by Zane Grey
XVIII. Bonita
Florence's story of the lost mine fired Madeline's guests with thefever for gold-hunting. But after they had tried it a few times and theglamour of the thing wore off they gave up and remained in camp. Havingexhausted all the resources of the mountain, such that had interest forthem, they settled quietly down for a rest, which Madeline knew wouldsoon end in a desire for civilized comforts. They were almost tiredof roughing it. Helen's discontent manifested itself in her remark, "Iguess nothing is going to happen, after all."
Madeline awaited their pleasure in regard to the breaking of camp; andmeanwhile, as none of them cared for more exertion, she took her walkswithout them, sometimes accompanied by one of the cowboys, always by thestag-hounds. These walks furnished her exceeding pleasure. And, nowthat the cowboys would talk to her without reserve, she grew fonder oflistening to their simple stories. The more she knew of them the moreshe doubted the wisdom of shut-in lives. Companionship with Nels andmost of the cowboys was in its effect like that of the rugged pinesand crags and the untainted wind. Humor, their predominant trait whena person grew to know them, saved Madeline from finding their hardnesstrying. They were dreamers, as all men who lived lonely lives in thewilds were dreamers.
The cowboys all had secrets. Madeline learned some of them. She marveledmost at the strange way in which they hid emotions, except of violenceof mirth and temper so easily aroused. It was all the more remarkablein view of the fact that they felt intensely over little things to whichmen of the world were blind and dead. Madeline had to believe that ahard and perilous life in a barren and wild country developed greatprinciples in men. Living close to earth, under the cold, bleak peaks,on the dust-veiled desert, men grew like the nature that developedthem--hard, fierce, terrible, perhaps, but big--big with elementalforce.
But one day, while out walking alone, before she realized it she hadgone a long way down a dim trail winding among the rocks. It was themiddle of a summer afternoon, and all about her were shadows of thecrags crossing the sunlit patches. The quiet was undisturbed. She wenton and on, not blind to the fact that she was perhaps going too far fromcamp, but risking it because she was sure of her way back, and enjoyingthe wild, craggy recesses that were new to her. Finally she came outupon a bank that broke abruptly into a beautiful little glade. Here shesat down to rest before undertaking the return trip.
Suddenly Russ, the keener of the stag-hounds, raised his head andgrowled. Madeline feared he might have scented a mountain-lion orwildcat. She quieted him and carefully looked around. To each side wasan irregular line of massive blocks of stone that had weathered fromthe crags. The little glade was open and grassy, with here a pine-tree,there a boulder. The outlet seemed to go down into a wilderness ofcanyons and ridges. Looking in this direction, Madeline saw the slight,dark figure of a woman coming stealthily along under the pines. Madelinewas amazed, then a little frightened, for that stealthy walk from treeto tree was suggestive of secrecy, if nothing worse.
Presently the woman was joined by a tall man who carried a package,which he gave to her. They came on up the glade and appeared to betalking earnestly. In another moment Madeline recognized Stewart. Shehad no greater feeling of surprise than had at first been hers. But forthe next moment she scarcely thought at all--merely watched the coupleapproaching. In a flash came back her former curiosity as to Stewart'sstrange absences from camp, and then with the return of her doubt of himthe recognition of the woman. The small, dark head, the brown face,the big eyes--Madeline now saw distinctly--belonged to the Mexican girlBonita. Stewart had met her there. This was the secret of his lonelytrips, taken ever since he had come to work for Madeline. This secludedglade was a rendezvous. He had her hidden there.
Quietly Madeline arose, with a gesture to the dogs, and went back alongthe trail toward camp. Succeeding her surprise was a feeling of sorrowthat Stewart's regeneration had not been complete. Sorrow gave placeto insufferable distrust that while she had been romancing about thiscowboy, dreaming of her good influence over him, he had been merelybase. Somehow it stung her. Stewart had been nothing to her, shethought, yet she had been proud of him. She tried to revolve the thing,to be fair to him, when every instinctive tendency was to expel him, andall pertaining to him, from her thoughts. And her effort at sympathy, atextenuation, failed utterly before her pride. Exerting her will-power,she dismissed Stewart from her mind.
Madeline did not think of him again till late that afternoon, when, asshe was leaving her tent to join several of her guests, Stewart appearedsuddenly in her path.
"Miss Hammond, I saw your tracks down the trail," he began, eagerly, buthis tone was easy and natural. "I'm thinking--well, maybe you sure gotthe idea--"
"I do not wish for an explanation," interrupted Madeline.
Stewart gave a slight start. His manner had a semblance of the old, coolaudacity. As he looked down at her it subtly changed.
What effrontery, Madeline thought, to face her before her guests withan explanation of his conduct! Suddenly she felt an inward flash of firethat was pain, so strange, so incomprehensible, that her mind whirled.Then anger possessed her, not at Stewart, but at herself, that anythingcould rouse in her a raw emotion. She stood there, outwardly cold,serene, with level, haughty eyes upon Stewart; but inwardly she wasburning with rage and shame.
"I'm sure not going to have you think--" He began passionately, but hebroke off, and a slow, dull crimson blotted over the healthy red-brownof his neck and cheeks.
"What you do or think, Stewart, is no concern of mine."
"Miss--Miss Hammond! You don't believe--" faltered Stewart.
The crimson receded from his face, leaving it pale. His eyes wereappealing. They had a kind of timid look that struck Madeline even inher anger. There was something boyish about him then. He took a stepforward and reached out with his hand open-palmed in a gesture that washumble, yet held a certain dignity.
"But listen. Never mind now what you--you think about me. There's a goodreason--"
"I have no wish to hear your reason."
"But you ought to," he persisted.
"Sir!"
Stewart underwent another swift change. He started violently. A darktide shaded his face and a glitter leaped to his eyes. He took two longstrides--loomed over her.
"I'm not thinking about myself," he thundered. "Will you listen?"
"No," she replied; and there was freezing hauteur in her voice. With aslight gesture of dismissal, unmistakable in its finality, she turnedher back upon him. Then she joined her guests.
Stewart stood perfectly motionless. Then slowly he began to lift hisright hand in which he held his sombrero. He swept it up and up highover his head. His tall form towered. With fierce suddenness he flunghis sombrero down. He leaped at his black horse and dragged him to wherehis saddle lay. With one pitch he tossed the saddle upon the horse'sback. His strong hands flashed at girths and straps. Every action wasswift, decisive, fierce. Bounding for his bridle, which hung overa bush, he ran against a cowboy who awkwardly tried to avoid theonslaught.
"Get out of my way!" he yelled.
Then with the same savage haste he adjusted the bridle on his horse.
"Mebbe you better hold on a minnit, Gene, ole feller," said Monty Price.
"Monty, do you want me to brain you?" said Stewart, with the short, hardring in his voice.
"Now, considerin' the high class of my brains, I oughter be real carefulto keep 'em," replied Monty. "You can betcher life, Gene, I ain't goin'to git in front of you. But I jest says--Listen!"
Stewart raised his dark face. Everybody listened. And everybody heardthe rapid beat of a horse's hoofs. The sun had set, but the park waslight. Nels appeared down the trail, and his horse was running. Inanother moment he was in the circle, pulling his bay back to a slidinghalt. He leaped off abreast of Stewart.
Madeline saw and felt a difference in Nels's presence.
"What's up, Gene?" he queried, sharply.
"I'm leaving camp," replied Stewart, thickly.
His black horse began tostamp as Stewart grasped bridle and mane and kicked the stirrup round.
Nels's long arm shot out, and his hand fell upon Stewart, holding himdown.
"Shore I'm sorry," said Nels, slowly. "Then you was goin' to hit thetrail?"
"I am going to. Let go, Nels."
"Shore you ain't goin', Gene?"
"Let go, damn you!" cried Stewart, as he wrestled free.
"What's wrong?" asked Nels, lifting his hand again.
"Man! Don't touch me!"
Nels stepped back instantly. He seemed to become aware of Stewart'swhite, wild passion. Again Stewart moved to mount.
"Nels, don't make me forget we've been friends," he said.
"Shore I ain't fergettin'," replied Nels. "An' I resign my job righthere an' now!"
His strange speech checked the mounting cowboy. Stewart stepped downfrom the stirrup. Then their hard faces were still and cold while theireyes locked glances.
Madeline was as much startled by Nels's speech as Stewart. Quick to notea change in these men, she now sensed one that was unfathomable.
"Resign?" questioned Stewart.
"Shore. What 'd you think I'd do under circumstances sich as has comeup?"
"But see here, Nels, I won't stand for it."
"You're not my boss no more, an' I ain't beholdin' to Miss Hammond,neither. I'm my own boss, an' I'll do as I please. Sabe, senor?"
Nels's words were at variance with the meaning in his face.
"Gene, you sent me on a little scout down in the mountains, didn't you?"he continued.
"Yes, I did," replied Stewart, with a new sharpness in his voice.
"Wal, shore you was so good an' right in your figgerin', as opposed tomine, that I'm sick with admirin' of you. If you hedn't sent me--wal,I'm reckonin' somethin' might hev happened. As it is we're shore upagainst a hell of a proposition!"
How significant was the effect of his words upon all the cowboys!Stewart made a fierce and violent motion, terrible where his othermotions had been but passionate. Monty leaped straight up into theair in a singular action as suggestive of surprise as it was of wildacceptance of menace. Like a stalking giant Nick Steele strode over toNels and Stewart. The other cowboys rose silently, without a word.
Madeline and her guests, in a little group, watched and listened, unableto divine what all this strange talk and action meant.
"Hold on, Nels, they don't need to hear it," said Stewart, hoarsely, ashe waved a hand toward Madeline's silent group.
"Wal, I'm sorry, but I reckon they'd as well know fust as last. Mebbethet yearnin' wish of Miss Helen's fer somethin' to happen will cometrue. Shore I--"
"Cut out the joshin'," rang out Monty's strident voice.
It had as decided an effect as any preceding words or action. Perhapsit was the last thing needed to transform these men, doing unaccustomedduty as escorts of beautiful women, to their natural state as men of thewild.
"Tell us what's what," said Stewart, cool and grim.
"Don Carlos an' his guerrillas are campin' on the trails thet leadup here. They've got them trails blocked. By to-morrer they'd hed uscorralled. Mebbe they meant to surprise us. He's got a lot of Greasersan' outlaws. They're well armed. Now what do they mean? You-all canfigger it out to suit yourselves. Mebbe the Don wants to pay a sociablecall on our ladies. Mebbe his gang is some hungry, as usual. Mebbe theywant to steal a few hosses, or anythin' they can lay hands on. Mebbethey mean wuss, too. Now my idee is this, an' mebbe it's wrong. I longsince separated from love with Greasers. Thet black-faced Don Carlos hasgot a deep game. Thet two-bit of a revolution is hevin' hard times.The rebels want American intervention. They'd stretch any point to maketrouble. We're only ten miles from the border. Suppose them guerrillasgot our crowd across thet border? The U. S. cavalry would foller.You-all know what thet'd mean. Mebbe Don Carlos's mind works thet way.Mebbe it don't. I reckon we'll know soon. An' now, Stewart, whatever theDon's game is, shore you're the man to outfigger him. Mebbe it's just aswell you're good an' mad about somethin'. An' I resign my job because Iwant to feel unbeholdin' to anybody. Shore it struck me long since thetthe old days hed come back fer a little spell, an' there I was trailin'a promise not to hurt any Greaser."
