time the
car rasped across the road into the cactus, bursting the second
front-wheel tire. Like demons indeed Link and Nels worked.
Shuddering, Madeline felt the declining heat of the sun, saw with
gloomy eyes the shading of the red light over the desert. She
did not look back to see how near the sun was to the horizon.
She wanted to ask Nels. Strange as anything on this terrible ride
was the absence of speech. As yet no word had been spoken.
Madeline wanted to shriek to Link to hurry. But he was more than
humanly swift in all his actions. So with mute lips, with the
fire in her beginning to chill, with a lifelessness menacing her
spirit, she watched, hoped against hope, prayed for a long,
straight, smooth road.

Quite suddenly she saw it, seemingly miles of clear, narrow lane
disappearing like a thin, white streak in distant green. Perhaps
Link Stevens's heart leaped like Madeline's. The huge car with a
roar and a jerk seemed to answer Madeline's call, a cry no less
poignant because it was silent.

Faster, faster, faster! The roar became a whining hum. Then for
Madeline sound ceased to be anything--she could not hear. The
wind was now heavy, imponderable, no longer a swift, plastic
thing, but solid, like an on-rushing wall. It bore down upon
Madeline with such resistless weight that she could not move.
The green of desert plants along the road merged in two shapeless
fences, sliding at her from the distance. Objects ahead began to
blur the white road, to grow streaky, like rays of light, the sky
to take on more of a reddening haze.

Madeline, realizing her sight was failing her, turned for one
more look at Link Stevens. It had come to be his ride almost as
much as it was hers. He hunched lower than ever, rigid, strained
to the last degree, a terrible, implacable driver. This was his
hour, and he was great. If he so much as brushed a flying tire
against one of the millions of spikes clutching out, striking out
from the cactus, there would be a shock, a splitting wave of air--
an end. Madeline thought she saw that Link's bulging cheek and
jaw were gray, that his tight-shut lips were white, that the
smile was gone. Then he really was human--not a demon. She felt
a strange sense of brotherhood. He understood a woman's soul as
Monty Price had understood it. Link was the lightning-forged
automaton, the driving, relentless, unconquerable instrument of a
woman's will. He was a man whose force was directed by a woman's
passion. He reached up to her height, felt her love, understood
the nature of her agony. These made him heroic. But it was the
hard life, the wild years of danger on the desert, the
companionship of ruthless men, the elemental, that made possible
his physical achievement. Madeline loved his spirit then and
gloried in the man.

She had pictured upon her heart, never to be forgotten, this
little hunched, deformed figure of Link's hanging with dauntless,
with deathless grip over the wheel, his gray face like a marble
mask.

That was Madeline's last clear sensation upon the ride. Blinded,
dazed, she succumbed to the demands upon her strength. She
reeled, fell back, only vaguely aware of a helping hand.
Confusion seized her senses. All about her was a dark chaos
through which she was rushing, rushing, rushing under the
wrathful red eye of a setting sun. Then, as there was no more
sound or sight for her, she felt there was no color. But the
rush never slackened--a rush through opaque, limitless space. For
moments, hours, ages she was propelled with the velocity of a
shooting-star. The earth seemed a huge automobile. And it sped
with her down an endless white track through the universe.
Looming, ghostly, ghastly, spectral forms of cacti plants, large
as pine-trees, stabbed her with giant spikes. She became an
unstable being in a shapeless, colorless, soundless cosmos of
unrelated things, but always rushing, even to meet the darkness
that haunted her and never reached her.

But at an end of infinite time that rush ceased. Madeline lost
the queer feeling of being disembodied by a frightfully swift
careening through boundless distance. She distinguished voices,
low at first, apparently far away. Then she opened her eyes to
blurred but conscious sight.

The car had come to a stop. Link was lying face down over the
wheel. Nels was rubbing her hands, calling to her. She saw a
house with clean whitewashed wall and brown-tiled roof. Beyond,
over a dark mountain range, peeped the last red curve, the last
beautiful ray of the setting sun.

XXV At the End of the Road

Madeline saw that the car was surrounded by armed Mexicans. They
presented a contrast to the others she had seen that day; she
wondered a little at their silence, at their respectful front.

Suddenly a sharp spoken order opened up the ranks next to the
house. Senor Montes appeared in the break, coming swiftly. His
dark face wore a smile; his manner was courteous, important,
authoritative.

"Senora, it is not too late!"

He spoke her language with an accent strange to her, so that it
seemed to hinder understanding.

"Senora, you got here in time," he went on. "El Capitan Stewart
will be free."

"Free!" she whispered.

She rose, reeling.

"Come," replied Montes, taking her arm. "Perdoneme, Senora."

Without his assistance she would have fallen wholly upon Nels,
who supported her on the other side. They helped her alight from
the car. For a moment the white walls, the hazy red sky, the
dark figures of the rebels, whirled before Madeline's eyes. She
took a few steps, swaying between her escorts; then the confusion
of her sight and mind passed away. It was as if she quickened
with a thousand vivifying currents, as if she could see and hear
and feel everything in the world, as if nothing could be
overlooked, forgotten, neglected.

She turned back, remembering Link. He was lurching from the car,
helmet and goggles thrust back, the gray shade gone from his
face, the cool, bright gleam of his eyes disappearing for
something warmer.

Senor Montes led Madeline and her cowboys through a hall to a
patio, and on through a large room with flooring of rough, bare
boards that rattled, into a smaller room full of armed quiet
rebels facing an open window.

Madeline scanned the faces of these men, expecting to see Don
Carlos. But he was not present. A soldier addressed her in
Spanish too swiftly uttered, too voluble for her to translate.
But, like Senor Montes, he was gracious and, despite his ragged
garb and uncouth appearance, he bore the unmistakable stamp of
authority.

Montes directed Madeline's attention to a man by the window. A
loose scarf of vivid red hung from his hand.

"Senora, they were waiting for the sun to set when we arrived,"
said Montes. "The signal was about to be given for Senor
Stewart's walk to death."

"Stewart's walk!" echoed Madeline.

"Ah, Senora, let me tell you his sentence--the sentence I have
had the honor and happiness to revoke for you."

Stewart had been court-martialed and sentenced according to a
Mexican custom observed in cases of brave soldiers to whom
honorable and fitting executions were due. His hour had been set
for Thursday when the sun had sunk. Upon signal he was to be
liberated and was free to walk out into the road, to take any
direction he pleased. He knew his sentence; knew that death
awaited him, that every possible avenue of escape was blocked by
men with rifles ready. But he had not the slightest idea at what
moment or from what direction the bullets were to come.

"Senora, we have sent messengers to every squad of waiting
soldiers--an order that El Capitan is not to be shot. He is
ignorant of his release. I shall give the signal for his
freedom."

Montes was ceremonious, gallant, emotional. Madeline saw his
pride, and divined that the situation was one which brought out
the vanity, the ostentation, as well as the cruelty of his race.
He would keep her in an agony of suspense, let Stewart start upon
that terrible walk in ignorance of his freedom. It was the
motive of a Spaniard. Suddenly Madeline had a horrible quaking
fear that Montes lied, that he meant her to be a witness of
Stewart's execution. But no, the man was honest; he was only
barbarous. He would satisfy certain instincts of his nature--
sentiment, romance, cruelty--by starting Stewart upon that walk,
by watching Stewart's actions in the face of seeming death, by
seeing Madeline's agony of doubt, fear, pity, love. Almost
Madeline felt that she could not endure the situation. She was
weak and tottering.

"Senora! Ah, it will be one beautiful thing!" Montes caught the
scarf from the rebel's hand. He was glowing, passionate; his
eyes had a strange, soft, cold flash; his voice was low, intense.
He was living something splendid to him. "I'll wave the scarf,
Senora. That will be the signal. It will be seen down at the
other end of the road. Senor Stewart's jailer will see the
signal, take off Stewart's irons, release him, open the door for
his walk. Stewart will be free. But he will not know. He will
expect death. As he is a brave man, he will face it. He will
walk this way. Every step of that walk he will expect to be shot
from some unknown quarter. But he will not be afraid. Senora, I
have seen El Captain fighting in the field. What is death to
him? Ah, will it not be magnificent to see him come forth--to
walk down? Senora, you will see what a man he is. All the way
he will expect cold, swift death. Here at this end of the road
he will meet his beautiful lady!"

"Is there no--no possibility of a mistake?" faltered Madeline.

"None. My order included unloading of rifles."

"Don Carlos?"

"He is in irons, and must answer to General Salazar," replied
Montes.

Madeline looked down the deserted road. How strange to see the
last ruddy glow of the sun over the brow of the mountain range!
The thought of that sunset had been torture for her. Yet it had
passed, and now the afterlights were luminous, beautiful,
prophetic.

With a heart stricken by both joy and agony, she saw Montes wave
the scarf.

Then she waited. No change manifested itself down the length of
that lonely road. There was absolute silence in the room behind
her. How terribly, infinitely long seemed the waiting! Never in
all her future life would she forget the quaint pink, blue, and
white walled houses with their colored roofs. That dusty bare
road resembled one of the uncovered streets of Pompeii with its
look of centuries of solitude.

Suddenly a door opened and a tall man stepped out.

Madeline recognized Stewart. She had to place both hands on the
window-sill for support, while a storm of emotion swayed her.
Like a retreating wave it rushed away. Stewart lived. He was
free. He had stepped out into the light. She had saved him.
Life changed for her in that instant of realization and became
sweet, full, strange.

Stewart shook hands with some one in the doorway. Then he looked
up and down the road. The door closed behind him. Leisurely he
rolled a cigarette, stood close to the wall while he scratched a
match. Even at that distance Madeline's keen eyes caught the
small flame, the first little puff of smoke.

Stewart then took to the middle of the road and leisurely began
his walk.

To Madeline he appeared natural, walked as unconcernedly as if he
were strolling for pleasure; but the absence of any other living
thing, the silence, the red haze, the surcharged atmosphere--
these were all unnatural. From time to time Stewart stopped to
turn face forward toward houses and corners. Only silence
greeted these significant moves of his. Once he halted to roll
and light another cigarette. After that his step quickened.

Madeline watched him, with pride, love, pain, glory combating for
a mastery over her. This walk of his seemingly took longer than
all her hours of awakening, of strife, of remorse, longer than
the ride to find him. She felt that it would be impossible for
her to wait till he reached the end of the road. Yet in the
hurry and riot of her feelings she had fleeting panics. What
could she say to him? How meet him? Well she remembered the
tall, powerful form now growing close enough to distinguish its
dress. Stewart's face was yet only a dark gleam. Soon she would
see it--long before he could know she was there. She wanted to
run to meet him. Nevertheless, she stood rooted to her covert
behind the window, living that terrible walk with him to the
uttermost thought of home, sister, mother, sweetheart, wife, life
itself--every thought that could come to a man stalking to meet
his executioners. With all that tumult in her mind and heart
Madeline still fell prey to the incomprehensible variations of
emotion possible to a woman. Every step Stewart took thrilled
her. She had some strange, subtle intuition that he was not
unhappy, and that he believed beyond shadow of doubt that he was
walking to his death. His steps dragged a little, though they
had begun to be swift. The old, hard, physical, wild nerve of
the cowboy was perhaps in conflict with spiritual growth of the
finer man, realizing too late that life ought not to be
sacrificed.

Then the dark gleam that was his face took shape, grew sharper
and clearer. He was stalking now, and there was a suggestion of
impatience in his stride. It took these hidden Mexicans a long
time to kill him! At a point in the middle of the road, even
with the corner of a house and opposite to Madeline's position,
Stewart halted stock-still. He presented a fair, bold mark to
his executioners, and he stood there motionless a full moment.

Only silence greeted him. Plain it was to Madeline, and she
thought to all who had eyes to see, that to Stewart, since for
some reason he had been spared all along his walk, this was the
moment when he ought to be mercifully shot. But as no shots came
a rugged dignity left him for a reckless scorn manifest in the
way he strolled, across to the corner of the house, rolled yet
another cigarette, and, presenting a broad breast to the window,
smoked and waited.

That wait was almost unendurable for Madeline. Perhaps it was
only a moment, several moments at the longest, but the time
seemed a year. Stewart's face was scornful, hard. Did he
suspect treachery on the part of his captors, that they meant to
play with him as a cat with a mouse, to murder him at leisure?
Madeline was sure she caught the old, inscrutable, mocking smile
fleeting across his lips. He held that position for what must
have been a reasonable time to his mind, then with a laugh and a
shrug he threw the cigarette into the road. He shook his head as
if at the incomprehensible motives of men who could have no fair
reasons now for delay.

He made a sudden violent action that was more than a
straightening of his powerful frame. It was the old instinctive
violence. Then he faced north. Madeline read his thought, knew
he was thinking of her, calling her a last silent farewell. He
would serve her to his last breath, leave her free, keep his
secret. That picture of him, dark-browed, fire-eyed, strangely
sad and strong, sank indelibly into Madeline's heart of hearts.

The next instant he was striding forward, to force by bold and
scornful presence a speedy fulfilment of his sentence.

Madeline stepped into the door, crossed the threshold. Stewart
staggered as if indeed the bullets he expected had pierced him in
mortal wound. His dark face turned white. His eyes had the rapt
stare, the wild fear of a man who saw an apparition, yet who
doubted his sight. Perhaps he had called to her as the Mexicans
called to their Virgin; perhaps he imagined sudden death had come
unawares, and this was her image appearing to him in some other
life.

"Who--are--you?" he whispered, hoarsely.

She tried to lift her hands, failed, tried again, and held them
out, trembling.

"It is I. Majesty. Your wife!"

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