The Light of Western Stars

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"He say he love me," repeated the girl, in a kind of rapt awe.
"He ask me to marry him--he kees me--he hug me--he lift me on ze
horse--he ride with me all night--he marry me."

And she exhibited a ring on the third finger of her left hand.
Madeline saw that, whatever had been the state of Christine's
feeling for Ambrose before this marriage, she loved him now. She
had been taken forcibly, but she was won.

After Christine had gone, comforted and betraying her shy
eagerness to get back to Ambrose, Madeline was haunted by the
look in the girl's eyes, and her words. Assuredly the spell of
romance was on this sunny land. For Madeline there was a
nameless charm, a nameless thrill combating her sense of the
violence and unfitness of Ambrose's wooing. Something, she knew
not what, took arms against her intellectual arraignment of the
cowboy's method of getting himself a wife. He had said straight
out that he loved the girl--he had asked her to marry him--he
kissed her--he hugged her--he lifted her upon his horse--he rode
away with her through the night--and he married her. In whatever
light Madeline reviewed this thing she always came back to her
first natural impression; it thrilled her, charmed her. It went
against all the precepts of her training; nevertheless, it was
somehow splendid and beautiful. She imagined it stripped another
artificial scale from her over-sophisticated eyes.

Scarcely had she settled again to the task on her desk when
Stillwell's heavy tread across the porch interrupted her. This
time when he entered he wore a look that bordered upon the
hysterical; it was difficult to tell whether he was trying to
suppress grief or glee.

"Miss Majesty, there's another amazin' strange thing sprung on
me. Hyars Jim Bell come to see you, an', when I taxed him,
sayin' you was tolerable busy, he up an' says he was hungry an'
he ain't a-goin' to eat any more bread made in a wash-basin!
Says he'll starve first. Says Nels hed the gang over to big bunk
an' feasted them on bread you taught him how to make in some
new-fangled bucket-machine with a crank. Jim says thet bread
beat any cake he ever eat, an' he wants you to show him how to
make some. Now, Miss Majesty, as superintendent of this ranch I
ought to know what's goin' on. Mebbe Jim is jest a-joshin' me.
Mebbe he's gone clean dotty. Mebbe I hev. An' beggin' your
pardon, I want to know if there's any truth in what Jim says Nels
says."

Whereupon it became necessary for Madeline to stifle her mirth
and to inform the sadly perplexed old cattleman that she had
received from the East a patent bread-mixer, and in view of the
fact that her household women had taken fright at the
contrivance, she had essayed to operate it herself. This had
turned out to be so simple, so saving of time and energy and
flour, so much more cleanly than the old method of mixing dough
with the hands, and particularly it had resulted in such good
bread, that Madeline had been pleased. Immediately she ordered
more of the bread-mixers. One day she had happened upon Nels
making biscuit dough in his wash-basin, and she had delicately
and considerately introduced to him the idea of her new method.
Nels, it appeared, had a great reputation as a bread-maker, and
he was proud of it. Moreover, he was skeptical of any clap-trap
thing with wheels and cranks. He consented, however, to let her
show how the thing worked and to sample some of the bread. To
that end she had him come up to the house, where she won him
over. Stillwell laughed loud and long.

"Wal, wal, wal!" he exclaimed, at length. "Thet's fine, an' it's
powerful funny. Mebbe you don't see how funny? Wal, Nels has
jest been lordin' it over the boys about how you showed him, an'
now you'll hev to show every last cowboy on the place the same
thing. Cowboys are the jealousest kind of fellers. They're all
crazy about you, anyway. Take Jim out hyar. Why, thet lazy
cowpuncher jest never would make bread. He's notorious fer
shirkin' his share of the grub deal. I've knowed Jim to trade
off washin' the pots an' pans fer a lonely watch on a rainy
night. All he wants is to see you show him the same as Nels is
crowin' over. Then he'll crow over his bunkie, Frank Slade, an'
then Frank'll get lonely to know all about this wonderful
bread-machine. Cowboys are amazin' strange critters, Miss
Majesty. An' now thet you've begun with them this way, you'll
hev to keep it up. I will say I never seen such a bunch to work.
You've sure put heart in them."

"Indeed, Stillwell, I am glad to hear that," replied Madeline.
"And I shall be pleased to teach them all. But may I not have
them all up here at once--at least those off duty?"

"Wal, I reckon you can't onless you want to hev them scrappin',"
rejoined Stillwell, dryly. "What you've got on your hands now,
Miss Majesty, is to let 'em come one by one, an' make each cowboy
think you're takin' more especial pleasure in showin' him than
the feller who came before him. Then mebbe we can go on with
cattle-raisin'."

Madeline protested, and Stillwell held inexorably to what he said
was wisdom. Several times Madeline had gone against his advice,
to her utter discomfiture and rout. She dared not risk it again,
and resigned herself gracefully and with subdued merriment to
her task. Jim Bell was ushered into the great, light, spotless
kitchen, where presently Madeline appeared to put on an apron and
roll up her sleeves. She explained the use of the several pieces
of aluminum that made up the bread-mixer and fastened the bucket
to the table-shelf. Jim's life might have depended upon this
lesson, judging from his absorbed manner and his desire to have
things explained over and over, especially the turning of the
crank. When Madeline had to take Jim's hand three times to show
him the simple mechanism and then he did not understand she began
to have faint misgivings as to his absolute sincerity. She
guessed that as long as she touched Jim's hand he never would
understand. Then as she began to measure out flour and milk and
lard and salt and yeast she saw with despair that Jim was not
looking at the ingredients, was not paying the slightest
attention to them. His eyes were covertly upon her.

"Jim, I am not sure about you," said Madeline, severely. "How
can you learn to make bread if you do not watch me mix it?"

"I am a-watchin' you," replied Jim, innocently.

Finally Madeline sent the cowboy on his way rejoicing with the
bread-mixer under his arm. Next morning, true to Stillwell's
prophecy, Frank Slade, Jim's bunkmate, presented himself
cheerfully to Madeline and unbosomed himself of a long-deferred
and persistent desire to relieve his overworked comrade of some
of the house-keeping in their bunk.

"Miss Hammond," said Frank, "Jim's orful kind wantin' to do it
all hisself. But he ain't very bright, an' I didn't believe him.
You see, I'm from Missouri, an' you'll have to show me."

For a whole week Madeline held clinics where she expounded the
scientific method of modern bread-making. She got a good deal of
enjoyment out of her lectures. What boys these great hulking
fellows were! She saw through their simple ruses. Some of them
were grave as deacons; others wore expressions important enough
to have fitted the faces of statesmen signing government
treaties. These cowboys were children; they needed to be
governed; but in order to govern them they had to be humored. A
more light-hearted, fun-loving crowd of boys could not have been
found. And they were grown men. Stillwell explained that the
exuberance of spirits lay in the difference in their fortunes.
Twenty-seven cowboys, in relays of nine, worked eight hours a
day. That had never been heard of before in the West. Stillwell
declared that cowboys from all points of the compass would head
their horses toward Her Majesty's Rancho.

VIII El Capitan

Stillwell's interest in the revolution across the Mexican line
had manifestly increased with the news that Gene Stewart had
achieved distinction with the rebel forces. Thereafter the old
cattleman sent for El Paso and Douglas newspapers, wrote to
ranchmen he knew on the big bend of the Rio Grande, and he would
talk indefinitely to any one who would listen to him. There was
not any possibility of Stillwell's friends at the ranch
forgetting his favorite cowboy. Stillwell always prefaced his
eulogy with an apologetic statement that Stewart had gone to the
bad. Madeline liked to listen to him, though she was not always
sure which news was authentic and which imagination.

There appeared to be no doubt, however, that the cowboy had
performed some daring feats for the rebels. Madeline found his
name mentioned in several of the border papers. When the rebels
under Madero stormed and captured the city of Juarez, Stewart did
fighting that won him the name of El Capitan. This battle
apparently ended the revolution. The capitulation of President
Diaz followed shortly, and there was a feeling of relief among
ranchers on the border from Texas to California. Nothing more was
heard of Gene Stewart until April, when a report reached
Stillwell that the cowboy had arrived in El Cajon, evidently
hunting trouble. The old cattleman saddled a horse and started
post-haste for town. In two days he returned, depressed in
spirit. Madeline happened to be present when Stillwell talked to
Alfred.

"I got there too late, Al," said the cattleman. "Gene was gone.
An' what do you think of this? Danny Mains hed jest left with a
couple of burros packed. I couldn't find what way he went, but
I'm bettin' he hit the Peloncillo trail."

"Danny will show up some day," replied Alfred. "What did you
learn about Stewart? Maybe he left with Danny."

"Not much," said Stillwell, shortly. "Gene's hell-bent fer
election! No mountains fer him."

"Well tell us about him."

Stillwell wiped his sweaty brow and squared himself to talk.

"Wal, it's sure amazin' strange about Gene. Its got me locoed.
He arrived in El Cajon a week or so ago. He was trained down
like as if he'd been ridin' the range all winter. He hed plenty
of money--Mex, they said. An' all the Greasers was crazy about
him. Called him El Capitan. He got drunk an' went roarin' round
fer Pat Hawe. You remember that Greaser who was plugged last
October--the night Miss Majesty arrived? Wal, he's daid. He's
daid, an' people says thet Pat is a-goin' to lay thet killin'
onto Gene. I reckon thet's jest talk, though Pat is mean enough
to do it, if he hed the nerve. Anyway, if he was in El Cajon he
kept mighty much to hisself. Gene walked up an' down, up an'
down, all day an' night, lookin' fer Pat. But he didn't find
him. An', of course, he kept gettin' drunker. He jest got plumb
bad. He made lots of trouble, but there wasn't no gun-play.
Mebbe thet made him sore, so he went an' licked Flo's
brother-in-law. Thet wasn't so bad. Jack sure needed a good
lickin'. Wal, then Gene met Danny an' tried to get Danny drunk.
An' he couldn't! What do you think of that? Danny hedn't been
drinkin'--wouldn't touch a drop. I'm sure glad of thet, but it's
amazin' strange. Why, Danny was a fish fer red liquor. I guess
he an' Gene had some pretty hard words, though I'm not sure about
thet. Anyway, Gene went down to the railroad an' he got on an
engine, an' he was in the engine when it pulled out. Lord, I
hope he doesn't hold up the train! If he gets gay over in
Arizona he'll go to the pen at Yuma. An' thet pen is a graveyard
fer cowboys. I wired to agents along the railroad to look out
fer Stewart, an' to wire back to me if he's located."

"Suppose you do find him, Stillwell, what can you do?" inquired
Alfred.

The old man nodded gloomily.

"I straightened him up once. Mebbe I can do it again." Then,
brightening somewhat, he turned to Madeline. "I jest hed an
idee, Miss Majesty. If I can get him, Gene Steward is the cowboy
I want fer my foreman. He can manage this bunch of cow-punchers
thet are drivin' me dotty. What's more, since he's fought fer
the rebels an' got that name El Capitan, all the Greasers in the
country will kneel to him. Now, Miss Majesty, we hevn't got rid
of Don Carlos an' his vaqueros yet. To be sure, he sold you his
house an' ranch an' stock. But you remember nothin' was put in
black and white about when he should get out. An' Don Carlos
ain't gettin' out. I don't like the looks of things a little
bit. I'll tell you now thet Don Carlos knows somethin' about the
cattle I lost, an' thet you've been losin' right along. Thet
Greaser is hand an' glove with the rebels. I'm willin' to gamble
thet when he does get out he an' his vaqueros will make another
one of the bands of guerrillas thet are harassin' the border.
This revolution ain't over' yet. It's jest commenced. An' all
these gangs of outlaws are goin' to take advantage of it. We'll
see some old times, mebbe. Wal, I need Gene Stewart. I need him
bad. Will you let me hire him, Miss Majesty, if I can get him
straightened up?"

The old cattleman ended huskily.

"Stillwell, by all means find Stewart, and do not wait to
straighten him up. Bring him to the ranch," replied Madeline.

Thanking her, Stillwell led his horse away.

"Strange how he loves that cowboy!" murmured Madeline.

"Not so strange, Majesty," replied her brother. "Not when you
know. Stewart has been with Stillwell on some hard trips into
the desert alone. There's no middle course of feeling between
men facing death in the desert. Either they hate each other or
love each other. I don't know, but I imagine Stewart did
something for Stillwell--saved us life, perhaps. Besides,
Stewart's a lovable chap when he's going straight. I hope
Stillwell brings him back. We do need him, Majesty. He's a born
leader. Once I saw him ride into a bunch of Mexicans whom we
suspected of rustling. It was fine to see him. Well, I'm sorry
to tell you that we are worried about Don Carlos. Some of his
vaqueros came into my yard the other day when I had left Flo
alone. She had a bad scare. These vaqueros have been different
since Don Carlos sold the ranch. For that matter, I never would
have trusted a white woman alone with them. But they are bolder
now. Something's in the wind. They've got assurance. They can
ride off any night and cross the border."

During the succeeding week Madeline discovered that a good deal
of her sympathy for Stillwell in his hunt for the reckless
Stewart had insensibly grown to be sympathy for the cowboy. It
was rather a paradox, she thought, that opposed to the continual
reports of Stewart's wildness as he caroused from town to town
were the continual expressions of good will and faith and hope
universally given out by those near her at the ranch. Stillwell
loved the cowboy; Florence was fond of him; Alfred liked and
admired him, pitied him; the cowboys swore their regard for him
the more he disgraced himself. The Mexicans called him El Gran
Capitan. Madeline's personal opinion of Stewart had not changed
in the least since the night it had been formed. But certain
attributes of his, not clearly defined in her mind, and the gift
of his beautiful horse, his valor with the fighting rebels, and
all this strange regard for him, especially that of her brother,
made her exceedingly regret the cowboy's present behavior.

Meanwhile Stillwell was so earnest and zealous that one not
familiar with the situation would have believed he was trying to
find and reclaim his own son. He made several trips to little
stations in the valley, and from these he returned with a gloomy
face. Madeline got the details from Alfred. Stewart was going
from bad to worse--drunk, disorderly, savage, sure to land in the
penitentiary. Then came a report that hurried Stillwell off to
Rodeo. He returned on the third day, a crushed man. He had been
so bitterly hurt that no one, not even Madeline, could get out of
him what had happened. He admitted finding Stewart, failing to
influence him; and when the old cattleman got so far he turned
purple in the face and talked to himself, as if dazed: "But Gene
was drunk. He was drunk, or he couldn't hev treated old Bill
like thet!"

Madeline was stirred with an anger toward the brutal cowboy that
was as strong as her sorrow for the loyal old cattleman. And it
was when Stillwell gave up that she resolved to take a hand. The
persistent faith of Stillwell, his pathetic excuses in the face
of what must have been Stewart's violence, perhaps baseness,
actuated her powerfully, gave her new insight into human nature.
She honored a faith that remained unshaken. And the strange
thought came to her that Stewart must somehow be worthy of such a
faith, or he never could have inspired it. Madeline discovered
that she wanted to believe that somewhere deep down in the most
depraved and sinful wretch upon earth there was some grain of
good. She yearned to have the faith in human nature that
Stillwell had in Stewart.

She sent Nels, mounted upon his own horse, and leading Majesty,
to Rodeo in search of Stewart. Nels had instructions to bring
Stewart back to the ranch. In due time Nels returned, leading
the roan without a rider.

"Yep, I shore found him," replied Nels, when questioned. "Found
him half sobered up. He'd been in a scrap, an' somebody hed put
him to sleep, I guess. Wal, when he seen thet roan hoss he let
out a yell an' grabbed him round the neck. The hoss knowed him,
all right. Then Gene hugged the hoss an' cried--cried like--I
never seen no one who cried like he did. I waited awhile, an'
was jest goin' to say somethin' to him when he turned on me
red-eyed, mad as fire. 'Nels,' he said, 'I care a hell of a lot
fer thet boss, an' I liked you pretty well, but if you don't take
him away quick I'll shoot you both.' Wal, I lit out. I didn't
even git to say howdy to him."

"Nels, you think it useless--any attempt to see him--persuade
him?" asked Madeline.

"I shore do, Miss Hammond," replied Nels, gravely. "I've seen a
few sun-blinded an' locoed an' snake-poisoned an' skunk-bitten
cow-punchers in my day, but Gene Stewart beats 'em all. He's
shore runnin' wild fer the divide."

Madeline dismissed Nels, but before he got out of earshot she
heard him speak to Stillwell, who awaited him on the porch.

"Bill, put this in your pipe an' smoke it--none of them scraps
Gene has hed was over a woman! It used to be thet when he was
drank he'd scrap over every pretty Greaser girl he'd run across.
Thet's why Pat Hawe thinks Gene plugged the strange vaquero who
was with little Bonita thet night last fall. Wal, Gene's
scrappin' now jest to git shot up hisself, for some reason thet
only God Almighty knows."

Nels's story of how Stewart wept over his horse influenced
Madeline powerfully. Her next move was to persuade Alfred to see
if he could not do better with this doggedly bent cowboy. Alfred
needed only a word of persuasion, for he said he had considered
going to Rodeo of his own accord. He went, and returned alone.

"Majesty, I can't explain Stewart's singular actions," said
Alfred. "I saw him, talked with him. He knew me, but nothing I
said appeared to get to him. He has changed terribly. I fancy
his once magnificent strength is breaking. It--it actually hurt
me to look at him. I couldn't have fetched him back here--not as
he is now. I heard all about him, and if he isn't downright out
of his mind he's hell-bent, as Bill says, on getting killed.
Some of his escapades are--are not for your ears. Bill did all
any man could do for another. We've all done our best for
Stewart. If you'd been given a chance perhaps you could have
saved him. But it's too late. Put it out of mind now, dear."

Madeline, however, did not forget nor give it up. If she had
forgotten or surrendered, she felt that she would have been
relinquishing infinitely more than hope to aid one ruined man.
But she was at a loss to know what further steps to take. Days
passed, and each one brought additional gossip of Stewart's
headlong career toward the Yuma penitentiary. For he had crossed
the line into Cochise County, Arizona, where sheriffs kept a
stricter observance of law. Finally a letter came from a friend
of Nels's in Chiricahua saying that Stewart had been hurt in a
brawl there. His hurt was not serious, but it would probably
keep him quiet long enough to get sober, and this opportunity,
Nels's informant said, would be a good one for Stewart's friends
to take him home before he got locked up. This epistle inclosed a
letter to Stewart from his sister. Evidently, it had been found
upon him. It told a story of illness and made an appeal for aid.
Nels's friend forwarded this letter without Stewart's knowledge,
thinking Stillwell might care to help Stewart's family. Stewart
had no money, he said.

The sister's letter found its way to Madeline. She read it,
tears in her eyes. It told Madeline much more than its brief
story of illness and poverty and wonder why Gene had not written
home for so long. It told of motherly love, sisterly love,
brotherly love--dear family ties that had not been broken. It
spoke of pride in this El Capitan brother who had become famous.
It was signed "your loving sister Letty."

Not improbably, Madeline revolved in mind, this letter was one
reason for Stewart's headstrong, long-continued abasement. It
had been received too late--after he had squandered the money
that would have meant so much to mother and sister. Be that as
it might, Madeline immediately sent a bank-draft to Stewart's
sister with a letter explaining that the money was drawn in
advance on Stewart's salary. This done, she impulsively
determined to go to Chiricahua herself.

The horseback-rides Madeline had taken to this little Arizona
hamlet had tried her endurance to the utmost; but the journey by
automobile, except for some rocky bits of road and sandy
stretches, was comfortable, and a matter of only a few hours.
The big touring-car was still a kind of seventh wonder to the
Mexicans and cowboys; not that automobiles were very new and
strange, but because this one was such an enormous machine and
capable of greater speed than an express-train. The chauffeur
who had arrived with the car found his situation among the
jealous cowboys somewhat far removed from a bed of roses. He had
been induced to remain long enough to teach the operating and
mechanical technique of the car. And choice fell upon Link
Stevens, for the simple reason that of all the cowboys he was the
only one with any knack for mechanics. Now Link had been a
hard-riding, hard-driving cowboy, and that winter he had
sustained an injury to his leg, caused by a bad fall, and was
unable to sit his horse. This had been gall and wormwood to him.
But when the big white automobile came and he was elected to
drive it, life was once more worth living for him. But all the
other cowboys regarded Link and his machine as some correlated
species of demon. They were deathly afraid of both.

It was for this reason that Nels, when Madeline asked him to
accompany her to Chiricahua, replied, reluctantly, that he would
rather follow on his horse. However, she prevailed over his
hesitancy, and with Florence also in the car they set out. For
miles and miles the valley road was smooth, hard-packed, and
slightly downhill. And when speeding was perfectly safe,
Madeline was not averse to it. The grassy plain sailed backward
in gray sheets, and the little dot in the valley grew larger and
larger. From time to time Link glanced round at unhappy Nels,
whose eyes were wild and whose hands clutched his seat. While
the car was crossing the sandy and rocky places, going slowly,
Nels appeared to breathe easier. And when it stopped in the wide,
dusty street of Chiricahua Nels gladly tumbled out.

"Nels, we shall wait here in the car while you find Stewart,"
said Madeline.

"Miss Hammond, I reckon Gene'll run when he sees us, if he's able
to run," replied Nels. "Wal, I'll go find him an' make up my
mind then what we'd better do."

Nels crossed the railroad track and disappeared behind the low,
flat houses. After a little time he reappeared and hurried up to
the car. Madeline felt his gray gaze searching her face.

"Miss Hammond, I found him," said Nels. "He was sleepin'. I
woke him. He's sober an' not bad hurt; but I don't believe you
ought to see him. Mebbe Florence--"

"Nels, I want to see him myself. Why not? What did he say when
you told him I was here?"

"Shore I didn't tell him that. I jest says, 'Hullo, Gene!' an'
he says, 'My Gawd! Nels! mebbe I ain't glad to see a human
bein'.' He asked me who was with me, an' I told him Link an'
some friends. I said I'd fetch them in. He hollered at thet.
But I went, anyway. Now, if you really will see him, Miss
Hammond, it's a good chance. But shore it's a touchy matter, an'
you'll be some sick at sight of him. He's layin' in a Greaser
hole over here. Likely the Greasers hev been kind to him. But
they're shore a poor lot."

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