Chapter XI: A Band of Guerrillas (6)

By straining her ears Madeline heard that voice, and she recognized it as belonging to Don Carlos. His graceful bow to Stewart was also familiar. Otherwise she would never have recognized the former elegant vaquero in this uncouth, roughly dressed Mexican.

Stewart answered the greeting in Spanish, and, waving his hand toward the camp-fire, added in English, “Get down and eat.”

The guerrillas were anything but slow in complying. They crowded to the fire, then spread in a little circle and squatted upon the ground, laying their weapons beside them. In appearance they tallied with the band of guerrillas that had carried Madeline up into the foothills, only this band was larger and better armed. The men, moreover, were just as hungry and as wild and beggarly. The cowboys were not cordial in their reception of this visit, but they were hospitable. The law of the desert had always been to give food and drink to wayfaring men, whether lost or hunted or hunting.

“There’s twenty-three in that outfit,” whispered Ambrose, “includin’ four white men. Pretty rummy outfit.”

“They appear to be friendly enough,” whispered Madeline.

“Things down there ain’t what they seem,” replied Ambrose.

“Ambrose, tell me—explain to me. This is my opportunity. As long as you will let me watch them, please let me know the—the real thing.”

“Sure. But recollect, Miss Hammond, that Gene’ll give it to me good if he ever knows I let you look and told you what’s what. Well, decent-like Gene is seen’ them poor devils get a square meal. They’re only a lot of calf-thieves in this country. Across the border they’re bandits, some of them, the others just riffraff outlaws. That rebel bluff doesn’t go down with us. I’d have to see first before I’d believe them Greasers would fight. They’re a lot of hard-ridin’ thieves, and they’d steal a fellow’s blanket or tobacco. Gene thinks they’re after you ladies—to carry you off. But Gene—Oh, Gene’s some highfalutin in his ideas lately. Most of us boys think the guerrillas are out to rob—that’s all.”

Whatever might have been the secret motive of Don Carlos and his men, they did not allow it to interfere with a hearty appreciation of a generous amount of food. Plainly, each individual ate all that he was able to eat at the time. They jabbered like a flock of parrots; some were even merry, in a kind of wild way. Then, as each and every one began to roll and smoke the inevitable cigarette of the Mexican, there was a subtle change in manner. They smoked and looked about the camp, off into the woods, up at the crags, and back at the leisurely cowboys. They had the air of men waiting for something.

“Senor,” began Don Carlos, addressing Stewart. As he spoke he swept his sombrero to indicate the camp circle.

Madeline could not distinguish his words, but his gesture plainly indicated a question in regard to the rest of the camping party. Stewart’s reply and the wave of his hand down the trail meant that his party had gone home. Stewart turned to some task, and the guerrilla leader quietly smoked. He looked cunning and thoughtful. His men gradually began to manifest a restlessness, noticeable in the absence of former languor and slow puffing of cigarette smoke. Presently a big-boned man with a bullet head and a blistered red face of evil coarseness got up and threw away his cigarette. He was an American.

“Hey, cull,” he called in loud voice, “ain’t ye goin’ to cough up a drink?”

“My boys don’t carry liquor on the trail,” replied Stewart. He turned now to face the guerrillas.

“Haw, haw! I heerd over in Rodeo thet ye was gittin’ to be shore some fer temperance,” said this fellow. “I hate to drink water, but I guess I’ve gotter do it.”

He went to the spring, sprawled down to drink, and all of a sudden he thrust his arm down in the water to bring forth a basket. The cowboys in the hurry of packing had neglected to remove this basket; and it contained bottles of wine and liquors for Madeline’s guests. They had been submerged in the spring to keep them cold. The guerrilla fumbled with the lid, opened it, and then got up, uttering a loud roar of delight.

Stewart made an almost imperceptible motion, as if to leap forward; but he checked the impulse, and after a quick glance at Nels he said to the guerrilla:

“Guess my party forgot that. You’re welcome to it.” Like bees the guerrillas swarmed around the lucky finder of the bottles. There was a babel of voices. The drink did not last long, and it served only to liberate the spirit of recklessness. The several white outlaws began to prowl around the camp; some of the Mexicans did likewise; others waited, showing by their ill-concealed expectancy the nature of their thoughts.

It was the demeanor of Stewart and his comrades that puzzled Madeline. Apparently they felt no anxiety or even particular interest. Don Carlos, who had been covertly watching them, now made his scrutiny open, even aggressive. He looked from Stewart to Nels and Monty, and then to the other cowboys. While some of his men prowled around the others watched him, and the waiting attitude had taken on something sinister. The guerrilla leader seemed undecided, but not in any sense puzzled. When he turned his cunning face upon Nels and Monty he had the manner of a man in whom decision was lacking.

In her growing excitement Madeline had not clearly heard Ambrose’s low whispers and she made an effort to distract some of her attention from those below to the cowboy crouching beside her.

The quality, the note of Ambrose’s whisper had changed. It had a slight sibilant sound.

“Don’t be mad if sudden-like I clap my hands over your eyes, Miss Hammond,” he was saying. “Somethin’s brewin’ below. I never seen Gene so cool. That’s a dangerous sign in him. And look, see how the boys are workin’ together! Oh, it’s slow and accident-like, but I know it’s sure not accident. That foxy Greaser knows, too. But maybe his men don’t. If they are wise they haven’t sense enough to care. The Don, though—he’s worried. He’s not payin’ so much attention to Gene, either. It’s Nels and Monty he’s watchin’. And well he need do it! There, Nick and Frank have settled down on that log with Booly. They don’t seem to be packin’ guns. But look how heavy their vests hang. A gun in each side! Those boys can pull a gun and flop over that log quicker than you can think. Do you notice how Nels and Monty and Gene are square between them guerrillas and the trail up here? It doesn’t seem on purpose, but it is. Look at Nels and Monty. How quiet they are confabbin’ together, payin’ no attention to the guerrillas. I see Monty look at Gene, then I see Nels look at Gene. Well, it’s up to Gene. And they’re goin’ to back him. I reckon, Miss Hammond, there’d be dead Greasers round that camp long ago if Nels and Monty were foot-loose. They’re beholdin’ to Gene. That’s plain. And, Lord! how it tickles me to watch them! Both packin’ two forty-fives, butts swingin’ clear. There’s twenty-four shots in them four guns. And there’s twenty-three guerrillas. If Nels and Monty ever throw guns at that close range, why, before you’d know what was up there’d be a pile of Greasers. There! Stewart said something to the Don. I wonder what. I’ll gamble it was something to get the Don’s outfit all close together. Sure! Greasers have no sense. But them white guerrillas, they’re lookin’ some dubious. Whatever’s comin’ off will come soon, you can bet. I wish I was down there. But maybe it won’t come to a scrap. Stewart’s set on avoidin’ that. He’s a wonderful chap to get his way. Lord, though, I’d like to see him go after that overbearin’ Greaser! See! the Don can’t stand prosperity. All this strange behavior of cowboys is beyond his pulque-soaked brains. Then he’s a Greaser. If Gene doesn’t knock him on the head presently he’ll begin to get over his scare, even of Nels and Monty. But Gene’ll pick out the right time. And I’m gettin’ nervous. I want somethin’ to start. Never saw Nels in but one fight, then he just shot a Greaser’s arm off for tryin’ to draw on him. But I’ve heard all about him. And Monty! Monty’s the real old-fashioned gun-man. Why, none of them stories, them lies he told to entertain the Englishman, was a marker to what Monty has done. What I don’t understand is how Monty keeps so quiet and easy and peaceful-like. That’s not his way, with such an outfit lookin’ for trouble. O-ha! Now for the grand bluff. Looks like no fight at all!”

The guerrilla leader had ceased his restless steps and glances, and turned to Stewart with something of bold resolution in his aspect.

“Gracias, senor,” he said. “Adios.” He swept his sombrero in the direction of the trail leading down the mountain to the ranch; and as he completed the gesture a smile, crafty and jeering, crossed his swarthy face.

Ambrose whispered so low that Madeline scarcely heard him. “If the Greaser goes that way he’ll find our horses and get wise to the trick. Oh, he’s wise now! But I’ll gamble he never even starts on that trail.”

Neither hurriedly nor guardedly Stewart rose out of his leaning posture and took a couple of long strides toward Don Carlos.

“Go back the way you came,” he fairly yelled; and his voice had the ring of a bugle.

Ambrose nudged Madeline; his whisper was tense and rapid: “Don’t miss nothin’. Gene’s called him. Whatever’s comin’ off will be here quick as lightnin’. See! I guess maybe that Greaser don’t savvy good U. S. lingo. Look at that dirty yaller face turn green. Put one eye on Nels and Monty! That’s great—just to see ’em. Just as quiet and easy. But oh, the difference! Bent and stiff—that means every muscle is like a rawhide riata. They’re watchin’ with eyes that can see the workin’s of them Greasers’ minds. Now there ain’t a hoss-hair between them Greasers and hell!”

Don Carlos gave Stewart one long malignant stare; then he threw back his head, swept up the sombrero, and his evil smile showed gleaming teeth.

“Senor—” he began.

With magnificent bound Stewart was upon him. The guerrilla’s cry was throttled in his throat. A fierce wrestling ensued, too swift to see clearly; then heavy, sodden blows, and Don Carlos was beaten to the ground. Stewart leaped back. Then, crouching with his hands on the butts of guns at his hips, he yelled, he thundered at the guerrillas. He had been quicker than a panther, and now his voice was so terrible that it curdled Madeline’s blood, and the menace of deadly violence in his crouching position made her shut her eyes. But she had to open them. In that single instant Nels and Monty had leaped to Stewart’s side. Both were bent down, with hands on the butts of guns at their hips. Nels’s piercing yell seemed to divide Monty’s roar of rage. Then they ceased, and echoes clapped from the crags. The silence of those three men crouching like tigers about to leap was more menacing than the nerve-racking yells.

Then the guerrillas wavered and broke and ran for their horses. Don Carlos rolled over, rose, and staggered away, to be helped upon his mount. He looked back, his pale and bloody face that of a thwarted demon. The whole band got into action and were gone in a moment.

“I knew it,” declared Ambrose. “Never seen a Greaser who could face gun-play. That was some warm. And Monty Price never flashed a gun! He’ll never get over that. I reckon, Miss Harnmond, we’re some lucky to avoid trouble. Gene had his way, as you seen. We’ll be makin’ tracks for the ranch in about two shakes.”

“Why?” whispered Madeline, breathlessly. She became conscious that she was weak and shaken.

“Because the guerrillas sure will get their nerve back, and come sneakin’ on our trail or try to head us off by ambushin’,” replied Ambrose. “That’s their way. Otherwise three cowboys couldn’t bluff a whole gang like that. Gene knows the nature of Greasers. They’re white-livered. But I reckon we’re in more danger now than before, unless we get a good start down the mountain. There! Gene’s callin’. Come! Hurry!”

Helen had slipped down from her vantage-point, and therefore had not seen the last act in that little camp-fire drama. It seemed, however, that her desire for excitement was satisfied, for her face was pale and she trembled when she asked if the guerrillas were gone.

“I didn’t see the finish, but those horrible yells were enough for me.”

Ambrose hurried the three women over the rough rocks, down the cliff. The cowboys below were saddling horses in haste. Evidently all the horses had been brought out of hiding. Swiftly, with regard only for life and limb, Madeline, Helen, and Christine were lowered by lassoes and half carried down to the level. By the time they were safely down the other members of the party appeared on the cliff above. They were in excellent spirits, appearing to treat the matter as a huge joke.

Ambrose put Christine on a horse and rode away through the pines; Frankie Slade did likewise with Helen. Stewart led Madeline’s horse up to her, helped her to mount, and spoke one stern word, “Wait!” Then as fast as one of the women reached the level she was put upon a horse and taken away by a cowboy escort. Few words were spoken. Haste seemed to be the great essential. The horses were urged, and, once in the trail, spurred and led into a swift trot. One cowboy drove up four pack-horses, and these were hurriedly loaded with the party’s baggage. Castleton and his companions mounted, and galloped off to catch the others in the lead. This left Madeline behind with Stewart and Nels and Monty.

“They’re goin’ to switch off at the holler thet heads near the trail a few miles down,” Nels was saying, as he tightened his saddle-girth. “Thet holler heads into a big canyon. Once in thet, it’ll be every man fer hisself. I reckon there won’t be anythin’ wuss than a rough ride.”

Nels smiled reassuringly at Madeline, but he did not speak to her. Monty took her canteen and filled it at the spring and hung it over the pommel of her saddle. He put a couple of biscuits in the saddle-bag.

“Don’t fergit to take a drink an’ a bite as you’re ridin’ along,” he said. “An’ don’t worry, Miss Majesty. Stewart’ll be with you, an’ me an’ Nels hangin’ on the back-trail.”

His somber and sullen face did not change in its strange intensity, but the look in his eyes Madeline felt she would never forget. Left alone with these three men, now stripped of all pretense, she realized how fortune had favored her and what peril still hung in the balance. Stewart swung astride his big black, spurred him, and whistled. At the whistle Majesty jumped, and with swift canter followed Stewart. Madeline looked back to see Nels already up and Monty handing him a rifle. Then the pines hid her view.

Once in the trail, Stewart’s horse broke into a gallop. Majesty changed his gait and kept at the black’s heels. Stewart called back a warning. The low, wide-spreading branches of trees might brush Madeline out of the saddle. Fast riding through the forest along a crooked, obstructed trail called forth all her alertness. Likewise the stirring of her blood, always susceptible to the spirit and motion of a ride, let alone one of peril, now began to throb and burn away the worry, the dread, the coldness that had weighted her down.

Before long Stewart wheeled at right angles off the trail and entered a hollow between two low bluffs. Madeline saw tracks in the open patches of ground. Here Stewart’s horse took to a brisk walk. The hollow deepened, narrowed, became rocky, full of logs and brush. Madeline exerted all her keenness, and needed it, to keep close to Stewart. She did not think of him, nor her own safety, but of keeping Majesty close in the tracks of the black, of eluding the sharp spikes in the dead brush, of avoiding the treacherous loose stones.

At last Madeline was brought to a dead halt by Stewart and his horse blocking the trail. Looking up, she saw they were at the head of a canyon that yawned beneath and widened its gray-walled, green-patched slopes down to a black forest of fir. The drab monotony of the foothills made contrast below the forest, and away in the distance, rosy and smoky, lay the desert. Retracting her gaze, Madeline saw pack-horses cross an open space a mile below, and she thought she saw the stag-hounds. Stewart’s dark eyes searched the slopes high up along the craggy escarpments. Then he put the black to the descent.

If there had been a trail left by the leading cowboys, Stewart did not follow it. He led off to the right, zigzagging an intricate course through the roughest ground Madeline had ever ridden over. He crashed through cedars, threaded a tortuous way among boulders, made his horse slide down slanting banks of soft earth, picked a slow and cautious progress across weathered slopes of loose rock. Madeline followed, finding in this ride a tax on strength and judgment. On an ordinary horse she never could have kept in Stewart’s trail. It was dust and heat, a parching throat, that caused Madeline to think of time; and she was amazed to see the sun sloping to the west. Stewart never stopped; he never looked back; he never spoke. He must have heard the horse close behind him. Madeline remembered Monty’s advice about drinking and eating as she rode along. The worst of that rough travel came at the bottom of the canyon. Dead cedars and brush and logs were easy to pass compared with the miles, it seemed, of loose boulders. The horses slipped and stumbled. Stewart proceeded here with exceeding care. At last, when the canyon opened into a level forest of firs, the sun was setting red in the west.

Stewart quickened the gait of his horse. After a mile or so of easy travel the ground again began to fall decidedly, sloping in numerous ridges, with draws between. Soon night shadowed the deeper gullies. Madeline was refreshed by the cooling of the air.

Stewart traveled slowly now. The barks of coyotes seemed to startle him. Often he stopped to listen. And during one of those intervals the silence was broken by sharp rifle-shots. Madeline could not tell whether they were near or far, to right or left, behind or before. Evidently Stewart was both alarmed and baffled. He dismounted. He went cautiously forward to listen. Madeline fancied she heard a cry, low and far away. It was only that of a coyote, she convinced herself, yet it was so wailing, so human, that she shuddered. Stewart came back. He slipped the bridles of both horses, and he led them. Every few paces he stopped to listen. He changed his direction several times, and the last time he got among rough, rocky ridges. The iron shoes of the horses cracked on the rocks. That sound must have penetrated far into the forest. It perturbed Stewart, for he searched for softer ground. Meanwhile the shadows merged into darkness. The stars shone. The wind rose. Madeline believed hours passed.

Stewart halted again. In the gloom Madeline discerned a log cabin, and beyond it pear-pointed dark trees piercing the sky-line. She could just make out Stewart’s tall form as he leaned against his horse. Either he was listening or debating what to do—perhaps both. Presently he went inside the cabin. Madeline heard the scratching of a match; then she saw a faint light. The cabin appeared to be deserted. Probably it was one of the many habitations belonging to prospectors and foresters who lived in the mountains. Stewart came out again. He walked around the horses, out into the gloom, then back to Madeline. For a long moment he stood as still as a statue and listened. Then she heard him mutter, “If we have to start quick I can ride bareback.” With that he took the saddle and blanket off his horse and carried them into the cabin.

“Get off,” he said, in a low voice, as he stepped out of the door.

He helped her down and led her inside, where again he struck a match. Madeline caught a glimpse of a rude fireplace and rough-hewn logs. Stewart’s blanket and saddle lay on the hard-packed earthen floor.

“Rest a little,” he said. “I’m going into the woods a piece to listen. Gone only a minute or so.”

Madeline had to feel round in the dark to locate the saddle and blanket. When she lay down it was with a grateful sense of ease and relief. As her body rested, however, her mind became the old thronging maze for sensation and thought. All day she had attended to the alert business of helping her horse. Now, what had already happened, the night, the silence, the proximity of Stewart and his strange, stern caution, the possible happenings to her friends—all claimed their due share of her feeling. She went over them all with lightning swiftness of thought. She believed, and she was sure Stewart believed, that her friends, owing to their quicker start down the mountain, had not been headed off in their travel by any of the things which had delayed Stewart. This conviction lifted the suddenly returning dread from her breast; and as for herself, somehow she had no fear. But she could not sleep; she did not try to.

Stewart’s soft steps sounded outside. His dark form loomed in the door. As he sat down Madeline heard the thump of a gun that he laid beside him on the sill; then the thump of another as he put that down, too. The sounds thrilled her. Stewart’s wide shoulders filled the door; his finely shaped head and strong, stern profile showed clearly in outline against the sky; the wind waved his hair. He turned his ear to that wind and listened. Motionless he sat for what to her seemed hours.

Then the stirring memory of the day’s adventure, the feeling of the beauty of the night, and a strange, deep-seated, sweetly vague consciousness of happiness portending, were all burned out in hot, pressing pain at the remembrance of Stewart’s disgrace in her eyes. Something had changed within her so that what had been anger at herself was sorrow for him. He was such a splendid man. She could not feel the same; she knew her debt to him, yet she could not thank him, could not speak to him. She fought an unintelligible bitterness.

Then she rested with closed eyes, and time seemed neither short nor long. When Stewart called her she opened her eyes to see the gray of dawn. She rose and stepped outside. The horses whinnied. In a moment she was in the saddle, aware of cramped muscles and a weariness of limbs. Stewart led off at a sharp trot into the fir forest. They came to a trail into which he turned. The horses traveled steadily; the descent grew less steep; the firs thinned out; the gray gloom brightened.

When Madeline rode out of the firs the sun had arisen and the foothills rolled beneath her; and at their edge, where the gray of valley began, she saw a dark patch that she knew was the ranch-house.

XX. The Sheriff of El Cajon

About the middle of the forenoon of that day Madeline reached the ranch. Her guests had all arrived there late the night before, and wanted only her presence and the assurance of her well-being to consider the last of the camping trip a rare adventure. Likewise, they voted it the cowboys’ masterpiece of a trick. Madeline’s delay, they averred, had been only a clever coup to give a final effect. She did not correct their impression, nor think it needful to state that she had been escorted home by only one cowboy.

Her guests reported an arduous ride down the mountain, with only one incident to lend excitement. On the descent they had fallen in with Sheriff Hawe and several of his deputies, who were considerably under the influence of drink and very greatly enraged by the escape of the Mexican girl Bonita. Hawe had used insulting language to the ladies and, according to Ambrose, would have inconvenienced the party on some pretext or other if he had not been sharply silenced by the cowboys.

Madeline’s guests were two days in recovering from the hard ride. On the third day they leisurely began to prepare for departure. This period was doubly trying for Madeline. She had her own physical need of rest, and, moreover, had to face a mental conflict that could scarcely be postponed further. Her sister and friends were kindly and earnestly persistent in their entreaties that she go back East with them. She desired to go. It was not going that mattered; it was how and when and under what circumstances she was to return that roused in her disturbing emotion. Before she went East she wanted to have fixed in mind her future relation to the ranch and the West. When the crucial hour arrived she found that the West had not claimed her yet. These old friends had warmed cold ties.

It turned out, however, that there need be no hurry about making the decision. Madeline would have welcomed any excuse to procrastinate; but, as it happened, a letter from Alfred made her departure out of the question for the present. He wrote that his trip to California had been very profitable, that he had a proposition for Madeline from a large cattle company, and, particularly, that he wanted to marry Florence soon after his arrival home and would bring a minister from Douglas for that purpose.

Madeline went so far, however, as to promise Helen and her friends that she would go East soon, at the very latest by Thanksgiving. With that promise they were reluctantly content to say good-by to the ranch and to her. At the last moment there seemed a great likelihood of a hitch in plans for the first stage of that homeward journey. All of Madeline’s guests held up their hands, Western fashion, when Link Stevens appeared with the big white car. Link protested innocently, solemnly, that he would drive slowly and safely; but it was necessary for Madeline to guarantee Link’s word and to accompany them before they would enter the car. At the station good-bys were spoken and repeated, and Madeline’s promise was exacted for the hundredth time.

Dorothy Coombs’s last words were: “Give my love to Monty Price. Tell him I’m—I’m glad he kissed me!”

Helen’s eyes had a sweet, grave, yet mocking light as she said:

“Majesty, bring Stewart with you when you come. He’ll be the rage.”

Madeline treated the remark with the same merry lightness with which it was received by the others; but after the train had pulled out and she was on her way home she remembered Helen’s words and looks with something almost amounting to a shock. Any mention of Stewart, any thought of him, displeased her.

“What did Helen mean?” mused Madeline. And she pondered. That mocking light in Helen’s eyes had been simply an ironical glint, a cynical gleam from that worldly experience so suspicious and tolerant in its wisdom. The sweet gravity of Helen’s look had been a deeper and more subtle thing. Madeline wanted to understand it, to divine in it a new relation between Helen and herself, something fine and sisterly that might lead to love. The thought, however, revolving around a strange suggestion of Stewart, was poisoned at its inception, and she dismissed it.

Upon the drive in to the ranch, as she was passing the lower lake, she saw Stewart walking listlessly along the shore. When he became aware of the approach of the car he suddenly awakened from his aimless sauntering and disappeared quickly in the shade of the shrubbery. This was not by any means the first time Madeline had seen him avoid a possible meeting with her. Somehow the act had pained her, though affording her a relief. She did not want to meet him face to face.

It was annoying for her to guess that Stillwell had something to say in Stewart’s defense. The old cattleman was evidently distressed. Several times he had tried to open a conversation with Madeline relating to Stewart; she had evaded him until the last time, when his persistence had brought a cold and final refusal to hear another word about the foreman. Stillwell had been crushed.

As days passed Stewart remained at the ranch without his old faithfulness to his work. Madeline was not moved to a kinder frame of mind to see him wandering dejectedly around. It hurt her, and because it hurt her she grew all the harder. Then she could not help hearing snatches of conversation which strengthened her suspicions that Stewart was losing his grip on himself, that he would soon take the downward course again. Verification of her own suspicion made it a belief, and belief brought about a sharp conflict between her generosity and some feeling that she could not name. It was not a question of justice or mercy or sympathy. If a single word could have saved Stewart from sinking his splendid manhood into the brute she had recoiled from at Chiricahua, she would not have spoken it. She could not restore him to his former place in her regard; she really did not want him at the ranch at all. Once, considering in wonder her knowledge of men, she interrogated herself to see just why she could not overlook Stewart’s transgression. She never wanted to speak to him again, or see him, or think of him. In some way, through her interest in Stewart, she had come to feel for herself an inexplicable thing close to scorn.

A telegram from Douglas, heralding the coming of Alfred and a minister, put an end to Madeline’s brooding, and she shared something of Florence Kingsley’s excitement. The cowboys were as eager and gossipy as girls. It was arranged to have the wedding ceremony performed in Madeline’s great hall-chamber, and the dinner in the cool, flower-scented patio.

Alfred and his minister arrived at the ranch in the big white car. They appeared considerably wind-blown. In fact, the minister was breathless, almost sightless, and certainly hatless. Alfred, used as he was to wind and speed, remarked that he did not wonder at Nels’s aversion to riding a fleeting cannon-ball. The imperturbable Link took off his cap and goggles and, consulting his watch, made his usual apologetic report to Madeline, deploring the fact that a teamster and a few stray cattle on the road had held him down to the manana time of only a mile a minute.

Arrangements for the wedding brought Alfred’s delighted approval. When he had learned all Florence and Madeline would tell him he expressed a desire to have the cowboys attend; and then he went on to talk about California, where he was going take Florence on a short trip. He was curiously interested to find out all about Madeline’s guests and what had happened to them. His keen glance at Madeline grew softer as she talked.

“I breathe again,” he said, and laughed. “I was afraid. Well, I must have missed some sport. I can just fancy what Monty and Nels did to that Englishman. So you went up to the crags. That’s a wild place. I’m not surprised at guerrillas falling in with you up there. The crags were a famous rendezvous for Apaches—it’s near the border—almost inaccessible—good water and grass. I wonder what the U. S. cavalry would think if they knew these guerrillas crossed the border right under their noses. Well, it’s practically impossible to patrol some of that border-line. It’s desert, mountain, and canyon, exceedingly wild and broken. I’m sorry to say that there seems to be more trouble in sight with these guerrillas than at any time heretofore. Orozco, the rebel leader, has failed to withstand Madero’s army. The Federals are occupying Chihuahua now, and are driving the rebels north. Orozco has broken up his army into guerrilla bands. They are moving north and west, intending to carry on guerrilla warfare in Sonora. I can’t say just how this will affect us here. But we’re too close to the border for comfort. These guerrillas are night-riding hawks; they can cross the border, raid us here, and get back the same night. Fighting, I imagine, will not be restricted to northern Mexico. With the revolution a failure the guerrillas will be more numerous, bolder, and hungrier. Unfortunately, we happen to be favorably situated for them down here in this wilderness corner of the state.”

On the following day Alfred and Florence were married. Florence’s sister and several friends from El Cajon were present, besides Madeline, Stillwell, and his men. It was Alfred’s express wish that Stewart attend the ceremony. Madeline was amused when she noticed the painfully suppressed excitement of the cowboys. For them a wedding must have been an unusual and impressive event. She began to have a better understanding of the nature of it when they cast off restraint and pressed forward to kiss the bride. In all her life Madeline had never seen a bride kissed so much and so heartily, nor one so flushed and disheveled and happy. This indeed was a joyful occasion. There was nothing of the “effete East” about Alfred Hammond; he might have been a Westerner all his days. When Madeline managed to get through the press of cowboys to offer her congratulations Alfred gave her a bear hug and a kiss. This appeared to fascinate the cowboys. With shining eyes and faces aglow, with smiling, boyish boldness, they made a rush at Madeline. For one instant her heart leaped to her throat. They looked as if they could most shamelessly kiss and maul her. That little, ugly-faced, soft-eyed, rude, tender-hearted ruffian, Monty Price, was in the lead. He resembled a dragon actuated by sentiment. All at once Madeline’s instinctive antagonism to being touched by strange hands or lips battled with a real, warm, and fun-loving desire to let the cowboys work their will with her. But she saw Stewart hanging at the back of the crowd, and something—some fierce, dark expression of pain—amazed her, while it froze her desire to be kind. Then she did not know what change must have come to her face and bearing; but she saw Monty fall back sheepishly and the other cowboys draw aside to let her lead the way into the patio.

The dinner began quietly enough with the cowboys divided between embarrassment and voracious appetites that they evidently feared to indulge. Wine, however, loosened their tongues, and when Stillwell got up to make the speech everybody seemed to expect of him they greeted him with a roar.

Stillwell was now one huge, mountainous smile. He was so happy that he appeared on the verge of tears. He rambled on ecstatically till he came to raise his glass.

“An’ now, girls an’ boys, let’s all drink to the bride an’ groom; to their sincere an’ lastin’ love; to their happiness an’ prosperity; to their good health an’ long life. Let’s drink to the unitin’ of the East with the West. No man full of red blood an’ the real breath of life could resist a Western girl an’ a good hoss an’ God’s free hand—that open country out there. So we claim Al Hammond, an’ may we be true to him. An’, friends, I think it fittin’ that we drink to his sister an’ to our hopes. Heah’s to the lady we hope to make our Majesty! Heah’s to the man who’ll come ridin’ out of the West, a fine, big-hearted man with a fast hoss an’ a strong rope, an’ may he win an’ hold her! Come, friends, drink.”

A heavy pound of horses’ hoofs and a yell outside arrested Stillwell’s voice and halted his hand in midair.

The patio became as silent as an unoccupied room.

Through the open doors and windows of Madeline’s chamber burst the sounds of horses stamping to a halt, then harsh speech of men, and a low cry of a woman in pain.

Rapid steps crossed the porch, entered Madeline’s room. Nels appeared in the doorway. Madeline was surprised to see that he had not been at the dinner-table. She was disturbed at sight of his face.

“Stewart, you’re wanted outdoors,” called Nels, bluntly. “Monty, you slope out here with me. You, Nick, an’ Stillwell—I reckon the rest of you hed better shut the doors an’ stay inside.”

Nels disappeared. Quick as a cat Monty glided out. Madeline heard his soft, swift steps pass from her room into her office. He had left his guns there. Madeline trembled. She saw Stewart get up quietly and without any change of expression on his dark, sad face leave the patio. Nick Steele followed him. Stillwell dropped his wine-glass. As it broke, shivering the silence, his huge smile vanished. His face set into the old cragginess and the red slowly thickened into black. Stillwell went out and closed the door behind him.

Then there was a blank silence. The enjoyment of the moment had been rudely disrupted. Madeline glanced down the lines of brown faces to see the pleasure fade into the old familiar hardness.

“What’s wrong?” asked Alfred, rather stupidly. The change of mood had been too rapid for him. Suddenly he awakened, thoroughly aroused at the interruption. “I’m going to see who’s butted in here to spoil our dinner,” he said, and strode out.

He returned before any one at the table had spoken or moved, and now the dull red of anger mottled his forehead.

“It’s the sheriff of El Cajon!” he exclaimed, contemptuously. “Pat Hawe with some of his tough deputies come to arrest Gene Stewart. They’ve got that poor little Mexican girl out there tied on a horse. Confound that sheriff!”

Madeline calmly rose from the table, eluding Florence’s entreating hand, and started for the door. The cowboys jumped up. Alfred barred her progress.

“Alfred, I am going out,” she said.

“No, I guess not,” he replied. “That’s no place for you.”

“I am going.” She looked straight at him.

“Madeline! Why, what is it? You look—Dear, there’s pretty sure to be trouble outside. Maybe there’ll be a fight. You can do nothing. You must not go.”

“Perhaps I can prevent trouble,” she replied.

As she left the patio she was aware that Alfred, with Florence at his side and the cowboys behind, were starting to follow her. When she got out of her room upon the porch she heard several men in loud, angry discussion. Then, at sight of Bonita helplessly and cruelly bound upon a horse, pale and disheveled and suffering, Madeline experienced the thrill that sight or mention of this girl always gave her. It yielded to a hot pang in her breast—that live pain which so shamed her. But almost instantly, as a second glance showed an agony in Bonita’s face, her bruised arms where the rope bit deep into the flesh, her little brown hands stained with blood, Madeline was overcome by pity for the unfortunate girl and a woman’s righteous passion at such barbarous treatment of one of her own sex.

The man holding the bridle of the horse on which Bonita had been bound was at once recognized by Madeline as the big-bodied, bullet-headed guerrilla who had found the basket of wine in the spring at camp. Redder of face, blacker of beard, coarser of aspect, evidently under the influence of liquor, he was as fierce-looking as a gorilla and as repulsive. Besides him there were three other men present, all mounted on weary horses. The one in the foreground, gaunt, sharp-featured, red-eyed, with a pointed beard, she recognized as the sheriff of El Cajon.

Madeline hesitated, then stopped in the middle of the porch. Alfred, Florence, and several others followed her out; the rest of the cowboys and guests crowded the windows and doors. Stillwell saw Madeline, and, throwing up his hands, roared to be heard. This quieted the gesticulating, quarreling men.

“Wal now, Pat Hawe, what’s drivin’ you like a locoed steer on the rampage?” demanded Stillwell.

“Keep in the traces, Bill,” replied Hawe. “You savvy what I come fer. I’ve been bidin’ my time. But I’m ready now. I’m hyar to arrest a criminal.”

The huge frame of the old cattleman jerked as if he had been stabbed. His face turned purple.

“What criminal?” he shouted, hoarsely.

The sheriff flicked his quirt against his dirty boot, and he twisted his thin lips into a leer. The situation was agreeable to him.

“Why, Bill, I knowed you hed a no-good outfit ridin’ this range; but I wasn’t wise thet you hed more ’n one criminal.”

“Cut that talk! Which cowboy are you wantin’ to arrest?”

Hawe’s manner altered.

“Gene Stewart,” he replied, curtly.

“On what charge?”

“Fer killin’ a Greaser one night last fall.”

“So you’re still harpin’ on that? Pat, you’re on the wrong trail. You can’t lay that killin’ onto Stewart. The thing’s ancient by now. But if you insist on bringin’ him to court, let the arrest go to-day—we’re hevin’ some fiesta hyar—an’ I’ll fetch Gene in to El Cajon.”

“Nope. I reckon I’ll take him when I got the chance, before he slopes.”

“I’m givin’ you my word,” thundered Stillwell.

“I reckon I don’t hev to take your word, Bill, or anybody else’s.”

Stillwell’s great bulk quivered with his rage, yet he made a successful effort to control it.

“See hyar, Pat Hawe, I know what’s reasonable. Law is law. But in this country there always has been an’ is now a safe an’ sane way to proceed with the law. Mebbe you’ve forgot that. The law as invested in one man in a wild country is liable, owin’ to that man’s weaknesses an’ onlimited authority, to be disputed even by a decent ole cattleman like myself. I’m a-goin’ to give you a hunch. Pat, you’re not overliked in these parts. You’ve rid too much with a high hand. Some of your deals hev been shady, an’ don’t you overlook what I’m sayin’. But you’re the sheriff, an’ I’m respectin’ your office. I’m respectin’ it this much. If the milk of human decency is so soured in your breast that you can’t hev a kind feelin’, then try to avoid the onpleasantness that’ll result from any contrary move on your part to-day. Do you get that hunch?”

“Stillwell, you’re threatenin’ an officer,” replied Hawe, angrily.

“Will you hit the trail quick out of hyar?” queried Stillwell, in strained voice. “I guarantee Stewart’s appearance in El Cajon any day you say.”

“No. I come to arrest him, an’ I’m goin’ to.”

“So that’s your game!” shouted Stillwell. “We-all are glad to get you straight, Pat. Now listen, you cheap, red-eyed coyote of a sheriff! You don’t care how many enemies you make. You know you’ll never get office again in this county. What do you care now? It’s amazin’ strange how earnest you are to hunt down the man who killed that particular Greaser. I reckon there’s been some dozen or more killin’s of Greasers in the last year. Why don’t you take to trailin’ some of them killin’s? I’ll tell you why. You’re afraid to go near the border. An’ your hate of Gene Stewart makes you want to hound him an’ put him where he’s never been yet—in jail. You want to spite his friends. Wal, listen, you lean-jawed, skunk-bitten coyote! Go ahead an’ try to arrest him!”

Stillwell took one mighty stride off the porch. His last words had been cold. His rage appeared to have been transferred to Hawe. The sheriff had begun to stutter and shake a lanky red hand at the cattleman when Stewart stepped out.

“Here, you fellows, give me a chance to say a word.”

As Stewart appeared the Mexican girl suddenly seemed vitalized out of her stupor. She strained at her bonds, as if to lift her hands beseechingly. A flush animated her haggard face, and her big dark eyes lighted.

“Senor Gene!” she moaned. “Help me! I so seek. They beat me, rope me, ‘mos’ keel me. Oh, help me, Senor Gene!”

“Shut up, er I’ll gag you,” said the man who held Bonita’s horse.

“Muzzle her, Sneed, if she blabs again,” called Hawe. Madeline felt something tense and strained working in the short silence. Was it only a phase of her thrilling excitement? Her swift glance showed the faces of Nels and Monty and Nick to be brooding, cold, watchful. She wondered why Stewart did not look toward Bonita. He, too, was now dark-faced, cool, quiet, with something ominous about him.

“Hawe, I’ll submit to arrest without any fuss,” he said, slowly, “if you’ll take the ropes off that girl.”

“Nope,” replied the sheriff. “She got away from me onct. She’s hawg-tied now, an’ she’ll stay hawg-tied.”

Madeline thought she saw Stewart give a slight start. But an unaccountable dimness came over her eyes, at brief intervals obscuring her keen sight. Vaguely she was conscious of a clogged and beating tumult in her breast.

“All right, let’s hurry out of here,” said Stewart. “You’ve made annoyance enough. Ride down to the corral with me. I’ll get my horse and go with you.”

“Hold on!” yelled Hawe, as Stewart turned away. “Not so fast. Who’s doin’ this? You don’t come no El Capitan stunts on me. You’ll ride one of my pack-horses, an’ you’ll go in irons.”

“You want to handcuff me?” queried Stewart, with sudden swift start of passion.

“Want to? Haw, haw! Nope, Stewart, thet’s jest my way with hoss-thieves, raiders, Greasers, murderers, an’ sich. See hyar, you Sneed, git off an’ put the irons on this man.”

The guerrilla called Sneed slid off his horse and began to fumble in his saddle-bags.

“You see, Bill,” went on Hawe, “I swore in a new depooty fer this particular job. Sneed is some handy. He rounded up thet little Mexican cat fer me.”

Stillwell did not hear the sheriff; he was gazing at Stewart in a kind of imploring amaze.

“Gene, you ain’t goin’ to stand fer them handcuffs?” he pleaded.

“Yes,” replied the cowboy. “Bill, old friend, I’m an outsider here. There’s no call for Miss Hammond and—and her brother and Florence to be worried further about me. Their happy day has already been spoiled on my account. I want to get out quick.”

“Wal, you might be too damn considerate of Miss Hammond’s sensitive feelin’s.” There was now no trace of the courteous, kindly old rancher. He looked harder than stone. “How about my feelin’s? I want to know if you’re goin’ to let this sneakin’ coyote, this last gasp of the old rum-guzzlin’ frontier sheriffs, put you in irons an’ hawg-tie you an’ drive you off to jail?”

“Yes,” replied Stewart, steadily.

“Wal, by Gawd! You, Gene Stewart! What’s come over you? Why, man, go in the house, an’ I’ll ’tend to this feller. Then to-morrow you can ride in an’ give yourself up like a gentleman.”

“No. I’ll go. Thanks, Bill, for the way you and the boys would stick to me. Hurry, Hawe, before my mind changes.”

His voice broke at the last, betraying the wonderful control he had kept over his passions. As he ceased speaking he seemed suddenly to become spiritless. He dropped his head.

Madeline saw in him then a semblance to the hopeless, shamed Stewart of earlier days. The vague riot in her breast leaped into conscious fury—a woman’s passionate repudiation of Stewart’s broken spirit. It was not that she would have him be a lawbreaker; it was that she could not bear to see him deny his manhood. Once she had entreated him to become her kind of a cowboy—a man in whom reason tempered passion. She had let him see how painful and shocking any violence was to her. And the idea had obsessed him, softened him, had grown like a stultifying lichen upon his will, had shorn him of a wild, bold spirit she now strangely longed to see him feel. When the man Sneed came forward, jingling the iron fetters, Madeline’s blood turned to fire. She would have forgiven Stewart then for lapsing into the kind of cowboy it had been her blind and sickly sentiment to abhor. This was a man’s West—a man’s game. What right had a woman reared in a softer mold to use her beauty and her influence to change a man who was bold and free and strong? At that moment, with her blood hot and racing, she would have gloried in the violence which she had so deplored: she would have welcomed the action that had characterized Stewart’s treatment of Don Carlos; she had in her the sudden dawning temper of a woman who had been assimilating the life and nature around her and who would not have turned her eyes away from a harsh and bloody deed.

But Stewart held forth his hands to be manacled. Then Madeline heard her own voice burst out in a ringing, imperious “Wait!”

In the time it took her to make the few steps to the edge of the porch, facing the men, she not only felt her anger and justice and pride summoning forces to her command, but there was something else calling—a deep, passionate, mysterious thing not born of the moment.

Sneed dropped the manacles. Stewart’s face took on a chalky whiteness. Hawe, in a slow, stupid embarrassment beyond his control, removed his sombrero in a respect that seemed wrenched from him.

“Mr. Hawe, I can prove to you that Stewart was not concerned in any way whatever with the crime for which you want to arrest him.”

The sheriff’s stare underwent a blinking change. He coughed, stammered, and tried to speak. Manifestly, he had been thrown completely off his balance. Astonishment slowly merged into discomfiture.

“It was absolutely impossible for Stewart to have been connected with that assault,” went on Madeline, swiftly, “for he was with me in the waiting-room of the station at the moment the assault was made outside. I assure you I have a distinct and vivid recollection. The door was open. I heard the voices of quarreling men. They grew louder. The language was Spanish. Evidently these men had left the dance-hall opposite and were approaching the station. I heard a woman’s voice mingling with the others. It, too, was Spanish, and I could not understand. But the tone was beseeching. Then I heard footsteps on the gravel. I knew Stewart heard them. I could see from his face that something dreadful was about to happen. Just outside the door then there were hoarse, furious voices, a scuffle, a muffled shot, a woman’s cry, the thud of a falling body, and rapid footsteps of a man running away. Next, the girl Bonita staggered into the door. She was white, trembling, terror-stricken. She recognized Stewart, appealed to him. Stewart supported her and endeavored to calm her. He was excited. He asked her if Danny Mains had been shot, or if he had done the shooting. The girl said no. She told Stewart that she had danced a little, flirted a little with vaqueros, and they had quarreled over her. Then Stewart took her outside and put her upon his horse. I saw the girl ride that horse down the street to disappear in the darkness.”

While Madeline spoke another change appeared to be working in the man Hawe. He was not long disconcerted, but his discomfiture wore to a sullen fury, and his sharp features fixed in an expression of craft.

“Thet’s mighty interestin’, Miss Hammond, ‘most as interestin’ as a story-book,” he said. “Now, since you’re so obligin’ a witness, I’d sure like to put a question or two. What time did you arrive at El Cajon thet night?”

“It was after eleven o’clock,” replied Madeline.

“Nobody there to meet you?”

“No.”

“The station agent an’ operator both gone?”

“Yes.”

“Wal, how soon did this feller Stewart show up?” Hawe continued, with a wry smile.

“Very soon after my arrival. I think—perhaps fifteen minutes, possibly a little more.”

“Some dark an’ lonesome around thet station, wasn’t it?”

“Indeed yes.”

“An’ what time was the Greaser shot?” queried Hawe, with his little eyes gleaming like coals.

“Probably close to half past one. It was two o’clock when I looked at my watch at Florence Kingsley’s house. Directly after Stewart sent Bonita away he took me to Miss Kingsley’s. So, allowing for the walk and a few minutes’ conversation with her, I can pretty definitely say the shooting took place at about half past one.”

Stillwell heaved his big frame a step closer to the sheriff. “What ‘re you drivin’ at?” he roared, his face black again.

“Evidence,” snapped Hawe.

Madeline marveled at this interruption; and as Stewart irresistibly drew her glance she saw him gray-faced as ashes, shaking, utterly unnerved.