The Light of the Western Stars

by Zane Grey

  XXII. The Secret Told

  In the shaded seclusion of her room, buried face down deep among thesoft cushions on her couch, Madeline Hammond lay prostrate and quiveringunder the outrage she had suffered.

  The afternoon wore away; twilight fell; night came; and then Madelinerose to sit by the window to let the cool wind blow upon her hot face.She passed through hours of unintelligible shame and impotent rage andfutile striving to reason away her defilement.

  The train of brightening stars seemed to mock her with theirunattainable passionless serenity. She had loved them, and now sheimagined she hated them and everything connected with this wild,fateful, and abrupt West.

  She would go home.

  Edith Wayne had been right; the West was no place for Madeline Hammond.The decision to go home came easily, naturally, she thought, as theresult of events. It caused her no mental strife. Indeed, she fanciedshe felt relief. The great stars, blinking white and cold over the darkcrags, looked down upon her, and, as always, after she had watchedthem for a while they enthralled her. "Under Western stars," she mused,thinking a little scornfully of the romantic destiny they had blazed forher idle sentiment. But they were beautiful; they were speaking; theywere mocking; they drew her. "Ah!" she sighed. "It will not be so veryeasy to leave them, after all."

  Madeline closed and darkened the window. She struck a light. It wasnecessary to tell the anxious servants who knocked that she was well andrequired nothing. A soft step on the walk outside arrested her. Who wasthere--Nels or Nick Steele or Stillwell? Who shared the guardianshipover her, now that Monty Price was dead and that other--that savage--?It was monstrous and unfathomable that she regretted him.

  The light annoyed her. Complete darkness fitted her strange mood. Sheretired and tried to compose herself to sleep. Sleep for her was not amatter of will. Her cheeks burned so hotly that she rose to bathethem. Cold water would not alleviate this burn, and then, despairingof forgetfulness, she lay down again with a shameful gratitude for thecloak of night. Stewart's kisses were there, scorching her lips, herclosed eyes, her swelling neck. They penetrated deeper and deeper intoher blood, into her heart, into her soul--the terrible farewell kissesof a passionate, hardened man. Despite his baseness, he had loved her.

  Late in the night Madeline fell asleep. In the morning she was pale andlanguid, but in a mental condition that promised composure.

  It was considerably after her regular hour that Madeline repaired to heroffice. The door was open, and just outside, tipped back in a chair, satStillwell.

  "Mawnin', Miss Majesty," he said, as he rose to greet her with his usualcourtesy. There were signs of trouble in his lined face. Madeline shrankinwardly, fearing his old lamentations about Stewart. Then she saw adusty, ragged pony in the yard and a little burro drooping under a heavypack. Both animals bore evidence of long, arduous travel.

  "To whom do they belong?" asked Madeline.

  "Them critters? Why, Danny Mains," replied Stillwell, with a cough thatbetrayed embarrassment.

  "Danny Mains?" echoed Madeline, wonderingly.

  "Wal, I said so."

  Stillwell was indeed not himself.

  "Is Danny Mains here?" she asked, in sudden curiosity.

  The old cattleman nodded gloomily.

  "Yep, he's hyar, all right. Sloped in from the hills, an' he hollered tosee Bonita. He's locoed, too, about that little black-eyed hussy. Why,he hardly said, 'Howdy, Bill,' before he begun to ask wild an' eagerquestions. I took him in to see Bonita. He's been there more 'n ahalf-hour now."

  Evidently Stillwell's sensitive feelings had been ruffled. Madeline'scuriosity changed to blank astonishment, which left her with a thrillingpremonition. She caught her breath. A thousand thoughts seemed throngingfor clear conception in her mind.

  Rapid footsteps with an accompaniment of clinking spurs sounded in thehallway. Then a young man ran out upon the porch. He resembled a cowboyin his lithe build, his garb and action, in the way he wore his gun, buthis face, instead of being red, was clear brown tan. His eyes were blue;his hair was light and curly. He was a handsome, frank-faced boy. Atsight of Madeline he slammed down his sombrero and, leaping at her, hepossessed himself of her hands. His swift violence not only alarmed her,but painfully reminded her of something she wished to forget.

  This cowboy bent his head and kissed her hands and wrung them, and whenhe straightened up he was crying.

  "Miss Hammond, she's safe an' almost well, an' what I feared most ain'tso, thank God," he cried. "Sure I'll never be able to pay you for allyou've done for her. She's told me how she was dragged down here, howGene tried to save her, how you spoke up for Gene an' her, too, howMonty at the last throwed his guns. Poor Monty! We were good friends,Monty an' I. But it wasn't friendship for me that made Monty stand inthere. He would have saved her, anyway. Monty Price was the whitest manI ever knew. There's Nels an' Nick an' Gene, he's been some friend tome; but Monty Price was--he was grand. He never knew, any more than youor Bill, here, or the boys, what Bonita was to me."

  Stillwell's kind and heavy hand fell upon the cowboy's shoulder.

  "Danny, what's all this queer gab?" he asked. "An' you're takin' someliberty with Miss Hammond, who never seen you before. Sure I'm makin'allowance fer amazin' strange talk. I see you're not drinkin'. Mebbeyou're plumb locoed. Come, ease up now an' talk sense."

  The cowboy's fine, frank face broke into a smile. He dashed the tearsfrom his eyes. Then he laughed. His laugh had a pleasant, boyish ring--ahappy ring.

  "Bill, old pal, stand bridle down a minute, will you?" Then he bowed toMadeline. "I beg your pardon, Miss Hammond, for seemin' rudeness. I'mDanny Mains. An' Bonita is my wife. I'm so crazy glad she's safe an'unharmed--so grateful to you that--why, sure it's a wonder I didn't kissyou outright."

  "Bonita's your wife!" ejaculated Stillwell.

  "Sure. We've been married for months," replied Danny, happily. "GeneStewart did it. Good old Gene, he's hell on marryin'. I guess maybe Ihaven't come to pay him up for all he's done for me! You see, I've beenin love with Bonita for two years. An' Gene--you know, Bill, what a wayGene has with girls--he was--well, he was tryin' to get Bonita to haveme."

  Madeline's quick, varying emotions were swallowed up in a boundlessgladness. Something dark, deep, heavy, and somber was flooded from herheart. She had a sudden rich sense of gratitude toward this smiling,clean-faced cowboy whose blue eyes flashed through tears.

  "Danny Mains!" she said, tremulously and smilingly. "If you are as gladas your news has made me--if you really think I merit such a reward--youmay kiss me outright."

  With a bashful wonder, but with right hearty will, Danny Mains availedhimself of this gracious privilege. Stillwell snorted. The signs of hisphenomenal smile were manifest, otherwise Madeline would have thoughtthat snort an indication of furious disapproval.

  "Bill, straddle a chair," said Danny. "You've gone back a heap theselast few months, frettin' over your bad boys, Danny an' Gene. You'llneed support under you while I'm throwin' my yarn. Story of my life,Bill." He placed a chair for Madeline. "Miss Hammond, beggin' yourpardon again, I want you to listen, also. You've the face an' eyes of awoman who loves to hear of other people's happiness. Besides, somehow,it's easy for me to talk lookin' at you."

  His manner subtly changed then. Possibly it took on a little swagger;certainly he lost the dignity that he had shown under stress of feeling;he was now more like a cowboy about to boast or affect some stunningmaneuver. Walking off the porch, he stood before the weary horse andburro.

  "Played out!" he exclaimed.

  Then with the swift violence so characteristic of men of his class heslipped the pack from the burro and threw saddle and bridle from thehorse.

  "There! See 'em! Take a look at the last dog-gone weight you everpacked! You've been some faithful to Danny Mains. An' Danny Mains pays!Never a saddle again or a strap or a halter or a hobble so long as youlive! So long as you live nothin' but grass an' clover, an' cool waterin shady places, an' dusty swales to roll in an
' rest an' sleep!"

  Then he untied the pack and, taking a small, heavy sack from it, he cameback upon the porch. Deliberately he dumped the contents of the sack atStillwell's feet. Piece after piece of rock thumped upon the floor. Thepieces were sharp, ragged, evidently broken from a ledge; the bodyof them was white in color, with yellow veins and bars and streaks.Stillwell grasped up one rock after another, stared and stuttered, putthe rocks to his lips, dug into them with his shaking fingers; then helay back in his chair, head against the wall, and as he gaped at Dannythe old smile began to transform his face.

  "Lord, Danny if you hevn't been an' gone an' struck it rich!"

  Danny regarded Stillwell with lofty condescension.

  "Some rich," he said. "Now, Bill, what've we got here, say, offhand?"

  "Oh, Lord, Danny! I'm afraid to say. Look, Miss Majesty, jest look atthe gold. I've lived among prospectors an' gold-mines fer thirty years,an' I never seen the beat of this."

  "The Lost Mine of the Padres!" cried Danny, in stentorian voice. "An' itbelongs to me!"

  Stillwell made some incoherent sound as he sat up fascinated, quitebeside himself.

  "Bill, it was some long time ago since you saw me," said Danny. "Factis, I know how you felt, because Gene kept me posted. I happened to runacross Bonita, an' I wasn't goin' to let her ride away alone, when shetold me she was in trouble. We hit the trail for the Peloncillos. Bonitahad Gene's horse, an' she was to meet him up on the trail. We got to themountains all right, an' nearly starved for a few days till Gene foundus. He had got in trouble himself an' couldn't fetch much with him.

  "We made for the crags an' built a cabin. I come down that day Gene senthis horse Majesty to you. Never saw Gene so broken-hearted. Well, afterhe sloped for the border Bonita an' I were hard put to it to keep alive.But we got along, an' I think it was then she began to care a little forme. Because I was decent. I killed cougars an' went down to Rodeo to getbounties for the skins, an' bought grub an' supplies I needed. OnceI went to El Cajon an' run plumb into Gene. He was back from therevolution an' cuttin' up some. But I got away from him after doin' allI could to drag him out of town. A long time after that Gene trailedup to the crags an' found us. Gene had stopped drinkin', he'd changedwonderful, was fine an' dandy. It was then he began to pester the lifeout of me to make me marry Bonita. I was happy, so was she, an' I wassome scared of spoilin' it. Bonita had been a little flirt, an' I wasafraid she'd get shy of a halter, so I bucked against Gene. But I wasall locoed, as it turned out. Gene would come up occasionally, packin'supplies for us, an' always he'd get after me to do the right thing byBonita. Gene's so dog-gone hard to buck against! I had to give in, an'I asked Bonita to marry me. Well, she wouldn't at first--said she wasn'tgood enough for me. But I saw the marriage idea was workin' deep, an'I just kept on bein' as decent as I knew how. So it was my wantin' tomarry Bonita--my bein' glad to marry her--that made her grow soft an'sweet an' pretty as--as a mountain quail. Gene fetched up Padre Marcos,an' he married us."

  Danny paused in his narrative, breathing hard, as if the memory of theincident described had stirred strong and thrilling feeling in him.Stillwell's smile was rapturous. Madeline leaned toward Danny with hereyes shining.

  "Miss Hammond, an' you, Bill Stillwell, now listen, for this is strangeI've got to tell you. The afternoon Bonita an' I were married, when Genean' the padre had gone, I was happy one minute an' low-hearted the next.I was miserable because I had a bad name. I couldn't buy even a decentdress for my pretty wife. Bonita heard me, an' she was some mysterious.She told me the story of the lost mine of the padres, an' she kissedme an made joyful over me in the strangest way. I knew marriage went towomen's heads, an' I thought even Bonita had a spell.

  "Well, she left me for a little, an' when she came back she wore somepretty yellow flowers in her hair. Her eyes were big an' black an'beautiful. She said some queer things about spirits rollin' rocks downthe canyon. Then she said she wanted to show me where she always sat an'waited an' watched for me when I was away.

  "She led me around under the crags to a long slope. It was some prettythere--clear an' open, with a long sweep, an' the desert yawnin' deepan' red. There were yellow flowers on that slope, the same kind she hadin her hair--the same kind that Apache girl wore hundreds of years agowhen she led the padre to the gold-mine.

  "When I thought of that, an' saw Bonita's eyes, an' then heard thestrange crack of rollin' rocks--heard them rattle down an' roll an'grow faint--I was some out of my head. But not for long. Them rocks wererollin' all right, only it was the weatherin' of the cliffs.

  "An' there under the crags was a gold pocket.

  "Then I was worse than locoed. I went gold-crazy. I worked likeseventeen burros. Bill, I dug a lot of goldbearin' quartz. Bonitawatched the trails for me, brought me water. That was how she come toget caught by Pat Hawe an' his guerrillas. Sure! Pat Hawe was so set ondoin' Gene dirt that he mixed up with Don Carlos. Bonita will tell yousome staggerin' news about that outfit. Just now my story is all gold."

  Danny Mains got up and kicked back his chair. Blue lightning gleamedfrom his eyes as he thrust a hand toward Stillwell.

  "Bill, old pal, put her there--give me your hand," he said. "You werealways my friend. You had faith in me. Well, Danny Mains owes you,an' he owes Gene Stewart a good deal, an' Danny Mains pays. I want twopardners to help me work my gold-mine. You an' Gene. If there's anyranch hereabouts that takes your fancy I'll buy it. If Miss Hammond evergets tired of her range an stock an' home I'll buy them for Gene. Ifthere's any railroad or town round here that she likes I'll buy it. IfI see anythin' myself that I like I'll buy it. Go out; find Gene for me.I'm achin' to see him, to tell him. Go fetch him; an' right here inthis house, with my wife an' Miss Hammond as witnesses, we'll draw up apardnership. Go find him, Bill. I want to show him this gold, show himhow Danny Mains pays! An' the only bitter drop in my cup to-day is thatI can't ever pay Monty Price."

  *****

  Madeline's lips tremblingly formed to tell Danny Mains and Stillwellthat the cowboy they wanted so much had left the ranch; but the flameof fine loyalty that burned in Danny's eyes, the happiness that made theold cattleman's face at once amazing and beautiful, stiffened her lips.She watched the huge Stillwell and the little cowboy, both talkingwildly, as they walked off arm in arm to find Stewart. She imaginedsomething of what Danny's disappointment would be, of the elder man'sconsternation and grief, when he learned Stewart had left for theborder. At this juncture she looked up to see a strange, yet familiarfigure approaching. Padre Marcos! Certain it was that Madeline feltherself trembling. What did his presence mean on this day? He had alwaysavoided meeting her whenever possible. He had been exceedingly gratefulfor all she had done for his people, his church, and himself; but he hadnever thanked her in person. Perhaps he had come for that purpose now.But Madeline did not believe so.

  Mention of Padre Marcos, sight of him, had always occasioned Madelinea little indefinable shock; and now, as he stepped to the porch, ashrunken, stooped, and sad-faced man, she was startled.

  The padre bowed low to her.

  "Senora, will you grant me audience?" he asked, in perfect English, andhis voice was low-toned and grave.

  "Certainly, Padre Marcos," replied Madeline; and she led him into heroffice.

  "May I beg to close the doors?" he asked. "It is a matter of greatmoment, which you might not care to have any one hear."

  Wonderingly Madeline inclined her head. The padre gently closed one doorand then the others.

  "Senora, I have come to disclose a secret--my own sinfulness in keepingit--and to implore your pardon. Do you remember that night Senor Stewartdragged me before you in the waiting-room at El Cajon?"

  "Yes," replied Madeline.

  "Senora, since that night you have been Senor Stewart's wife!"

  Madeline became as motionless as stone. She seemed to feel nothing, onlyto hear.

  "You are Senor Stewart's wife. I have kept the secret under fear ofdeath. But I could keep it no
longer. Senor Stewart may kill me now. Ah,Senora, it is very strange to you. You were so frightened that night,you knew not what happened. Senor Stewart threatened me. He forced you.He made me speak the service. He made you speak the Spanish yes. And I,Senora, knowing the deeds of these sinful cowboys, fearing worse thandisgrace to one so beautiful and so good as you, I could not do lessthan marry you truly. At least you should be his wife. So I married you,truly, in the service of my church."

  "My God!" cried Madeline, rising.

  "Hear me! I implore you, Senora, hear me out! Do not leave me! Do notlook so--so--Ah, Senora, let me speak a word for Senor Stewart. He wasdrunk that night. He did not know what he was about. In the morninghe came to me, made me swear by my cross that I would not reveal thedisgrace he had put upon you. If I did he would kill me. Life is nothingto the American vaquero, Senora. I promised to respect his command.But I did not tell him you were his wife. He did not dream I had trulymarried you. He went to fight for the freedom of my country--Senora, heis one splendid soldier--and I brooded over the sin of my secret. If hewere killed I need never tell you. But if he lived I knew that I mustsome day.

  "Strange indeed that Senor Stewart and Padre Marcos should both cometo this ranch together. The great change your goodness wrought in mybeloved people was no greater than the change in Senor Stewart. Senora,I feared you would go away one day, go back to your Eastern home,ignorant of the truth. The time came when I confessed to Stewart--saidI must tell you. Senor, the man went mad with joy. I have never seenso supreme a joy. He threatened no more to kill me. That strong,cruel vaquero begged me not to tell the secret--never to reveal it. Heconfessed his love for you--a love something like the desert storm. Heswore by all that was once sacred to him, and by my cross and mychurch, that he would be a good man, that he would be worthy to have yousecretly his wife for the little time life left him to worship at yourshrine. You needed never to know. So I held my tongue, half pitying him,half fearing him, and praying for some God-sent light.

  "Senora, it was a fool's paradise that Stewart lived in. I saw him,often. When he took me up into the mountains to have me marry thatwayward Bonita and her lover I came to have respect for a man whoseideas about nature and life and God were at a variance with mine. Butthe man is a worshiper of God in all material things. He is a part ofthe wind and sun and desert and mountain that have made him. I havenever heard more beautiful words than those in which he persuaded Bonitato accept Senor Mains, to forget her old lovers, and henceforth to behappy. He is their friend. I wish I could tell you what that means.It sounds so simple. It is really simple. All great things are so. ForSenor Stewart it was natural to be loyal to his friend, to have a finesense of the honor due to a woman who had loved and given, to bringabout their marriage, to succor them in their need and loneliness. Itwas natural for him never to speak of them. It would have been naturalfor him to give his life in their defense if peril menaced them. Senora,I want you to understand that to me the man has the same stability, thesame strength, the same elements which I am in the habit of attributingto the physical life around me in this wild and rugged desert."

  Madeline listened as one under a spell. It was not only that thissoft-voiced, eloquent priest knew how to move the heart, stir the soul;but his defense, his praise of Stewart, if they had been couched in thecrude speech of cowboys, would have been a glory to her.

  "Senora, I pray you, do not misunderstand my mission. Beyond myconfession to you I have only a duty to tell you of the man whose wifeyou are. But I am a priest and I can read the soul. The ways of God areinscrutable. I am only a humble instrument. You are a noble woman, andSenor Stewart is a man of desert iron forged anew in the crucible oflove. Quien sabe? Senor Stewart swore he would kill me if I betrayedhim. But he will not lift his hand against me. For the man bears you avery great and pure love, and it has changed him. I no longer fear histhreat, but I do fear his anger, should he ever know I spoke of hislove, of his fool's paradise. I have watched his dark face turned to thesun setting over the desert. I have watched him lift it to the lightof the stars. Think, my gracious and noble lady, think what is hisparadise? To love you above the spirit of the flesh; to know you are hiswife, his, never to be another's except by his sacrifice; to watch youwith a secret glory of joy and pride; to stand, while he might, betweenyou and evil; to find his happiness in service; to wait, with never adream of telling you, for the hour to come when to leave you free hemust go out and get himself shot! Senora, that is beautiful, it issublime, it is terrible. It has brought me to you with my confession. Irepeat, Senora, the ways of God are inscrutable. What is the meaning ofyour influence upon Senor Stewart? Once he was merely an animal, brutal,unquickened; now he is a man--I have not seen his like! So I beseech youin my humble office as priest, as a lover of mankind, before yousend Stewart to his death, to be sure there is here no mysteriousdispensation of God. Love, that mighty and blessed and unknown thing,might be at work. Senora, I have heard that somewhere in the richEastern cities you are a very great lady. I know you are good and noble.That is all I want to know. To me you are only a woman, the same asSenor Stewart is only a man. So I pray you, Senora, before you letStewart give you freedom at such cost be sure you do not want his love,lest you cast away something sweet and ennobling which you yourself havecreated."