by Zane Grey
“By Gawd!” ejaculated Monty Price, who seemed to be the most amazed and elated of them all. “Thet’s the fust Englishman I ever seen! He’s orful deceivin’ to look at, but I know now why England rules the wurrld. Jest take a peek at thet bronco. His spirit is broke. Rid by a leetle English dook no bigger ’n a grasshopper! Fellers, if it hain’t dawned on you yit, let Monty Price give you a hunch. There’s no flies on Castleton. An’ I’ll bet a million steers to a rawhide rope thet next he’ll be throwin’ a gun as good as Nels.”
It was a distinct pleasure for Madeline to realize that she liked Castleton all the better for the traits brought out so forcibly by his association with the cowboys. On the other hand, she liked the cowboys better for something in them that contact with Easterners brought out. This was especially true in Stewart’s case. She had been wholly wrong when she had imagined he would fall an easy victim to Dorothy’s eyes and Helen’s lures. He was kind, helpful, courteous, and watchful. But he had no sentiment. He did not see Dorothy’s charms or feel Helen’s fascination. And their efforts to captivate him were now so obvious that Mrs. Beck taunted them, and Edith smiled knowingly, and Bobby and Boyd made playful remarks. All of which cut Helen’s pride and hurt Dorothy’s vanity. They essayed open conquest of Stewart.
So it came about that Madeline unconsciously admitted the cowboy to a place in her mind never occupied by any other. The instant it occurred to her why he was proof against the wiles of the other women she drove that amazing and strangely disturbing thought from her. Nevertheless, as she was human, she could not help thinking and being pleased and enjoying a little the discomfiture of the two coquettes.
Moreover, from this thought of Stewart, and the watchfulness growing out of it she discovered more about him. He was not happy; he often paced up and down the grove at night; he absented himself from camp sometimes during the afternoon when Nels and Nick and Monty were there; he was always watching the trails, as if he expected to see someone come riding up. He alone of the cowboys did not indulge in the fun and talk around the camp-fire. He remained preoccupied and sad, and was always looking away into distance. Madeline had a strange sense of his guardianship over her; and, remembering Don Carlos, she imagined he worried a good deal over his charge, and, indeed, over the safety of all the party.
But if he did worry about possible visits from wandering guerrillas, why did he absent himself from camp? Suddenly into Madeline’s inquisitive mind flashed a remembrance of the dark-eyed Mexican girl, Bonita, who had never been heard of since that night she rode Stewart’s big horse out of El Cajon. The remembrance of her brought an idea. Perhaps Stewart had a rendezvous in the mountains, and these lonely trips of his were to meet Bonita. With the idea hot blood flamed into Madeline’s cheek. Then she was amazed at her own feelings—amazed because her swiftest succeeding thought was to deny the idea—amazed that its conception had fired her cheek with shame. Then her old self, the one aloof from this red-blooded new self, gained control over her emotions.
But Madeline found that new-born self a creature of strange power to return and govern at any moment. She found it fighting loyally for what intelligence and wisdom told her was only her romantic conception of a cowboy. She reasoned: If Stewart were the kind of man her feminine skepticism wanted to make him, he would not have been so blind to the coquettish advances of Helen and Dorothy. He had once been—she did not want to recall what he had once been. But he had been uplifted. Madeline Hammond declared that. She was swayed by a strong, beating pride, and her instinctive woman’s faith told her that he could not stoop to such dishonor. She reproached herself for having momentarily thought of it.
* * * *
One afternoon a huge storm-cloud swooped out of the sky and enveloped the crags. It obscured the westering sun and laid a mantle of darkness over the park. Madeline was uneasy because several of her party, including Helen and Dorothy, had ridden off with the cowboys that afternoon and had not returned. Florence assured her that even if they did not get back before the storm broke there was no reason for apprehension. Nevertheless, Madeline sent for Stewart and asked him to go or send someone in search of them.
Perhaps half an hour later Madeline heard the welcome pattering of hoofs on the trail. The big tent was brightly lighted by several lanterns. Edith and Florence were with her. It was so black outside that Madeline could not see a rod before her face. The wind was moaning in the trees, and big drops of rain were pelting upon the canvas.
Presently, just outside the door, the horses halted, and there was a sharp bustle of sound, such as would naturally result from a hurried dismounting and confusion in the dark. Mrs. Beck came running into the tent out of breath and radiant because they had beaten the storm. Helen entered next, and a little later came Dorothy, but long enough to make her entrance more noticeable. The instant Madeline saw Dorothy’s blazing eyes she knew something unusual had happened. Whatever it was might have escaped comment had not Helen caught sight of Dorothy.
“Heavens, Dot, but you’re handsome occasionally!” remarked Helen. “When you get some life in your face and eyes!”
Dorothy turned her face away from the others, and perhaps it was only accident that she looked into a mirror hanging on the tent wall. Swiftly she put her hand up to feel a wide red welt on her cheek. Dorothy had been assiduously careful of her soft, white skin, and here was an ugly mark marring its beauty.
“Look at that!” she cried, in distress. “My complexion’s ruined!”
“How did you get such a splotch?” inquired Helen, going closer.
“I’ve been kissed!” exclaimed Dorothy, dramatically.
“What?” queried Helen, more curiously, while the others laughed.
“I’ve been kissed—hugged and kissed by one of those shameless cowboys! It was so pitch-dark outside I couldn’t see a thing. And so noisy I couldn’t hear. But somebody was trying to help me off my horse. My foot caught in the stirrup, and away I went—right into somebody’s arms. Then he did it, the wretch! He hugged and kissed me in a most awful bearish manner. I couldn’t budge a finger. I’m simply boiling with rage!”
When the outburst of mirth subsided Dorothy turned her big, dilated eyes upon Florence.
“Do these cowboys really take advantage of a girl when she’s helpless and in the dark?”
“Of course they do,” replied Florence, with her frank smile.
“Dot, what in the world could you expect?” asked Helen. “Haven’t you been dying to be kissed?”
“No.”
“Well, you acted like it, then. I never before saw you in a rage over being kissed.”
“I—I wouldn’t care so much if the brute hadn’t scoured the skin off my face. He had whiskers as sharp and stiff as sandpaper. And when I jerked away he rubbed my cheek with them.”
This revelation as to the cause of her outraged dignity almost prostrated her friends with glee.
“Dot, I agree with you; it’s one thing to be kissed, and quite another to have your beauty spoiled,” replied Helen, presently. “Who was this particular savage?”
“I don’t know!” burst out Dorothy. “If I did I’d—I’d—”
Her eyes expressed the direful punishment she could not speak.
“Honestly now, Dot, haven’t you the least idea who did it?” questioned Helen.
“I hope—I think it was Stewart,” replied Dorothy.
“Ah! Dot, your hope is father to the thought. My dear, I’m sorry to riddle your little romance. Stewart did not—could not have been the offender or hero.”
“How do you know he couldn’t?” demanded Dorothy, flushing.
“Because he was clean-shaven today at noon, before we rode out. I remember perfectly how nice and smooth and brown his face looked.”
“Oh, do you? Well, if your memory for faces is so good, maybe you can tell me which one of these cowboys wasn’t clean-shaven.”
“Merely a matter of elimination,” replied Helen, merrily. “It was not Nick; it was not Nels; it wa
s not Frankie. There was only one other cowboy with us, and he had a short, stubby growth of black beard, much like that cactus we passed on the trail.”
“Oh, I was afraid of it,” moaned Dorothy. “I knew he was going to do it. That horrible little smiling demon, Monty Price!”
* * * *
A favorite lounging-spot of Madeline’s was a shaded niche under the lee of crags facing the east. Here the outlook was entirely different from that on the western side. It was not red and white and glaring, nor so changeable that it taxed attention. This eastern view was one of the mountains and valleys, where, to be sure, there were arid patches; but the restful green of pine and fir was there, and the cool gray of crags. Bold and rugged indeed were these mountain features, yet they were companionably close, not immeasurably distant and unattainable like the desert. Here in the shade of afternoon Madeline and Edith would often lounge under a low-branched tree. Seldom they talked much, for it was afternoon and dreamy with the strange spell of this mountain fastness. There was smoky haze in the valleys, a fleecy cloud resting over the peaks, a sailing eagle in the blue sky, silence that was the unbroken silence of the wild heights, and a soft wind laden with incense of pine.
One afternoon, however, Edith appeared prone to talk seriously.
“Majesty, I must go home soon. I cannot stay out here forever. Are you going back with me?”
“Well, maybe,” replied Madeline, thoughtfully. “I have considered it. I shall have to visit home some time. But this summer mother and father are going to Europe.”
“See here, Majesty Hammond, do you intend to spend the rest of your life in this wilderness?” asked Edith, bluntly.
Madeline was silent.
“Oh, it is glorious! Don’t misunderstand me, dear,” went on Edith, earnestly, as she laid her hand on Madeline’s. “This trip has been a revelation to me. I did not tell you, Majesty, that I was ill when I arrived. Now I’m well. So well! Look at Helen, too. Why, she was a ghost when we got here. Now she is brown and strong and beautiful. If it were for nothing else than this wonderful gift of health I would love the West. But I have come to love it for other things—even spiritual things. Majesty, I have been studying you. I see and feel what this life has made of you. When I came I wondered at your strength, your virility, your serenity, your happiness. And I was stunned. I wondered at the causes of your change. Now I know. You were sick of idleness, sick of uselessness, if not of society—sick of the horrible noises and smells and contacts one can no longer escape in the cities. I am sick of all that, too, and I could tell you many women of our kind who suffer in a like manner. You have done what many of us want to do, but have not the courage. You have left it. I am not blind to the splendid difference you have made in your life. I think I would have discovered, even if your brother had not told me, what good you have done to the Mexicans and cattlemen of your range. Then you have work to do. That is much the secret of your happiness, is it not? Tell me. Tell me something of what it means to you?”
“Work, of course, has much to do with anyone’s happiness,” replied Madeline. “No one can be happy who has no work. As regards myself—for the rest I can hardly tell you. I have never tried to put it in words. Frankly, I believe, if I had not had money that I could not have found such contentment here. That is not in any sense a judgment against the West. But if I had been poor I could not have bought and maintained my ranch. Stillwell tells me there are many larger ranches than mine, but none just like it. Then I am almost paying my expenses out of my business. Think of that! My income, instead of being wasted, is mostly saved. I think—I hope I am useful. I have been of some little good to the Mexicans—eased the hardships of a few cowboys. For the rest, I think my life is a kind of dream. Of course my ranch and range are real, my cowboys are typical. If I were to tell you how I feel about them it would simply be a story of how Madeline Hammond sees the West. They are true to the West. It is I who am strange, and what I feel for them may be strange, too. Edith, hold to your own impressions.”
“But, Majesty, my impressions have changed. At first I did not like the wind, the dust, the sun, the endless open stretches. But now I do like them. Where once I saw only terrible wastes of barren ground now I see beauty and something noble. Then, at first, your cowboys struck me as dirty, rough, loud, crude, savage—all that was primitive. I did not want them near me. I imagined them callous, hard men, their only joy a carouse with their kind. But I was wrong. I have changed. The dirt was only dust, and this desert dust is clean. They are still rough, loud, crude, and savage in my eyes, but with a difference. They are natural men. They are little children. Monty Price is one of nature’s noblemen. The hard thing is to discover it. All his hideous person, all his actions and speech, are masks of his real nature. Nels is a joy, a simple, sweet, kindly, quiet man whom some woman should have loved. What would love have meant to him! He told me that no woman ever loved him except his mother, and he lost her when he was ten. Every man ought to be loved—especially such a man as Nels. Somehow his gun record does not impress me. I never could believe he killed a man. Then take your foreman, Stewart. He is a cowboy, his work and life the same as the others. But he has education and most of the graces we are in the habit of saying make a gentleman. Stewart is a strange fellow, just like this strange country. He’s a man, Majesty, and I admire him. So, you see, my impressions are developing with my stay out here.”
“Edith, I am so glad you told me that,” replied Madeline, warmly.
“I like the country, and I like the men,” went on Edith. “One reason I want to go home soon is because I am discontented enough at home now, without falling in love with the West. For, of course, Majesty, I would. I could not live out here. And that brings me to my point. Admitting all the beauty and charm and wholesomeness and good of this wonderful country, still it is no place for you, Madeline Hammond. You have your position, your wealth, your name, your family. You must marry. You must have children. You must not give up all that for a quixotic life in a wilderness.”
“I am convinced, Edith, that I shall live here all the rest of my life.”
“Oh, Majesty! I hate to preach this way. But I promised your mother I would talk to you. And the truth is I hate—I hate what I’m saying. I envy you your courage and wisdom. I know you have refused to marry Boyd Harvey. I could see that in his face. I believe you will refuse Castleton. Whom will you marry? What chance is there for a woman of your position to marry out here? What in the world will become of you?”
“Quien sabe?” replied Madeline, with a smile that was almost sad.
* * * *
Not so many hours after this conversation with Edith, Madeline sat with Boyd Harvey upon the grassy promontory overlooking the west, and she listened once again to his suave courtship.
Suddenly she turned to him and said, “Boyd, if I married you would you be willing—glad to spend the rest of your life here in the West?”
“Majesty!” he exclaimed. There was amaze in the voice usually so even and well modulated—amaze in the handsome face usually so indifferent. Her question had startled him. She saw him look down the iron-gray cliffs, over the barren slopes and cedared ridges, beyond the cactus-covered foothills to the grim and ghastly desert. Just then, with its red veils of sunlit dust-clouds, its illimitable waste of ruined and upheaved earth, it was a sinister spectacle.
“No,” he replied, with a tinge of shame in his cheek. Madeline said no more, nor did he speak. She was spared the pain of refusing him, and she imagined he would never ask her again. There was both relief and regret in the conviction. Humiliated lovers seldom made good friends.
It was impossible not to like Boyd Harvey. The thought of that, and why she could not marry him, concentrated her never-satisfied mind upon the man. She looked at him, and she thought of him.
He was handsome, young, rich, well born, pleasant, cultivated—he was all that made a gentleman of his class. If he had any vices she had not heard of them. She knew he had no thirst for drink or craz
e for gambling. He was considered a very desirable and eligible young man. Madeline admitted all this.
Then she thought of things that were perhaps exclusively her own strange ideas. Boyd Harvey’s white skin did not tan even in this southwestern sun and wind. His hands were whiter than her own, and as soft. They were really beautiful, and she remembered what care he took of them. They were a proof that he never worked. His frame was tall, graceful, elegant. It did not bear evidence of ruggedness. He had never indulged in a sport more strenuous than yachting. He hated effort and activity. He rode horseback very little, disliked any but moderate motoring, spent much time in Newport and Europe, never walked when he could help it, and had no ambition unless it were to pass the days pleasantly. If he ever had any sons they would be like him, only a generation more toward the inevitable extinction of his race.
