Desert Gold and the Light of Western Stars

by Zane Grey

  “Last night wasn’t particular bad, ratin’ with some other nights lately. There wasn’t much doin’. But I had a hard knock. Yesterday when we started in with a bunch of cattle I sent one of my cowboys, Danny Mains, along ahead carryin’ money I hed to pay off hands an’ my bills, an’ I wanted thet money to get in town before dark. Wal, Danny was held up. I don’t distrust the lad. There’s been strange Greasers in town lately, an’ mebbe they knew about the money comin’.

  “Wal, when I arrived with the cattle I was some put to it to make ends meet. An’ to-day I wasn’t in no angelic humor. When I hed my business all done I went around pokin’ my nose heah an’ there, tryin’ to get scent of thet money. An’ I happened in at a hall we hev thet does duty fer jail an’ hospital an’ election-post an’ whatnot. Wal, just then it was doin’ duty as a hospital. Last night was fiesta night—these Greasers hev a fiesta every week or so—an’ one Greaser who hed been bad hurt was layin’ in the hall, where he hed been fetched from the station. Somebody hed sent off to Douglas fer a doctor, but he hedn’t come yet. I’ve hed some experience with gun-shot wounds, an’ I looked this feller over. He wasn’t shot up much, but I thought there was danger of blood-poisonin’. Anyway, I did all I could.

  “The hall was full of cowboys, ranchers, Greasers, miners, an’ town folks, along with some strangers. I was about to get started up this way when Pat Hawe come in.

  “Pat, he’s the sheriff. I reckon, Miss Majesty, thet sheriffs are new to you, an’ fer sake of the West I’ll explain to you thet we don’t hev many of the real thing any more. Garrett, who killed Billy the Kid an’ was killed himself near a year or so ago—he was the kind of sheriff thet helps to make a self-respectin’ country. But this Pat Hawe—wal, I reckon there’s no good in me sayin’ what I think of him. He come into the hall, an’ he was roarin’ about things. He was goin’ to arrest Danny Mains on sight. Wal, I jest polite-like told Pat thet the money was mine, an’ he needn’t get riled about it. An’ if I wanted to trail the thief I reckon I could do it as well as anybody. Pat howled thet law was law, an’ he was goin’ to lay down the law. Sure it ’peared to me thet Pat was daid set to arrest the first man he could find excuse to.

  “Then he cooled down a bit an’ was askin’ questions about the wounded Greaser when Gene Stewart come in. Whenever Pat an’ Gene come together it reminds me of the early days back in the seventies. Jest naturally everybody shut up. Fer Pat hates Gene, an’ I reckon Gene ain’t very sweet on Pat. They’re jest natural foes in the first place, an’ then the course of events here in El Cajon has been aggravatin’.

  ‘“Hullo, Stewart, you’re the feller I’m lookin’ fer,’ said Pat.

  “Stewart eyed him an’ said mighty cool an’ sarcastic: ‘Hawe, you look a good deal fer me when I’m hittin’ up the dust the other way.’

  “Pat went red at thet, but he held in. ‘Say, Stewart, you-all think a lot of thet roan horse of your’n, with the aristocratic name?’

  ‘“I reckon I do,’ replied Gene, shortly.

  “‘Wal, where is he?’

  “‘Thet’s none of your business, Hawe.’

  “‘Oho! it ain’t, hey? Wal, I guess I can make it my business. Stewart, there was some queer going’s-on last night thet you know somethin’ about. Danny Mains robbed—Stillwell’s money gone—your roan horse gone—thet little hussy Bonita gone—an’ this Greaser near gone, too. Now, seein’ thet you was up late an’ prowlin’ round the station where this Greaser was found, it ain’t onreasonable to think you might know how he got plugged—is it?’

  “Stewart laughed kind of cold, an’ he rolled a cigarette, all the time eyin’ Pat, an’ then he said if he’d plugged the Greaser it’d never hev been sich a bunglin’ job.

  “‘I can arrest you on suspicion, Stewart, but before I go thet far I want some evidence. I want to round up Danny Mains an’ thet little Greaser girl. I want to find out what’s become of your hoss. You’ve never lent him since you hed him, an’ there ain’t enough raiders across the border to steal him from you. It’s got a queer look—thet hoss bein’ gone.’

  “‘You sure are a swell detective, Hawe, an’ I wish you a heap of luck,’ replied Stewart.

  “Thet ’peared to nettle Pat beyond bounds, an’ he stamped around an’ swore. Then he had an idea. It jest stuck out all over him, an’ he shook his finger in Stewart’s face.

  “‘You was drunk last night?’

  “Stewart never batted an eye.

  “‘You met some woman on Number Eight, didn’t you?’ shouted Hawe.

  “‘I met a lady,’ replied Stewart, quiet an’ menacin’ like.

  “‘You met Al Hammond’s sister, an’ you took her up to Kingsley’s. An’ cinch this, my cowboy cavalier, I’m goin’ up there an’ ask this grand dame some questions, an’ if she’s as close-mouthed as you are I’ll arrest her!’

  “Gene Stewart turned white. I fer one expected to see him jump like lightnin’, as he does when he’s riled sudden. But he was calm an’ he was thinkin’ hard. Presently he said:

  ‘“Pat, thet’s a fool idee, an’ if you do the trick it’ll hurt you all the rest of your life. There’s absolutely no reason to frighten Miss Hammond. An’ tryin’ to arrest her would be such a damned outrage as won’t be stood fer in El Cajon. If you’re sore on me send me to jail. I’ll go. If you want to hurt Al Hammond, go an’ do it some man kind of way. Don’t take your spite out on us by insultin’ a lady who has come hyar to hev a little visit. We’re bad enough without bein’ low-down as Greasers.’

  “It was a long talk for Gene, an’ I was as surprised as the rest of the fellers. Think of Gene Stewart talkin’ soft an’ sweet to thet red-eyed coyote of a sheriff! An’ Pat, he looked so devilishly gleeful thet if somethin’ about Gene hedn’t held me tight I’d hev got in the game myself. It was plain to me an’ others who spoke of it afterwards thet Pat Hawe hed forgotten the law an’ the officer in the man an’ his hate.

  “‘I’m a-goin’, an’ I’m a-goin’ right now,’ he shouted.

  “An after thet any one could hev heerd a clock tick a mile off. Stewart seemed kind of chokin’, an’ he seemed to hev been bewildered by the idee of Hawe’s confrontin’ you.

  “An’ finally he burst out: ‘But, man, think who it is! It’s Miss Hammond! If you seen her, even if you was locoed or drunk, you—you couldn’t do it.’

  “‘Couldn’t I? Wal, I’ll show you damn quick. What do I care who she is? Them swell Eastern women—I’ve heerd of them. They’re not so much. This Hammond woman—’

  “Suddenly Hawe shut up, an’ with his red mug turnin’ green he went for his gun.”

  Stillwell paused in his narrative to get breath, and he wiped his moist brow. And now his face began to lose its cragginess. It changed, it softened, it rippled and wrinkled, and all that strange mobility focused and shone in a wonderful smile.

  “An’ then, Miss Majesty, then there was somethin’ happened. Stewart took Pat’s gun away from him and throwed it on the floor. An’ what followed was beautiful. Sure it was the beautifulest sight I ever seen. Only it was over so soon! A little while after, when the doctor came, he hed another patient besides the wounded Greaser, an’ he said thet this new one would require about four months to be up an’ around cheerful-like again. An’ Gene Stewart hed hit the trail for the border.”

  CHAPTER 4

  A RIDE FROM SUNRISE TO SUNSET

  Next morning, when Madeline was aroused by her brother, it was not yet daybreak; the air chilled her, and in the gray gloom she had to feel around for matches and lamp. Her usual languid manner vanished at a touch of the cold water. Presently, when Alfred knocked on her door and said he was leaving a pitcher of hot water outside, she replied, with chattering teeth: “Th-thank y-you, b-but I d-don’t ne-need any now.” She found it necessary, however, to warm her numb fingers before she could fasten hooks and buttons. And when she was dressed she marked in the dim mirror that there were tinges of red in her cheeks.

  “Well
, if I haven’t some color!” she exclaimed.

  Breakfast waited for her in the dining-room. The sisters ate with her. Madeline quickly caught the feeling of brisk action that seemed to be in the air. From the back of the house sounded the tramp of boots and voices of men, and from outside came a dull thump of hoofs, the rattle of harness, and creak of wheels. Then Alfred came stamping in.

  “Majesty, here’s where you get the real thing,” he announced, merrily. “We’re rushing you off, I’m sorry to say; but we must hustle back to the ranch. The fall round-up begins to-morrow. You will ride in the buck-board with Florence and Stillwell. I’ll ride on ahead with the boys and fix up a little for you at the ranch. Your baggage will follow, but won’t get there till to-morrow some time. It’s a long ride out—nearly fifty miles by wagon-road. Flo, don’t forget a couple of robes. Wrap her up well. And hustle getting ready. We’re waiting.”

  A little later, when Madeline went out with Florence, the gray gloom was lightening. Horses were champing bits and pounding gravel.

  “Mawnin’, Miss Majesty,” said Stillwell, gruffly, from the front seat of a high vehicle.

  Alfred bundled her up into the back seat, and Florence after her, and wrapped them with robes. Then he mounted his horse and started off. “Gid-eb!” growled Stillwell, and with a crack of his whip the team jumped into a trot. Florence whispered into Madeline’s ear:

  “Bill’s grouchy early in the mawnin’. He’ll thaw out soon as it gets warm.”

  It was still so gray that Madeline could not distinguish objects at any considerable distance, and she left El Cajon without knowing what the town really looked like. She did know that she was glad to get out if it, and found an easier task of dispelling persistent haunting memory.

  “Here come the cowboys,” said Florence.

  A line of horsemen appeared coming from the right and fell in behind Alfred, and gradually they drew ahead, to disappear from sight. While Madeline watched them the gray gloom lightened into dawn. All about her was bare and dark; the horizon seemed close; not a hill nor a tree broke the monotony. The ground appeared to be flat, but the road went up and down over little ridges. Madeline glanced backward in the direction of El Cajon and the mountains she had seen the day before, and she saw only bare and dark ground, like that which rolled before.

  A puff of cold wind struck her face and she shivered. Florence noticed her and pulled up the second robe and tucked it closely round her up to her chin.

  “If we have a little wind you’ll sure feel it,” said the Western girl.

  Madeline replied that she already felt it. The wind appeared to penetrate the robes. It was cold, pure, nipping. It was so thin she had to breathe as fast as if she were under ordinary exertion. It hurt her nose and made her lungs ache.

  “Aren’t you co-cold?” asked Madeline.

  “I?” Florence laughed. “I’m used to it. I never get cold.”

  The Western girl sat with ungloved hands on the outside of the robe she evidently did not need to draw up around her. Madeline thought she had never seen such a clear-eyed, healthy, splendid girl.

  “Do you like to see the sun rise?” asked Florence.

  “Yes, I think I do,” replied Madeline, thoughtfully. “Frankly, I have not seen it for years.”

  “We have beautiful sunrises, and sunsets from the ranch are glorious.”

  Long lines of pink fire ran level with the eastern horizon, which appeared to recede as day brightened. A bank of thin, fleecy clouds was turning rose. To the south and west the sky was dark; but every moment it changed, the blue turning bluer. The eastern sky was opalescent. Then in one place gathered a golden light, and slowly concentrated till it was like fire. The rosy bank of cloud turned to silver and pearl, and behind it shot up a great circle of gold. Above the dark horizon gleamed an intensely bright disk. It was the sun. It rose swiftly, blazing out the darkness between the ridges and giving color and distance to the sweep of land.

  “Wal, wal,” drawled Stillwell, and stretched his huge arms as if he had just awakened, “thet’s somethin’ like.”

  Florence nudged Madeline and winked at her.

  “Fine mawnin’, girls,” went on old Bill, cracking his whip. “Miss Majesty, it’ll be some oninterestin’ ride all mawnin’. But when we get up a bit you’ll sure like it. There! Look to the southwest, jest over thet farthest ridge.”

  Madeline swept her gaze along the gray, sloping horizon line to where dark-blue spires rose far beyond the ridge.

  “Peloncillo Mountains,” said Stillwell. “Thet’s home, when we get there. We won’t see no more of them till afternoon, when they rise up sudden-like.”

  Peloncillo! Madeline murmured the melodious name. Where had she heard it? Then she remembered. The cowboy Stewart had told the little Mexican girl Bonita to “hit the Peloncillo trail.” Probably the girl had ridden the big, dark horse over this very road at night, alone. Madeline had a little shiver that was not occasioned by the cold wind.

  “There’s a jack!” cried Florence, suddenly.

  Madeline saw her first jack-rabbit. It was as large as a dog, and its ears were enormous. It appeared to be impudently tame, and the horses kicked dust over it as they trotted by. From then on old Bill and Florence vied with each other in calling Madeline’s attention to many things along the way. Coyotes stealing away into the brush; buzzards flapping over the carcass of a cow that had been mired in a wash; queer little lizards running swiftly across the road; cattle grazing in the hollows; adobe huts of Mexican herders; wild, shaggy horses, with heads high, watching from the gray ridges—all these things Madeline looked at, indifferently at first, because indifference had become habitual with her, and then with an interest that flourished up and insensibly grew as she rode on. It grew until sight of a little ragged Mexican boy astride the most diminutive burro she had ever seen awakened her to the truth. She became conscious of faint, unmistakable awakening of long-dead feelings—enthusiasm and delight. When she realized that, she breathed deep of the cold, sharp air and experienced an inward joy. And she divined then, though she did not know why, that henceforth there was to be something new in her life, something she had never felt before, something good for her soul in the homely, the commonplace, the natural, and the wild.

  Meanwhile, as Madeline gazed about her and listened to her companions, the sun rose higher and grew warm and soared and grew hot; the horses held tirelessly to their steady trot, and mile after mile of rolling land slipped by.

  From the top of a ridge Madeline saw down into a hollow where a few of the cowboys had stopped and were sitting round a fire, evidently busy at the noonday meal. Their horses were feeding on the long, gray grass.

  “Wal, smell of thet burnin’ greasewood makes my mouth water,” said Stillwell. “I’m sure hungry. We’ll noon hyar an’ let the hosses rest. It’s a long pull to the ranch.”

  He halted near the camp-fire, and, clambering down, began to unharness the team. Florence leaped out and turned to help Madeline.

  “Walk round a little,” she said. “You must be cramped from sitting still so long. I’ll get lunch ready.”

  Madeline got down, glad to stretch her limbs, and began to stroll about. She heard Stillwell throw the harness on the ground and slap his horses. “Roll, you sons of guns!” he said. Both horses bent their fore legs, heaved down on their sides, and tried to roll over. One horse succeeded on the fourth try, and then heaved up with a satisfied snort and shook off the dust and gravel. The other one failed to roll over, and gave it up, half rose to his feet, and then lay down on the other side.

  “He’s sure going to feel the ground,” said Florence, smiling at Madeline. “Miss Hammond, I suppose that prize horse of yours—White Stockings—would spoil his coat if he were heah to roll in this greasewood and cactus.”

  During lunch-time Madeline observed that she was an object of manifestly great interest to the three cowboys. She returned the compliment, and was amused to see that a glance their way caused them painful
embarrassment.

  They were grown men—one of whom had white hair—yet they acted like boys caught in the act of stealing a forbidden look at a pretty girl.

  “Cowboys are sure all flirts,” said Florence, as if stating an uninteresting fact. But Madeline detected a merry twinkle in her clear eyes. The cowboys heard, and the effect upon them was magical. They fell to shamed confusion and to hurried useless tasks. Madeline found it difficult to see where they had been bold, though evidently they were stricken with conscious guilt. She recalled appraising looks of critical English eyes, impudent French stares, burning Spanish glances—gantlets which any American girl had to run abroad. Compared to foreign eyes the eyes of these cowboys were those of smiling eager babies.

  “Haw, haw!” roared Stillwell. “Florence, you jest hit the nail on the haid. Cowboys are all plumb flirts. I was wonderin’ why them boys nooned hyar. This aint no place to noon. Ain’t no grazin’ or wood wuth burnin or nuthin’. Them boys jest held up, throwed the packs an’ waited fer us. It ain’t so surprisin’ fer Booly an’ Ned—they’re young an’ coltish—but Nels there, why, he’s old enough to be the paw of both you girls. It sure is amazin strange.”

  A silence ensued. The white-haired cowboy, Nels, fussed aimlessly over the camp-fire, and then straightened up with a very red face.

  “Bill, you’re a dog-gone liar,” he said. “I reckon I won’t stand to be classed with Booly an’ Ned. Then ain’t no cowboy on this range thet’s more appreciatin’ of the ladies than me, but I shore ain’t ridin’ out of my way. I reckon I hev enough ridin’ to do. Now, Bill, if you’ve sich dog-gone good eyes mebbe you seen somethin’ on the way out?”

  “Nels, I hevn’t seen nothin’,” he replied, bluntly. His levity disappeared, and the red wrinkles narrowed round his searching eyes.

  “Jest take a squint at these hoss-tracks,” said Nels, and he drew Stillwell a few paces aside and pointed to large hoof-prints in the dust. “I reckon you know the hoss thet made them?”