The Light of Western Stars

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"Not much to look at, is he?" went on Stillwell. "Wal; I know
it's natural thet we're all best pleased by good looks in any
one, even a man. It hedn't ought to be thet way. Monty Price
looks like hell. But appearances are sure deceivin'. Monty saw
years of ridin' along the Missouri bottoms, the big prairies,
where there's high grass an' sometimes fires. In Montana they
have blizzards that freeze cattle standin' in their tracks. An'
hosses freeze to death. They tell me thet a drivin' sleet in the
face with the mercury forty below is somethin' to ride against.
You can't get Monty to say much about cold. All you hev to do is
to watch him, how he hunts the sun. It never gets too hot fer
Monty. Wal, I reckon he was a little more prepossessin' once.
The story thet come to us about Monty is this: He got caught out
in a prairie fire an' could hev saved himself easy, but there was
a lone ranch right in the line of fire, an' Monty knowed the
rancher was away, an' his wife an' baby was home. He knowed,
too, the way the wind was, thet the ranch-house would burn. It
was a long chance he was takin'. But he went over, put the woman
up behind him, wrapped the baby an' his hoss's haid in a wet
blanket, an' rode away. Thet was sure some ride, I've heerd. But
the fire ketched Monty at the last. The woman fell an' was lost,
an' then his hoss. An' Monty ran an' walked an' crawled through
the fire with thet baby, an' he saved it. Monty was never much
good as a cowboy after thet. He couldn't hold no jobs. Wal,
he'll have one with me as long as I have a steer left."

VI A Gift and A Purchase

For a week the scene of the round-up lay within riding-distance
of the ranch-house, and Madeline passed most of this time in the
saddle, watching the strenuous labors of the vaqueros and
cowboys. She overestimated her strength, and more than once had
to be lifted from her horse. Stillwell's pleasure in her
attendance gave place to concern. He tried to persuade her to
stay away from the round-up, and Florence grew even more
solicitous.

Madeline, however, was not moved by their entreaties. She grasped
only dimly the truth of what it was she was learning--something
infinitely more than the rounding up of cattle by cowboys, and
she was loath to lose an hour of her opportunity.

Her brother looked out for her as much as his duties permitted;
but for several days he never once mentioned her growing fatigue
and the strain of excitement, or suggested that she had better go
back to the house with Florence. Many times she felt the drawing
power of his keen blue eyes on her face. And at these moments she
sensed more than brotherly regard. He was watching her, studying
her, weighing her, and the conviction was vaguely disturbing. It
was disquieting for Madeline to think that Alfred might have
guessed her trouble. From time to time he brought cowboys to her
and introduced them, and laughed and jested, trying to make the
ordeal less embarrassing for these men so little used to women.

Before the week was out, however, Alfred found occasion to tell
her that it would be wiser for her to let the round-up go on
without gracing it further with her presence. He said it
laughingly; nevertheless, he was serious. And when Madeline
turned to him in surprise he said, bluntly:

"I don't like the way Don Carlos follows you around. Bill's
afraid that Nels or Ambrose or one of the cowboys will take a
fall out of the Mexican. They're itching for the chance. Of
course, dear, it's absurd to you, but it's true."

Absurd it certainly was, yet it served to show Madeline how
intensely occupied she had been with her own feelings, roused by
the tumult and toil of the round-up. She recalled that Don
Carlos had been presented to her, and that she had not liked his
dark, striking face with its bold, prominent, glittering eyes and
sinister lines; and she had not liked his suave, sweet,
insinuating voice or his subtle manner, with its slow bows and
gestures. She had thought he looked handsome and dashing on the
magnificent black horse. However, now that Alfred's words made
her think, she recalled that wherever she had been in the field
the noble horse, with his silver-mounted saddle and his dark
rider, had been always in her vicinity.

"Don Carlos has been after Florence for a long time," said
Alfred. "He's not a young man by any means. He's fifty, Bill
says; but you can seldom tell a Mexican's age from his looks.
Don Carlos is well educated and a man we know very little about.
Mexicans of his stamp don't regard women as we white men do.
Now, my dear, beautiful sister from New York, I haven't much use
for Don Carlos; but I don't want Nels or Ambrose to make a wild
throw with a rope and pull the Don off his horse. So you had
better ride up to the house and stay there."

"Alfred, you are joking, teasing me," said Madeline. "Indeed
not," replied Alfred. "How about it, Flo?" Florence replied
that the cowboys would upon the slightest provocation treat Don
Carlos with less ceremony and gentleness than a roped steer. Old
Bill Stillwell came up to be importuned by Alfred regarding the
conduct of cowboys on occasion, and he not only corroborated the
assertion, but added emphasis and evidence of his own.

"An', Miss Majesty," he concluded, "I reckon if Gene Stewart was
ridin' fer me, thet grinnin' Greaser would hev hed a bump in the
dust before now."

Madeline had been wavering between sobriety and laughter until
Stillwell's mention of his ideal of cowboy chivalry decided in
favor of the laughter.

"I am not convinced, but I surrender," she said. "You have only
some occult motive for driving me away. I am sure that handsome
Don Carlos is being unjustly suspected. But as I have seen a
little of cowboys' singular imagination and gallantry, I am
rather inclined to fear their possibilities. So good-by."

Then she rode with Florence up the long, gray slope to the
ranch-house. That night she suffered from excessive weariness,
which she attributed more to the strange working of her mind than
to riding and sitting her horse. Morning, however, found her in
no disposition to rest. It was not activity that she craved, or
excitement, or pleasure. An unerring instinct, rising dear from
the thronging sensations of the last few days, told her that she
had missed something in life. It could not have been love, for
she loved brother, sister, parents, friends; it could not have
been consideration for the poor, the unfortunate, the hapless;
she had expressed her sympathy for these by giving freely; it
could not have been pleasure, culture, travel, society, wealth,
position, fame, for these had been hers all her life. Whatever
this something was, she had baffling intimations of it, hopes
that faded on the verge of realizations, haunting promises that
were unfulfilled. Whatever it was, it had remained hidden and
unknown at home, and here in the West it began to allure and
drive her to discovery. Therefore she could not rest; she wanted
to go and see; she was no longer chasing phantoms; it was a hunt
for treasure that held aloof, as intangible as the substance of
dreams.

That morning she spoke a desire to visit the Mexican quarters
lying at the base of the foothills. Florence protested that this
was no place to take Madeline. But Madeline insisted, and it
required only a few words and a persuading smile to win Florence
over.

From the porch the cluster of adobe houses added a picturesque
touch of color and contrast to the waste of gray valley. Near at
hand they proved the enchantment lent by distance. They were
old, crumbling, broken down, squalid. A few goats climbed around
upon them; a few mangy dogs barked announcement of visitors; and
then a troop of half-naked, dirty, ragged children ran out. They
were very shy, and at first retreated in affright. But kind
words and smiles gained their confidence, and then they followed
in a body, gathering a quota of new children at each house.
Madeline at once conceived the idea of doing something to better
the condition of these poor Mexicans, and with this in mind she
decided to have a look indoors. She fancied she might have been
an apparition, judging from the effect her presence had upon the
first woman she encountered. While Florence exercised what
little Spanish she had command of, trying to get the women to
talk, Madeline looked about the miserable little rooms. And
there grew upon her a feeling of sickness, which increased as she
passed from one house to another. She had not believed such
squalor could exist anywhere in America. The huts reeked with
filth; vermin crawled over the dirt floors. There was absolutely
no evidence of water, and she believed what Florence told her--
that these people never bathed. There was little evidence of
labor. Idle men and women smoking cigarettes lolled about, some
silent, others jabbering. They did not resent the visit of the
American women, nor did they show hospitality. They appeared
stupid. Disease was rampant in these houses; when the doors were
shut there was no ventilation, and even with the doors open
Madeline felt choked and stifled. A powerful penetrating odor
pervaded the rooms that were less stifling than others, and this
odor Florence explained came from a liquor the Mexicans distilled
from a cactus plant. Here drunkenness was manifest, a terrible
inert drunkenness that made its victims deathlike.

Madeline could not extend her visit to the little mission-house.
She saw a padre, a starved, sad-faced man who, she instinctively
felt, was good. She managed to mount her horse and ride up to
the house; but, once there, she weakened and Florence had almost
to carry her in-doors. She fought off a faintness, only to
succumb to it when alone in her room. Still, she did not entirely
lose consciousness, and soon recovered to the extent that she did
not require assistance.

Upon the morning after the end of the round-up, when she went out
on the porch, her brother and Stillwell appeared to be arguing
about the identity of a horse.

"Wal, I reckon it's my old roan," said Stillwell, shading his
eves with his hand.

"Bill, if that isn't Stewart's horse my eyes are going back on
me," replied Al. "It's not the color or shape--the distance is
too far to judge by that. It's the motion--the swing."

"Al, mebbe you're right. But they ain't no rider up on thet
hoss. Flo, fetch my glass."

Florence went into the house, while Madeline tried to discover
the object of attention. Presently far up the gray hollow along
a foothill she saw dust, and then the dark, moving figure of a
horse. She was watching when Florence returned with the glass.
Bill took a long look, adjusted the glasses carefully, and tried
again.

"Wal, I hate to admit my eyes are gettin' pore. But I guess I'll
hev to. Thet's Gene Stewart's hoss, saddled, an' comin' at a
fast clip without a rider. It's amazin' strange, an' some in
keepin' with other things concernin' Gene."

"Give me the glass," said Al. "Yes, I was right. Bill, the horse
is not frightened. He's coming steadily; he's got something on
his mind."

"Thet's a trained hoss, Al. He has more sense than some men I
know. Take a look with the glasses up the hollow. See anybody?"

"No."

"Swing up over the foothills--where the trail leads. Higher--
along thet ridge where the rocks begin. See anybody?"

"By Jove! Bill--two horses! But I can't make out much for dust.
They are climbing fast. One horse gone among the rocks. There--
the other's gone. What do you make of that?"

"Wal, I can't make no more 'n you. But I'll bet we know
somethin' soon, fer Gene's hoss is comin' faster as he nears the
ranch."

The wide hollow sloping up into the foothills lay open to
unobstructed view, and less than half a mile distant Madeline saw
the riderless horse coming along the white trail at a rapid
canter. She watched him, recalling the circumstances under which
she had first seen him, and then his wild flight through the
dimly lighted streets of El Cajon out into the black night. She
thrilled again and believed she would never think of that starry
night's adventure without a thrill. She watched the horse and
felt more than curiosity. A shrill, piercing whistle pealed in.

"Wal, he's seen us, thet's sure," said Bill.

The horse neared the corrals, disappeared into a lane, and then,
breaking his gait again, thundered into the inclosure and pounded
to a halt some twenty yards from where Stillwell waited for him.

One look at him at close range in the clear light of day was
enough for Madeline to award him a blue ribbon over all horses,
even her prize-winner, White Stockings. The cowboy's great steed
was no lithe, slender-bodied mustang. He was a charger, almost
tremendous of build, with a black coat faintly mottled in gray,
and it shone like polished glass in the sun. Evidently he had
been carefully dressed down for this occasion, for there was no
dust on him, nor a kink in his beautiful mane, nor a mark on his
glossy hide.

"Come hyar, you son-of-a-gun," said Stillwell.

The horse dropped his head, snorted, and came obediently up. He
was neither shy nor wild. He poked a friendly nose at Stillwell,
and then looked at Al and the women. Unhooking the stirrups from
the pommel, Stillwell let them fall and began to search the
saddle for something which he evidently expected to find.
Presently from somewhere among the trappings he produced a folded
bit of paper, and after scrutinizing it handed it to Al.

"Addressed to you; an' I'll bet you two bits I know what's in
it," he said.

Alfred unfolded the letter, read it, and then looked at
Stillwell.

"Bill, you're a pretty good guesser. Gene's made for the border.
He sent the horse by somebody, no names mentioned, and wants my
sister to have him if she will accept."

"Any mention of Danny Mains?" asked the rancher.

"Not a word."

"Thet's bad. Gene'd know about Danny if anybody did. But he's a
close-mouthed cuss. So he's sure hittin' for Mexico. Wonder if
Danny's goin', too? Wal, there's two of the best cowmen I ever
seen gone to hell an' I'm sorry."

With that he bowed his head and, grumbling to himself, went into
the house. Alfred lifted the reins over the head of the horse
and, leading him to Madeline, slipped the knot over her arm and
placed the letter in her hand.

"Majesty, I'd accept the horse," he said. "Stewart is only a
cowboy now, and as tough as any I've known. But he comes of a
good family. He was a college man and a gentleman once. He went
to the bad out here, like so many fellows go, like I nearly did.
Then he had told me about his sister and mother. He cared a good
deal for them. I think he has been a source of unhappiness to
them. It was mostly when he was reminded of this in some way
that he'd get drunk. I have always stuck to him, and I would do
so yet if I had the chance. You can see Bill is heartbroken about
Danny Mains and Stewart. I think he rather hoped to get good
news. There's not much chance of them coming back now, at least
not in the case of Stewart. This giving up his horse means he's
going to join the rebel forces across the border. What wouldn't
I give to see that cowboy break loose on a bunch of Greasers!
Oh, damn the luck! I beg your pardon, Majesty. But I'm upset,
too. I'm sorry about Stewart. I liked him pretty well before he
thrashed that coyote of a sheriff, Pat Hawe, and afterward I
guess I liked him more. You read the letter, sister, and accept
the horse."

In silence Madeline bent her gaze from her brother's face to the
letter:

Friend Al,--I'm sending my horse down to you because I'm going
away and haven't the nerve to take him where he'd get hurt or
fall into strange hands.

If you think it's all right, why, give him to your sister with my
respects. But if you don't like the idea, Al, or if she won't
have him, then he's for you. I'm not forgetting your kindness to
me, even if I never showed it. And, Al, my horse has never felt a
quirt or a spur, and I'd like to think you'd never hurt him. I'm
hoping your sister will take him. She'll be good to him, and she
can afford to take care of him. And, while I'm waiting to be
plugged by a Greaser bullet, if I happen to have a picture in
mind of how she'll look upon my horse, why, man, it's not going
to make any difference to you. She needn't ever know it.
Between you and me, Al, don't let her or Flo ride alone over Don
Carlos's way. If I had time I could tell you something about that
slick Greaser. And tell your sister, if there's ever any reason
for her to run away from anybody when she's up on that roan, just
let her lean over and yell in his ear. She'll find herself
riding the wind. So long.

Gene Stewart.

Madeline thoughtfully folded the letter and murmured, "How he
must love his horse!"

"Well, I should say so," replied Alfred. "Flo will tell you.
She's the only person Gene ever let ride that horse, unless, as
Bill thinks, the little Mexican girl, Bonita, rode him out of El
Cajon the other night. Well, sister mine, how about it--will you
accept the horse?"

"Assuredly. And very happy indeed am I to get him. Al, you said,
I think, that Mr. Stewart named him after me--saw my nickname in
the New York paper?"

"Yes."

"Well, I will not change his name. But, Al, how shall I ever
climb up on him? He's taller than I am. What a giant of a
horse! Oh, look at him--he's nosing my hand. I really believe
he understood what I said. Al, did you ever see such a splendid
head and such beautiful eyes? They are so large and dark and
soft--and human. Oh, I am a fickle woman, for I am forgetting
White Stockings."

"I'll gamble he'll make you forget any other horse," said Alfred.
"You'll have to get on him from the porch."

As Madeline was not dressed for the saddle, she did not attempt
to mount.

"Come, Majesty--how strange that sounds!--we must get acquainted.
You have now a new owner, a very severe young woman who will
demand loyalty from you and obedience, and some day, after a
decent period, she will expect love."

Madeline led the horse to and fro, and was delighted with his
gentleness. She discovered that he did not need to be led. He
came at her call, followed her like a pet dog, rubbed his black
muzzle against her. Sometimes, at the turns in their walk, he
lifted his head and with ears forward looked up the trail by
which he had come, and beyond the foothills. He was looking over
the range. Some one was calling to him, perhaps, from beyond the
mountains. Madeline liked him the better for that memory, and
pitied the wayward cowboy who had parted with his only possession
for very love of it.

That afternoon when Alfred lifted Madeline to the back of the big
roan she felt high in the air.

"We'll have a run out to the mesa," said her brother, as he
mounted. "Keep a tight rein on him and ease up when you want him
to go faster. But don't yell in his ear unless you want Florence
and me to see you disappear on the horizon."

He trotted out of the yard, down by the corrals, to come out on
the edge of a gray, open flat that stretched several miles to the
slope of a mesa. Florence led, and Madeline saw that she rode
like a cowboy. Alfred drew on to her side, leaving Madeline in
the rear. Then the leading horses broke into a gallop. They
wanted to run, and Madeline felt with a thrill that she would
hardly be able to keep Majesty from running, even if she wanted
to. He sawed on the tight bridle as the others drew away and
broke from pace to gallop. Then Florence put her horse into a
run. Alfred turned and called to Madeline to come along.

"This will never do. They are running away from us," said
Madeline, and she eased up her hold on the bridle. Something
happened beneath her just then; she did not know at first exactly
what. As much as she had been on horseback she had never ridden
at a running gait. In New York it was not decorous or safe. So
when Majesty lowered and stretched and changed the stiff, jolting
gallop for a wonderful, smooth, gliding run it required Madeline
some moments to realize what was happening. It did not take long
for her to see the distance diminishing between her and her
companions. Still they had gotten a goodly start and were far
advanced. She felt the steady, even rush of the wind. It amazed
her to find how easily, comfortably she kept to the saddle. The
experience was new. The one fault she had heretofore found with
riding was the violent shaking-up. In this instance she
experienced nothing of that kind, no strain, no necessity to hold
on with a desperate awareness of work. She had never felt the
wind in her face, the whip of a horse's mane, the buoyant, level
spring of a tanning gait. It thrilled her, exhilarated her,
fired her blood. Suddenly she found herself alive, throbbing;
and, inspired by she knew not what, she loosened the bridle and,
leaning far forward, she cried, "Oh, you splendid fellow, run!"

She heard from under her a sudden quick clattering roar of hoofs,
and she swayed back with the wonderfully swift increase in
Majesty's speed. The wind stung her face, howled in her ears,
tore at her hair. The gray plain swept by on each side, and in
front seemed to be waving toward her. In her blurred sight
Florence and Alfred appeared to be coming back. But she saw
presently, upon nearer view, that Majesty was overhauling the
other horses, was going to pass them. Indeed, he did pass them,
shooting by so as almost to make them appear standing still. And
he ran on, not breaking his gait till he reached the steep side
of the mesa, where he slowed down and stopped.

"Glorious!" exclaimed Madeline. She was all in a blaze, and
every muscle and nerve of her body tingled and quivered. Her
hands, as she endeavored to put up the loosened strands of hair,
trembled and failed of their accustomed dexterity. Then she
faced about and waited for her companions.

Alfred reached her first, laughing, delighted, yet also a little
anxious.

"Holy smoke! But can't he run? Did he bolt on you?"

"No, I called in his ear," replied Madeline.

"So that was it. That's the woman of you, and forbidden fruit.
Flo said she'd do it the minute she was on him. Majesty, you can
ride. See if Flo doesn't say so."

The Western girl came up then with her pleasure bright in her
face.

"It was just great to see you. How your hair burned in the wind!
Al, she sure can ride. Oh, I'm so glad! I was a little afraid.
And that horse! Isn't he grand? Can't he run?"

Alfred led the way up the steep, zigzag trail to the top of the
mesa. Madeline saw a beautiful flat surface of short grass,
level as a floor. She uttered a little cry of wonder and
enthusiasm.

"Al, what a place for golf! This would be the finest links in
the world."

"Well, I've thought of that myself," he replied. "The only
trouble would be--could anybody stop looking at the scenery long
enough to hit a ball? Majesty, look!"

And then it seemed that Madeline was confronted by a spectacle
too sublime and terrible for her gaze. The immensity of this
red-ridged, deep-gulfed world descending incalculable distances
refused to be grasped, and awed her, shocked her.

"Once, Majesty, when I first came out West, I was down and out--
determined to end it all," said Alfred. "And happened to climb
up here looking for a lonely place to die. When I saw that I
changed my mind."

Madeline was silent. She remained so during the ride around the
rim of the mesa and down the steep trail. This time Alfred and
Florence failed to tempt her into a race. She had been
awe-struck; she had been exalted she had been confounded; and she
recovered slowly without divining exactly what had come to her.

She reached the ranch-house far behind her companions, and at
supper-time was unusually thoughtful. Later, when they assembled
on the porch to watch the sunset, Stillwell's humorous
complainings inspired the inception of an idea which flashed up
in her mind swift as lightning. And then by listening
sympathetically she encouraged him to recite the troubles of a
poor cattleman. They were many and long and interesting, and
rather numbing to the life of her inspired idea.

"Mr. Stillwell, could ranching here on a large scale, with
up-to-date methods, be made--well, not profitable, exactly, but
to pay--to run without loss?" she asked, determined to kill her
new-born idea at birth or else give it breath and hope of life.

"Wal, I reckon it could," he replied, with a short laugh. "It'd
sure be a money-maker. Why, with all my bad luck an' poor
equipment I've lived pretty well an' paid my debts an' haven't
really lost any money except the original outlay. I reckon
thet's sunk fer good."

"Would you sell--if some one would pay your price?"

"Miss Majesty, I'd jump at the chance. Yet somehow I'd hate to
leave hyar. I'd jest be fool enough to go sink the money in
another ranch."

"Would Don Carlos and these other Mexicans sell?"

"They sure would. The Don has been after me fer years, wantin'
to sell thet old rancho of his; an' these herders in the valley
with their stray cattle, they'd fall daid at sight of a little
money."

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