The Light of Western Stars

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"Majesty, it was good of you to come. I'm all broken up. How
did you ever do it? But never mind that now. Tell me about that
brother of mine."

And Madeline told him, and then about their sister Helen.
Question after question he fired at her; and she told him of her
mother; of Aunt Grace, who had died a year ago; of his old
friends, married, scattered, vanished. But she did not tell him
of his father, for he did not ask.

Quite suddenly the rapid-fire questioning ceased; he choked, was
silent a moment, and then burst into tears. It seemed to her
that a long, stored-up bitterness was flooding away. It hurt her
to see him--hurt her more to hear him. And in the succeeding few
moments she grew closer to him than she had ever been in the
past. Had her father and mother done right by him? Her pulse
stirred with unwonted quickness. She did not speak, but she
kissed him, which, for her, was an indication of unusual feeling.
And when he recovered command over his emotions he made no
reference to his breakdown, nor did she. But that scene struck
deep into Madeline Hammond's heart. Through it she saw what he
had lost and gained.

"Alfred, why did you not answer my last letters?" asked Madeline.
"I had not heard from you for two years."

"So long? How time flies! Well, things went bad with me about the
last time I heard from you. I always intended to write some day,
but I never did."

"Things went wrong? Tell me."

"Majesty, you mustn't worry yourself with my troubles. I want you
to enjoy your stay and not be bothered with my difficulties."

"Please tell me. I suspected something had gone wrong. That is
partly why I decided to come out."

"All right; if you must know," he began; and it seemed to
Madeline that there was a gladness in his decision to unburden
himself. "You remember all about my little ranch, and that for a
while I did well raising stock? I wrote you all that. Majesty,
a man makes enemies anywhere. Perhaps an Eastern man in the West
can make, if not so many, certainly more bitter ones. At any
rate, I made several. There was a cattleman, Ward by name--he's
gone now--and he and I had trouble over cattle. That gave me a
back-set. Pat Hawe, the sheriff here, has been instrumental in
hurting my business. He's not so much of a rancher, but he has
influence at Santa Fe and El Paso and Douglas. I made an enemy
of him. I never did anything to him. He hates Gene Stewart, and
upon one occasion I spoiled a little plot of his to get Gene in
his clutches. The real reason for his animosity toward me is that
he loves Florence, and Florence is going to marry me."

"Alfred!"

"What's the matter, Majesty? Didn't Florence impress you
favorably?" he asked, with a keen glance.

"Why--yes, indeed. I like her. But I did not think of her in
relation to you--that way. I am greatly surprised. Alfred, is
she well born? What connections?"

"Florence is just a girl of ordinary people. She was born in
Kentucky, was brought up in Texas. My aristocratic and wealthy
family would scorn--"

"Alfred, you are still a Hammond," said Madeline, with uplifted
head.

Alfred laughed. "We won't quarrel, Majesty. I remember you, and
in spite of your pride you've got a heart. If you stay here a
month you'll love Florence Kingsley. I want you to know she's
had a great deal to do with straightening me up. . . . Well, to
go on with my story. There's Don Carlos, a Mexican rancher, and
he's my worst enemy. For that matter, he's as bad an enemy of
Bill Stillwell and other ranchers. Stillwell, by the way, is my
friend and one of the finest men on earth. I got in debt to Don
Carlos before I knew he was so mean. In the first place I lost
money at faro--I gambled some when I came West--and then I made
unwise cattle deals. Don Carlos is a wily Greaser, he knows the
ranges, he has the water, and he is dishonest. So he outfigured
me. And now I am practically ruined. He has not gotten
possession of my ranch, but that's only a matter of time, pending
lawsuits at Santa Fe. At present I have a few hundred cattle
running on Stillwell's range, and I am his foreman."

"Foreman?" queried Madeline.

"I am simply boss of Stillwell's cowboys, and right glad of my
job."

Madeline was conscious of an inward burning. It required an
effort for her to retain her outward tranquillity. Annoying
consciousness she had also of the returning sense of new
disturbing emotions. She began to see just how walled in from
unusual thought-provoking incident and sensation had been her
exclusive life.

"Cannot your property be reclaimed?" she asked. "How much do you
owe?"

"Ten thousand dollars would clear me and give me another start.
But, Majesty, in this country that's a good deal of money, and I
haven't been able to raise it. Stillwell's in worse shape than I
am."

Madeline went over to Alfred and put her hands on his shoulders.

"We must not be in debt."

He stared at her as if her words had recalled something long
forgotten. Then he smiled.

"How imperious you are! I'd fcrgotten just who my beautiful
sister really is. Majesty, you're not going to ask me to take
money from you?"

"I am."

"Well, I'll not do it. I never did, even when I was in college,
and then there wasn't much beyond me."

"Listen, Alfred," she went on, earnestly, "this is entirely
different. I had only an allowance then. You had no way to know
that since I last wrote you I had come into my inheritance from
Aunt Grace. It was--well, that doesn't matter. Only, I haven't
been able to spend half the income. It's mine. It's not father's
money. You will make me very happy if you'll consent. Alfred,
I'm so--so amazed at the change in you. I'm so happy. You must
never take a backward step from now on. What is ten thousand
dollars to me? Sometimes I spend that in a month. I throw money
away. If you let me help you it will be doing me good as well as
you. Please, Alfred."

He kissed her, evidently surprised at her earnestness. And indeed
Madeline was surprised herself. Once started, her speech had
flowed.

"You always were the best of fellows, Majesty. And if you really
care--if you really want to help me I'll be only too glad to
accept. It will be fine. Florence will go wild. And that
Greaser won't harass me any more. Majesty, pretty soon some
titled fellow will be spending your money; I may as well take a
little before he gets it all," he finished, jokingly.

"What do you know about me?" she asked, lightly.

"More than you think. Even if we are lost out here in the woolly
West we get news. Everybody knows about Anglesbury. And that
Dago duke who chased you all over Europe, that Lord Castleton has
the running now and seems about to win. How about it, Majesty?"

Madeline detected a hint that suggested scorn in his gay speech.
And deep in his searching glance she saw a flame. She became
thoughtful. She had forgotten Castleton, New York, society.

"Alfred," she began, seriously, "I don't believe any titled
gentleman will ever spend my money, as you elegantly express it."

"I don't care for that. It's you!" he cried, passionately, and
he grasped her with a violence that startled her. He was white;
his eyes were now like fire. "You are so splendid--so wonderful.
People called you the American Beauty, but you're more than that.
You're the American Girl! Majesty, marry no man unless you love
him, and love an American. Stay away from Europe long enough to
learn to know the men--the real men of your own country."

"Alfred, I'm afraid there are not always real men and real love
for American girls in international marriages. But Helen knows
this. It'll be her choice. She'll be miserable if she marries
Anglesbury."

"It'll serve her just right," declared her brother. "Helen was
always crazy for glitter, adulation, fame. I'll gamble she never
saw more of Anglesbury than the gold and ribbons on his breast."

"I am sorry. Anglesbury is a gentleman; but it is the money he
wanted, I think. Alfred, tell me how you came to know about me,
'way out here? You may be assured I was astonished to find that
Miss Kingsley knew me as Majesty Hammond."

"I imagine it was a surprise," he replied, with a laugh, "I told
Florence about you--gave her a picture of you. And, of course,
being a woman, she showed the picture and talked. She's in love
with you. Then, my dear sister, we do get New York papers out
here occasionally, and we can see and read. You may not be aware
that you and your society friends are objects of intense interest
in the U. S. in general, and the West in particular. The papers
are full of you, and perhaps a lot of things you never did."

"That Mr. Stewart knew, too. He said, 'You're not Majesty
Hammond?'"

"Never mind his impudence!" exclaimed Alfred; and then again he
laughed. "Gene is all right, only you've got to know him. I'll
tell you what he did. He got hold of one of those newspaper
pictures of you--the one in the Times; he took it away from here,
and in spite of Florence he wouldn't fetch it back. It was a
picture of you in riding-habit with your blue-ribbon horse, White
Stockings--remember? It was taken at Newport. Well, Stewart
tacked the picture up in his bunk-house and named his beautiful
horse Majesty. All the cowboys knew it. They would see the
picture and tease him unmercifully. But he didn't care. One day
I happened to drop in on him and found him just recovering from a
carouse. I saw the picture, too, and I said to him, 'Gene, if my
sister knew you were a drunkard she'd not be proud of having her
picture stuck up in your room.' Majesty, he did not touch a drop
for a month, and when he did drink again he took the picture
down, and he has never put it back."

Madeline smiled at her brother's amusement, but she did not
reply. She simply could not adjust herself to these queer free
Western' ways. Her brother had eloquently pleaded for her to
keep herself above a sordid and brilliant marriage, yet he not
only allowed a cowboy to keep her picture in his room, but
actually spoke of her and used her name in a temperance lecture.
Madeline just escaped feeling disgust. She was saved from this,
however, by nothing less than her brother's naive gladness that
through subtle suggestion Stewart had been persuaded to be good
for a month. Something made up of Stewart's effrontery to her;
of Florence Kingsley meeting her, frankly as it were, as an
equal; of the elder sister's slow, quiet, easy acceptance of this
visitor who had been honored at the courts of royalty; of that
faint hint of scorn in Alfred's voice, and his amused statement
in regard to her picture and the name Majesty--something made up
of all these stung Madeline Hammond's pride, alienated her for an
instant, and then stimulated her intelligence, excited her
interest, and made her resolve to learn a little about this
incomprehensible West.

"Majesty, I must run down to the siding," he said, consulting his
watch. "We're loading a shipment of cattle. I'll be back by
supper-time and bring Stillwell with me. You'll like him. Give
me the check for your trunk."

She went into the little bedroom and, taking up her bag, she got
out a number of checks.

"Six! Six trunks!" he exclaimed. "Well, I'm very glad you
intend to stay awhile. Say, Majesty, it will take me as long to
realize who you really are as it'll take to break you of being a
tenderfoot. I hope you packed a riding-suit. If not you'll have
to wear trousers! You'll have to do that, anyway, when we go up
in the mountains."

"No!"

"You sure will, as Florence says."

"We shall see about that. I don't know what's in the trunks. I
never pack anything. My dear brother, what do I have maids for?"

"How did it come that you didn't travel with a maid?"

"I wanted to be alone. But don't you worry. I shall be able to
look after myself. I dare say it will be good for me."

She went to the gate with him.

"What a shaggy, dusty horse! He's wild, too. Do you let him
stand that way without being haltered? I should think he would
run off."

"Tenderfoot! You'll be great fun, Majesty, especially for the
cowboys."

"Oh, will I?" she asked, constrainedly.

"Yes, and in three days they will be fighting one another over
you. That's going to worry me. Cowboys fall in love with a
plain woman, an ugly woman, any woman, so long as she's young.
And you! Good Lord! They'll go out of their heads."

"You are pleased to be facetious, Alfred. I think I have had
quite enough of cowboys, and I haven't been here twenty-four
hours."

"Don't think too much of first impressions. That was my mistake
when I arrived here. Good-by. I'll go now. Better rest awhile.
You look tired."

The horse started as Alfred put his foot in the stirrup and was
running when the rider slipped his leg over the saddle. Madeline
watched him in admiration. He seemed to be loosely fitted to the
saddle, moving with the horse.

"I suppose that's a cowboy's style. It pleases me," she said.
"How different from the seat of Eastern riders!"

Then Madeline sat upon the porch and fell to interested
observation of her surrounding. Near at hand it was decidedly
not prepossessing. The street was deep in dust, and the cool
wind whipped up little puffs. The houses along this street were
all low, square, flat-roofed structures made of some kind of red
cement. It occurred to her suddenly that this building-material
must be the adobe she had read about. There was no person in
sight. The long street appeared to have no end, though the line
of houses did not extend far. Once she heard a horse trotting at
some distance, and several times the ringing of a locomotive
bell. Where were the mountains, wondered Madeline. Soon low
over the house-roofs she saw a dim, dark-blue, rugged outline.
It seemed to charm her eyes and fix her gaze. She knew the
Adirondacks, she had seen the Alps from the summit of Mont Blanc,
and had stood under the great black, white-tipped shadow of the
Himalayas. But they had not drawn her as these remote Rockies.
This dim horizon line boldly cutting the blue sky fascinated her.
Florence Kingsley's expression "beckoning mountains" returned to
Madeline. She could not see or feel so much as that. Her
impression was rather that these mountains were aloof,
unattainable, that if approached they would recede or vanish like
the desert mirage.

Madeline went to her room, intending to rest awhile, and she fell
asleep. She was aroused by Florence's knock and call.

"Miss Hammond, your brother has come back with Stillwell."

"Why, how I have slept!" exclaimed Madeline. "It's nearly six
o'clock."

"I'm sure glad. You were tired. And the air here makes
strangers sleepy. Come, we want you to meet old Bill. He calls
himself the last of the cattlemen. He has lived in Texas and
here all his life."

Madeline accompanied Florence to the porch. Her brother, who was
sitting near the door, jumped up and said:

"Hello, Majesty!" And as he put his arm around her he turned
toward a massive man whose broad, craggy face began to ripple and
wrinkle. "I want to introduce my friend Stillwell to you. Bill,
this is my sister, the sister I've so often told you about--
Majesty."

"Wal, wal, Al, this's the proudest meetin' of my life," replied
Stillwell, in a booming voice. He extended a huge hand. "Miss--
Miss Majesty, sight of you is as welcome as the rain an' the
flowers to an old desert cattleman."

Madeline greeted him, and it was all she could do to repress a
cry at the way he crunched her hand in a grasp of iron. He was
old, white-haired, weather-beaten, with long furrows down his
checks and with gray eyes almost hidden in wrinkles. If he was
smiling she fancied it a most extraordinary smile. The next
instant she realized that it had been a smile, for his face
appeared to stop rippling, the light died, and suddenly it was
like rudely chiseled stone. The quality of hardness she had seen
in Stewart was immeasurably intensified in this old man's face.

"Miss Majesty, it's plumb humiliatin' to all of us thet we wasn't
on hand to meet you," Stillwell said. "Me an' Al stepped into
the P. O. an' said a few mild an' cheerful things. Them messages
ought to hev been sent out to the ranch. I'm sure afraid it was
a bit unpleasant fer you last night at the station."

"I was rather anxious at first and perhaps frightened," replied
Madeline.

"Wal, I'm some glad to tell you thet there's no man in these
parts except your brother thet I'd as lief hev met you as Gene
Stewart."

"Indeed?"

"Yes, an' thet's takin' into consideration Gene's weakness, too.
I'm allus fond of sayin' of myself thet I'm the last of the old
cattlemen. Wal, Stewart's not a native Westerner, but he's my
pick of the last of the cowboys. Sure, he's young, but he's the
last of the old style--the picturesque--an' chivalrous, too, I
make bold to say, Miss Majesty, as well as the old hard-ridin'
kind. Folks are down on Stewart. An' I'm only sayin' a good
word for him because he is down, an' mebbe last night he might
hev scared you, you bein' fresh from the East."

Madeline liked the old fellow for his loyalty to the cowboy he
evidently cared for; but as there did not seem anything for her
to say, she remained silent.

"Miss Majesty, the day of the cattleman is about over. An' the
day of the cowboy, such as Gene Stewart, is over. There's no
place for Gene. If these weren't modern days he'd come near
bein' a gun-man, same as we had in Texas, when I ranched there in
the 'seventies. But he can't fit nowhere now; he can't hold a
job, an' he's goin' down."

"I am sorry to hear it," murmured Madeline. "But, Mr. Stillwell,
aren't these modern days out here just a little wild--yet? The
conductor on my train told me of rebels, bandits, raiders. Then
I have had other impressions of--well, that were wild enough for
me."

"Wal, it's some more pleasant an' excitin' these days than for
many years," replied Stillwell. "The boys hev took to packin'
guns again. But thet's owin' to the revolution in Mexico.
There's goin' to be trouble along the border. I reckon people in
the East don't know there is a revolution. Wal, Madero will oust
Diaz, an' then some other rebel will oust Madero. It means
trouble on the border an' across the border, too. I wouldn't
wonder if Uncle Sam hed to get a hand in the game. There's
already been holdups on the railroads an' raids along the Rio
Grande Valley. An' these little towns are full of Greasers, all
disturbed by the fightin' down in Mexico. We've been hevin'
shootin'-scrapes an' knifin'-scrapes, an' some cattle-raidin'. I
hev been losin' a few cattle right along. Reminds me of old
times; an' pretty soon if it doesn't stop, I'll take the old-time
way to stop it."

"Yes, indeed, Majesty," put in Alfred, "you have hit upon an
interesting time to visit us."

"Wal, thet sure 'pears to be so," rejoined Stillwell. "Stewart
got in trouble down heah to-day, an' I'm more than sorry to hev
to tell you thet your name figgered in it. But I couldn't blame
him, fer I sure would hev done the same myself."

"That so?" queried Aifred, laughing. "Well, tell us about it."

Madeline simply gazed at her brother, and, though he seemed
amused at her consternation, there was mortification in his face.

It required no great perspicuity, Madeline thought, to see that
Stillwell loved to talk, and the way he squared himself and
spread his huge hands over his knees suggested that he meant to
do this opportunity justice.

"Miss Majesty, I reckon, bein' as you're in the West now, thet
you must take things as they come, an' mind each thing a little
less than the one before. If we old fellers hedn't been thet way
we'd never hev lasted.

"Last night wasn't particular bad, ratin' with some other nights
lately. There wasn't much doin'. But, I had a hard knock.
Yesterday when we started in with a bunch of cattle I sent one of
my cowboys, Danny Mains, along ahead, carryin' money I hed to pay
off hands an' my bills, an' I wanted thet money to get in town
before dark. Wal, Danny was held up. I don't distrust the lad.
There's been strange Greasers in town lately, an' mebbe they knew
about the money comin'.

"Wal, when I arrived with the cattle I was some put to it to make
ends meet. An' to-day I wasn't in no angelic humor. When I hed
my business all done I went around pokin' my nose beak an' there,
tryin' to get scent of thet money. An' I happened in at a hall
we hev thet does duty fer' jail an' hospital an' election-post
an' what not. Wal, just then it was doin' duty as a hospital.
Last night was fiesta night--these Greasers hev a fiesta every
week or so--an' one Greaser who hed been bad hurt was layin' in
the hall, where he hed been fetched from the station. Somebody
hed sent off to Douglas fer a doctor, but be hedn't come yet.
I've hed some experience with gunshot wounds, an' I looked this
feller over. He wasn't shot up much, but I thought there was
danger of blood-poison-in'. Anyway, I did all I could.

"The hall was full of cowboys, ranchers, Greasers, miners, an'
town folks, along with some strangers. I was about to get
started up this way when Pat Hawe come in.

"Pat he's the sheriff. I reckon, Miss Majesty, thet sheriffs are
new to you, an' fer sake of the West I'll explain to you thet we
don't hev many of the real thing any more. Garrett, who killed
Billy the Kid an' was killed himself near a year or so ago--he
was the kind of sheriff thet helps to make a self-respectin'
country. But this Pat Hawe--wal, I reckon there's no good in me
sayin' what I think of him. He come into the hall, an' he was
roarin' about things. He was goin' to arrest Danny Mains on
sight. Wal, I jest polite-like told Pat thet the money was mine
an' he needn't get riled about it. An' if I wanted to trail the
thief I reckon I could do it as well as anybody. Pat howled thet
law was law, an' he was goin' to lay down the law. Sure it
'peared to me thet Pat was daid set to arrest the first man he
could find excuse to.

"Then he cooled down a bit an' was askin' questions about the
wounded Greaser when Gene Stewart come in. Whenever Pat an' Gene
come together it reminds me of the early days back in the
'seventies. Jest naturally everybody shut up. Fer Pat hates
Gene, an' I reckon Gene ain't very sweet on Pat. They're jest
natural foes in the first place, an' then the course of events
here in El Cajon has been aggravatin'.

"'Hello, Stewart! You're the feller I'm lookin' fer,' said Pat.

"Stewart eyed him an' said, mighty cool an' sarcastic, 'Hawe, you
look a good deal fer me when I'm hittin' up the dust the other
way.'

"Pat went red at thet, but he held in. 'Say, Stewart, you-all
think a lot of thet roan horse of yourn, with the aristocratic
name?'

"'I reckon I do,' replied Gene, shortly.

"'Wal, where is he?'

"'Thet's none of your business, Hawe.'

"'Oho! it ain't, hey? Wal, I guess I can make it my business.
Stewart, there was some queer goings-on last night thet you know
somethin' about. Danny Mains robbed--Stillwell's money gone--
your roan horse gone--thet little hussy Bonita gone--an' this
Greaser near gone, too. Now, seein' thet you was up late an'
prowlin' round the station where this Greaser was found, it ain't
onreasonable to think you might know how he got plugged--is it?'

"Stewart laughed kind of cold, an' he rolled a cigarette, all the
time eyin' Pat, an' then he said if he'd plugged the Greaser it
'd never hev been sich a bunglin' job.

"'I can arrest you on suspicion, Stewart, but before I go thet
far I want some evidence. I want to round up Danny Mains an'
thet little Greaser girl. I want to find out what's become of
your hoss. You've never lent him since you hed him, an' there
ain't enough raiders across the border to steal him from you.
It's got a queer look--thet hoss bein' gone.'

"'You sure are a swell detective, Hawe, an' I wish you a heap of
luck,' replied Stewart.

"Thet 'peared to nettle Pat beyond bounds, an' he stamped around
an' swore. Then he had an idea. It jest stuck out all over him,
an' he shook his finger in Stewart's face.

"'You was drunk last night?'

"Stewart never batted an eye.

"'You met some woman on Number Eight, didn't you?' shouted Hawe.

"'I met a lady,' replied Stewart, quiet an' menacin' like.

"'You met Al Hammond's sister, an' you took her up to Kingsley's.
An' cinch this, my cowboy cavalier, I'm goin' up there an' ask
this grand dame some questions, an' if she's as close-mouthed as
you are I'll arrest her!'

"Gene Stewart turned white. I fer one expected to see him jump
like lightnin', as he does when he's riled sudden. But he was
calm an' he was thinkin' hard. Presently he said:

"'Pat, thet's a fool idee, an' if you do the trick it'll hurt you
all the rest of your life. There's absolutely no reason to
frighten Miss Hammond. An' tryin' to arrest her would be such a
damned outrage as won't be stood fer in El Cajon. If you're sore
on me send me to jail. I'll go. If you want to hurt Al Hammond,
go an' do it some man kind of way. Don't take your spite out on
us by insultin' a lady who has come hyar to hev a little visit.
We're bad enough without bein' low-down as Greasers.'

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