by Zane Grey
“No. Only I am very tired. Traveling so far by rail is harder than I imagined. I did have rather a long wait after arriving at the station, but I can’t say that it was lonely.”
Florence Kingsley searched Madeline’s face with keen eyes, and then took a long, significant look at the silent Stewart. With that she deliberately and quietly closed a door leading into another room.
“Miss Hammond, what has happened?” She had lowered her voice.
“I do not wish to recall all that has happened,” replied Madeline. “I shall tell Alfred, however, that I would rather have met a hostile Apache than a cowboy.”
“Please don’t tell Al that!” cried Florence. Then she grasped Stewart and pulled him close to the light. “Gene, you’re drunk!”
“I was pretty drunk,” he replied, hanging his head.
“Oh, what have you done?”
“Now, see here, Flo, I only—”
“I don’t want to know. I’d tell it. Gene, aren’t you ever going to learn decency? Aren’t you ever going to stop drinking? You’ll lose all your friends. Stillwell has stuck to you. Al’s been your best friend. Molly and I have pleaded with you, and now you’ve gone and done—God knows what!”
“What do women want to wear veils for?” he growled. “I’d have known her but for that veil.”
“And you wouldn’t have insulted her. But you would the next girl who came along. Gene, you are hopeless. Now, you get out of here and don’t ever come back.”
“Flo!” he entreated.
“I mean it.”
“I reckon then I’ll come back tomorrow and take my medicine,” he replied.
“Don’t you dare!” she cried.
Stewart went out and closed the door.
“Miss Hammond, you—you don’t know how this hurts me,” said Florence. “What you must think of us! It’s so unlucky that you should have had this happen right at first. Now, maybe you won’t have the heart to stay. Oh, I’ve known more than one Eastern girl to go home without ever learning what we really are cut here. Miss Hammond, Gene Stewart is a fiend when he’s drunk. All the same I know, whatever he did, he meant no shame to you. Come now, don’t think about it again tonight.” She took up the lamp and led Madeline into a little room. “This is out West,” she went on, smiling, as she indicated the few furnishings; “but you can rest. You’re perfectly safe. Won’t you let me help you undress—can’t I do anything for you?”
“You are very kind, thank you, but I can manage,” replied Madeline.
“Well, then, good night. The sooner I go the sooner you’ll rest. Just forget what happened and think how fine a surprise you’re to give your brother tomorrow.”
With that she slipped out and softly shut the door.
As Madeline laid her watch on the bureau she noticed that the time was past two o’clock. It seemed long since she had gotten off the train. When she had turned out the lamp and crept wearily into bed she knew what it was to be utterly spent. She was too tired to move a finger. But her brain whirled.
She had at first no control over it, and a thousand thronging sensations came and went and recurred with little logical relation. There were the roar of the train; the feeling of being lost; the sound of pounding hoofs; a picture of her brother’s face as she had last seen it five years before; a long, dim line of lights; the jingle of silver spurs; night, wind, darkness, stars. Then the gloomy station, the shadowy blanketed Mexican, the empty room, the dim lights across the square, the tramp of the dancers and vacant laughs and discordant music, the door flung wide and the entrance of the cowboy. She did not recall how he had looked or what he had done. And the next instant she saw him cool, smiling, devilish—saw him in violence; the next his bigness, his apparel, his physical being were vague as outlines in a dream. The white face of the padre flashed along in the train of thought, and it brought the same dull, half-blind, indefinable state of mind subsequent to that last nerve-breaking pistol-shot. That passed, and then clear and vivid rose memories of the rest that had happened—strange voices betraying fury of men, a deadened report, a moan of mortal pain, a woman’s poignant cry. And Madeline saw the girl’s great tragic eyes and the wild flight of the big horse into the blackness, and the dark, stalking figure of the silent cowboy, and the white stars that seemed to look down remorselessly.
This tide of memory rolled over Madeline again and again, and gradually lost its power and faded. All distress left her, and she felt herself drifting. How black the room was—as black with her eyes open as it was when they were shut! And the silence—it was like a cloak. There was absolutely no sound. She was in another world from that which she knew. She thought of this fair-haired Florence and of Alfred; and, wondering about them, she dropped to sleep.
When she awakened the room was bright with sunlight. A cool wind blowing across the bed caused her to put her hands under the blanket. She was lazily and dreamily contemplating the mud walls of this little room when she remembered where she was and how she had come there.
How great a shock she had been subjected to was manifest in a sensation of disgust that overwhelmed her. She even shut her eyes to try and blot out the recollection. She felt that she had been contaminated.
Presently Madeline Hammond again awoke to the fact she had learned the preceding night—that there were emotions to which she had heretofore been a stranger. She did not try to analyze them, but she exercised her self-control to such good purpose that by the time she had dressed she was outwardly her usual self. She scarcely remembered when she had found it necessary to control her emotions. There had been no trouble, no excitement, no unpleasantness in her life. It had been ordered for her—tranquil, luxurious, brilliant, varied, yet always the same.
She was not surprised to find the hour late, and was going to make inquiry about her brother when a voice arrested her. She recognized Miss Kingsley’s voice addressing someone outside, and it had a sharpness she had not noted before.
“So you came back, did you? Well, you don’t look very proud of yourself this mawnin’. Gene Stewart, you look like a coyote.”
“Say, Flo if I am a coyote I’m not going to sneak,” he said.
“What ’d you come for?” she demanded.
“I said I was coming round to take my medicine.”
“Meaning you’ll not run from Al Hammond? Gene, your skull is as thick as an old cow’s. Al will never know anything about what you did to his sister unless you tell him. And if you do that he’ll shoot you. She won’t give you away. She’s a thoroughbred. Why, she was so white last night I thought she’d drop at my feet, but she never blinked an eyelash. I’m a woman, Gene Stewart and if I couldn’t feel like Miss Hammond I know how awful an ordeal she must have had. Why, she’s one of the most beautiful, the most sought after, the most exclusive women in New York City. There’s a crowd of millionaires and lords and dukes after her. How terrible it’d be for a woman like her to be kissed by a drunken cowpuncher! I say it—”
“Flo, I never insulted her that way,” broke out Stewart.
“It was worse, then?” she queried, sharply.
“I made a bet that I’d marry the first girl who came to town. I was on the watch and pretty drunk. When she came—well, I got Padre Marcos and tried to bully her into marrying me.”
“Oh, Lord!” Florence gasped. “It’s worse than I feared.… Gene, Al will kill you.”
“That’ll be a good thing,” replied the cowboy, dejectedly.
“Gene Stewart, it certainly would, unless you turn over a new leaf,” retorted Florence. “But don’t be a fool.” And here she became earnest and appealing. “Go away, Gene. Go join the rebels across the border—you’re always threatening that. Anyhow, don’t stay here and run any chance of stirring Al up. He’d kill you just the same as you would kill another man for insulting your sister. Don’t make trouble for Al. That’d only make sorrow for her, Gene.”
The subtle import was not lost upon Madeline. She was distressed because she could not avoid hearing
what was not meant for her ears. She made an effort not to listen, and it was futile.
“Flo, you can’t see this a man’s way,” he replied, quietly. “I’ll stay and take my medicine.”
“Gene, I could sure swear at you or any other pig-head of a cowboy. Listen. My brother-in-law, Jack, heard something of what I said to you last night. He doesn’t like you. I’m afraid he’ll tell Al. For Heaven’s sake, man, go downtown and shut him up and yourself, too.”
Then Madeline heard her come into the house and presently rap on the door and call softly:
“Miss Hammond. Are you awake?”
“Awake and dressed, Miss Kingsley. Come in.”
“Oh! You’ve rested. You look so—so different. I’m sure glad. Come out now. We’ll have breakfast, and then you may expect to meet your brother any moment.”
“Wait, please. I heard you speaking to Mr. Stewart. It was unavoidable. But I am glad. I must see him. Will you please ask him to come into the parlor a moment?”
“Yes,” replied Florence, quickly; and as she turned at the door she flashed at Madeline a woman’s meaning glance. “Make him keep his mouth shut!”
Presently there were slow, reluctant steps outside the front door, then a pause, and the door opened. Stewart stood bareheaded in the sunlight. Madeline remembered with a kind of shudder the tall form, the embroidered buckskin vest, the red scarf, the bright leather wristbands, the wide silver-buckled belt and chaps. Her glance seemed to run over him swift as lightning. But as she saw his face now she did not recognize it. The man’s presence roused in her a revolt. Yet something in her, the incomprehensible side of her nature, thrilled in the look of this splendid dark-faced barbarian.
“Mr. Stewart, will you please come in?” she asked, after that long pause.
“I reckon not,” he said. The hopelessness of his tone meant that he knew he was not fit to enter a room with her, and did not care or cared too much.
Madeline went to the door. The man’s face was hard, yet it was sad, too. And it touched her.
“I shall not tell my brother of your—your rudeness to me,” she began. It was impossible for her to keep the chill out of her voice, to speak with other than the pride and aloofness of her class. Nevertheless, despite her loathing, when she had spoken so far it seemed that kindness and pity followed involuntarily. “I choose to overlook what you did because you were not wholly accountable, and because there must be no trouble between Alfred and you. May I rely on you to keep silence and to seal the lips of that priest? And you know there was a man killed or injured there last night. I want to forget that dreadful thing. I don’t want it known that I heard—”
“The Greaser didn’t die,” interrupted Stewart.
“Ah! then that’s not so bad, after all. I am glad for the sake of your friend—the little Mexican girl.”
A slow scarlet wave overspread his face, and his shame was painful to see. That fixed in Madeline’s mind a conviction that if he was a heathen he was not wholly bad. And it made so much difference that she smiled down at him.
“You will spare me further distress, will you not, please?” His hoarse reply was incoherent, but she needed only to see his working face to know his remorse and gratitude.
Madeline went back to her room; and presently Florence came for her, and directly they were sitting at breakfast. Madeline Hammond’s impression of her brother’s friend had to be reconstructed in the morning light. She felt a wholesome, frank, sweet nature. She liked the slow Southern drawl. And she was puzzled to know whether Florence Kingsley was pretty or striking or unusual. She had a youthful glow and flush, the clear tan of outdoors, a face that lacked the soft curves and lines of Eastern women, and her eyes were light gray, like crystal, steady, almost piercing, and her hair was a beautiful bright, waving mass.
Florence’s sister was the elder of the two, a stout woman with a strong face and quiet eyes. It was a simple fare and service they gave to their guest; but they made no apologies for that. Indeed, Madeline felt their simplicity to be restful. She was sated with respect, sick of admiration, tired of adulation; and it was good to see that these Western women treated her as very likely they would have treated any other visitor. They were sweet, kind; and what Madeline had at first thought was a lack of expression or vitality she soon discovered to be the natural reserve of women who did not live superficial lives. Florence was breezy and frank, her sister quaint and not given much to speech. Madeline thought she would like to have these women near her if she were ill or in trouble. And she reproached herself for a fastidiousness, a hypercritical sense of refinement that could not help distinguishing what these women lacked.
“Can you ride?” Florence was asking. “That’s what a Westerner always asks any one from the East. Can you ride like a man—astride, I mean? Oh, that’s fine. You look strong enough to hold a horse. We have some fine horses out here. I reckon when Al comes we’ll go out to Bill Stillwell’s ranch. We’ll have to go, whether we want to or not, for when Bill learns you are here he’ll just pack us all off. You’ll love old Bill. His ranch is run down, but the range and the rides up in the mountains—they are beautiful. We’ll hunt and climb, and most of all we’ll ride. I love a horse—I love the wind in my face, and a wide stretch with the mountains beckoning. You must have the best horse on the ranges. And that means a scrap between Al and Bill and all the cowboys. We don’t all agree about horses, except in case of Gene Stewart’s iron-gray.”
“Does Mr. Stewart own the best horse in the country?” asked Madeline. Again she had an inexplicable thrill as she remembered the wild flight of Stewart’s big dark steed and rider.
“Yes, and that’s all he does own,” replied Florence. “Gene can’t keep even a quirt. But he sure loves that horse and calls him—”
At this juncture a sharp knock on the parlor door interrupted the conversation. Florence’s sister went to open it. She returned presently and said:
“It’s Gene. He’s been dawdlin’ out there on the front porch, and he knocked to let us know Miss Hammond’s brother is comin’.”
Florence hurried into the parlor, followed by Madeline. The door stood open, and disclosed Stewart sitting on the porch steps. From down the road came a clatter of hoofs. Madeline looked out over Florence’s shoulder and saw a cloud of dust approaching, and in it she distinguished outlines of horses and riders. A warmth spread over her, a little tingle of gladness, and the feeling recalled her girlish love for her brother. What would he be like after long years?
“Gene, has Jack kept his mouth shut?” queried Florence; and again Madeline was aware of a sharp ring in the girl’s voice.
“No,” replied Stewart.
“Gene! You won’t let it come to a fight? Al can be managed. But Jack hates you and he’ll have his friends with him.”
“There won’t be any fight.”
“Use your brains now,” added Florence; and then she turned to push Madeline gently back into the parlor.
Madeline’s glow of warmth changed to a blank dismay. Was she to see her brother act with the violence she now associated with cowboys? The clatter of hoofs stopped before the door. Looking out, Madeline saw a bunch of dusty, wiry horses pawing the gravel and tossing lean heads. Her swift glance ran over the lithe horsemen, trying to pick out the one who was her brother. But she could not. Her glance, however, caught the same rough dress and hard aspect that characterized the cowboy Stewart. Then one rider threw his bridle, leaped from the saddle, and came bounding up the porch steps. Florence met him at the door.
“Hello, Flo. Where is she?” he called, eagerly. With that he looked over her shoulder to espy Madeline. He actually jumped at her. She hardly knew the tall form and the bronzed face, but the warm flash of blue eyes was familiar. As for him, he had no doubt of his sister, it appeared, for with broken welcome he threw his arms around her, then held her off and looked searchingly at her.
“Well, sister,” he began, when Florence turned hurriedly from the door and interrupted him.<
br />
“Al, I think you’d better stop the wrangling out there.” He stared at her, appeared suddenly to hear the loud voices from the street, and then, releasing Madeline, he said:
“By George! I forgot, Flo. There is a little business to see to. Keep my sister in here, please, and don’t be fussed up now.”
He went out on the porch and called to his men:
“Shut off your wind, Jack! And you, too, Blaze! I didn’t want you fellows to come here. But as you would come, you’ve got to shut up. This is my business.”
Whereupon he turned to Stewart, who was sitting on the fence.
“Hello, Stewart!” he said.
It was a greeting; but there was that in the voice which alarmed Madeline.
Stewart leisurely got up and leisurely advanced to the porch.
“Hello, Hammond!” he drawled.
“Drunk again last night?”
“Well, if you want to know, and if it’s any of your mix, yes, I was-pretty drunk,” replied Stewart.
It was a kind of cool speech that showed the cowboy in control of himself and master of the situation—not an easy speech to follow up with undue inquisitiveness. There was a short silence.
“Damn it, Stewart,” said the speaker, presently, “here’s the situation: It’s all over town that you met my sister last night at the station and—and insulted her. Jack’s got it in for you, so have these other boys. But it’s my affair. Understand, I didn’t fetch them here. They can see you square yourself, or else—Gene, you’ve been on the wrong trail for some time, drinking and all that. You’re going to the bad. But Bill thinks, and I think, you’re still a man. We never knew you to lie. Now what have you to say for yourself?”
“Nobody is insinuating that I am a liar?” drawled Stewart.
“No.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that. You see, Al, I was pretty drunk last night, but not drunk enough to forget the least thing I did. I told Pat Hawe so this morning when he was curious. And that’s polite for me to be to Pat. Well, I found Miss Hammond waiting alone at the station. She wore a veil, but I knew she was a lady, of course. I imagine, now that I think of it, that Miss Hammond found my gallantry rather startling, and—”
