Desert Gold and the Light of Western Stars

by Zane Grey

  CHAPTER 6

  A GIFT AND A PURCHASE

  For a week the scene of the round-up lay within riding distance of the ranch-house; and Madeline passed most of this time in the saddle, watching the strenuous labors of the vaqueros and cowboys. She overestimated her strength, and more than once had to be lifted from her horse. Stillwell’s pleasure in her attendance gave place to concern. He tried to persuade her to stay away from the round-up, and Florence grew even more solicitous. Madeline, however, was not moved by their entreaties. She grasped only dimly the truth of what it was she was learning—something infinitely more than the rounding up of cattle by cowboys, and she was loath to lose an hour of her opportunity.

  Her brother looked out for her as much as his duties permitted; but for several days he never once mentioned her growing fatigue and the strain of excitement, or suggested that she had better go back to the house with Florence. Many times she felt the drawing power of his keen, blue eyes on her face. And at these moments she sensed more than brotherly regard. He was watching her, studying her, weighing her, and the conviction was vaguely disturbing. It was disquieting for Madeline to think that Alfred might have guessed her trouble. From time to time he brought cowboys to her and introduced them, and laughed and jested, trying to make the ordeal less embarrassing for these men so little used to women.

  Before the week was out, however, Alfred found occasion to tell her that it would be wiser for her to let the round-up go on without gracing it further with her presence. He said it laughingly; nevertheless, he was serious. And when Madeline turned to him in surprise, he said, bluntly:

  “I don’t like the way Don Carlos follows you around. Bill’s afraid that Nels or Ambrose or one of the cowboys will take a fall out of the Mexican. They’re itching for the chance. Of course, dear, it’s absurd to you, but it’s true.”

  Absurd it certainly was, yet it served to show Madeline how intensely occupied she had been with her own feelings, roused by the tumult and toil of the round-up. She recalled that Don Carlos had been presented to her, and that she had not liked his dark, striking face with its bold, prominent, glittering eyes and sinister lines; and she had not liked his suave, sweet, insinuating voice or his subtle manner, with its slow bows and gestures. She had thought he looked handsome and dashing on the magnificent black horse. However, now that Alfred’s words made her think, she recalled that wherever she had been in the field the noble horse, with his silver-mounted saddle and his dark rider, had been always in her vicinity.

  “Don Carlos has been after Florence for a long time,” said Alfred. “He’s not a young man by any means. He’s fifty, Bill says; but you can seldom tell a Mexican’s age from his looks. Don Carlos is well educated and a man we know very little about. Mexicans of his stamp don’t regard women as we white men do. Now, my dear, beautiful sister from New York, I haven’t much use for Don Carlos; but I don’t want Nels or Ambrose to make a wild throw with a rope and pull the Don off his horse. So you had better ride up to the house and stay there.”

  “Alfred, you are joking, teasing me,” said Madeline.

  “Indeed not,” replied Alfred. “How about it, Flo?”

  Florence replied that the cowboys would upon the slightest provocation treat Don Carlos with less ceremony and gentleness than a roped steer. Old Bill Stillwell came up to be importuned by Alfred regarding the conduct of cowboys on occasion, and he not only corroborated the assertion, but added emphasis and evidence of his own.

  “An’, Miss Majesty,” he concluded, “I reckon if Gene Stewart was ridin’ fer me, thet grinnin’ Greaser would hev hed a bump in the dust before now.”

  Madeline had been wavering between sobriety and laughter until Stillwell’s mention of his ideal of cowboy chivalry decided in favor of the laughter.

  “I am not convinced, but I surrender,” she said. “You have only some occult motive for driving me away. I am sure that handsome Don Carlos is being unjustly suspected. But as I have seen a little of cowboys’ singular imagination and gallantry, I am rather inclined to fear their possibilities. So, good-by.”

  Then she rode with Florence up the long, gray slope to the ranch-house. That night she suffered from excessive weariness, which she attributed more to the strange working of her mind than to riding and sitting her horse. Morning, however, found her in no disposition to rest. It was not activity that she craved, or excitement, or pleasure. An unerring instinct, rising clear from the thronging sensations of the last few days, told her that she had missed something in life. It could not have been love, for she loved brother, sister, parents, friends; it could not have been consideration for the poor, the unfortunate, the helpless; she had expressed her sympathy for these by giving freely; it could not have been pleasure, culture, travel, society, wealth, position, fame, for these had been hers all her life. Whatever this something was, she had baffling intimations of it, hopes that faded on the verge of realizations, haunting promises that were unfulfilled. Whatever it was, it had remained hidden and unknown at home, and here in the West it began to allure and drive her to discovery. Therefore she could not rest; she wanted to go and see; she was no longer chasing phantoms; it was a hunt for treasure that held aloof, as intangible as the substance of dreams.

  That morning she spoke a desire to visit the Mexican quarters lying at the base of the foothills. Florence protested that this was no place to take Madeline. But Madeline insisted, and it required only a few words and a persuading smile to win Florence over.

  From the porch the cluster of adobe houses added a picturesque touch of color and contrast to the waste of gray valley. Near at hand they proved the enchantment lent by distance. They were old, crumbling, broken down, squalid. A few goats climbed around upon them; a few mangy dogs barked announcement of visitors; and then a troop of half-naked, dirty, ragged children ran out. They were very shy, and at first retreated in affright. But kind words and smiles gained their confidence, and then they followed in a body, gathering a quota of new children at each house. Madeline at once conceived the idea of doing something to better the condition of these poor Mexicans, and with this in mind she decided to have a look indoors. She fancied she might have been an apparition, judging from the effect her presence had upon the first woman she encountered. While Florence exercised what little Spanish she had command of, trying to get the women to talk, Madeline looked about the miserable little rooms. And there grew upon her a feeling of sickness, which increased as she passed from one house to another. She had not believed such squalor could exist anywhere in America. The huts reeked with filth; vermin crawled over the dirt floors. There was absolutely no evidence of water, and she believed what Florence told her—that these people never bathed. There was little evidence of labor. Idle men and women smoking cigarettes lolled about, some silent, others jabbering. They did not resent the visit of the American women, nor did they show hospitality. They appeared stupid. Disease was rampant in these houses; when the doors were shut there was no ventilation, and even with the doors open Madeline felt choked and stifled. A powerful penetrating odor pervaded the rooms that were less stifling than others, and this odor Florence explained came from a liquor the Mexicans distilled from a cactus plant. Here drunkenness was manifest, a terrible inert drunkenness that made its victims death-like.

  Madeline could not extend her visit to the little mission house. She saw a padre, a starved, sad-faced man who, she instinctively felt, was good. She managed to mount her horse and ride up to the house; but, once there, she weakened, and Florence had almost to carry her indoors. She fought off a faintness, only to succumb to it when alone in her room. Still, she did not entirely lose consciousness, and soon recovered to the extent that she did not require assistance.

  Upon the morning after the end of the round-up, when she went out on the porch, her brother and Stillwell appeared to be arguing about the identity of a horse.

  “Wal, I reckon it’s my old roan,” said Stillwell, shading his eyes with his hand.

  “Bill,
if that isn’t Stewart’s horse my eyes are going back on me,” replied Al. “It’s not the color or shape—the distance is too far to judge by that. It’s the motion—the swing.”

  “Al, mebbe you’re right. But they ain’t no rider up on thet hoss. Flo, fetch my glass.”

  Florence went into the house, while Madeline tried to discover the object of attention. Presently far up the gray hollow along a foothill she saw dust, and then the dark, moving figure of a horse. She was watching when Florence returned with the glass. Bill took a long look, adjusted the glasses carefully, and tried again.

  “Wal, I hate to admit my eyes are gettin’ pore. But I guess I’ll hev to. Thet’s Gene Stewart’s hoss, saddled, an’ comin’ at a fast clip without a rider. It’s amazin’ strange, an’ some in keepin’ with other things concernin’ Gene.”

  “Give me the glass,” said Al. “Yes, I was right. Bill, the horse is not frightened. He’s coming steadily; he’s got something on his mind.”

  “Thet’s a trained hoss, Al. He has more sense than some men I know. Take a look with the glasses up the hollow. See anybody?”

  “No.”

  “Swing up over the foothills—where the trail leads. Higher—along thet ridge where the rocks begin. See anybody?”

  “By Jove! Bill—two horses! But I can’t make out much for dust. They are climbing fast. One horse gone among the rocks. There—the other’s gone. What do you make of that?”

  “Wal, I can’t make no more’n you. But I’ll bet we know somethin’ soon, fer Gene’s hoss is comin’ faster as he nears the ranch.”

  The wide, hollow sloping up into the foothills lay open to unobstructed view, and less than half a mile distant Madeline saw the riderless horse coming along the white trail at a rapid canter. She watched him, recalling the circumstances under which she had first seen him, and then his wild flight through the dimly lighted streets of El Cajon out into the black night. She thrilled again and believed she would never think of that starry night’s adventure without a thrill. She watched the horse and felt more than curiosity. A shrill, piercing whistle pealed in.

  “Wal, he’s seen us, thet’s sure,” said Bill.

  The horse neared the corrals, disappeared into a lane, and then, breaking his gait again, thundered into the in-closure and pounded to a halt some twenty yards from where Stillwell waited for him.

  One look at him at close range in the clear light of day was enough for Madeline to award him a blue ribbon over all horses, even her prize-winner, White Stockings. The cowboy’s great steed was no lithe, slender-bodied mustang. He was a charger, almost tremendous of build, with a black coat faintly mottled in gray, and it shone like polished glass in the sun. Evidently, he had been carefully dressed down for this occasion, for there was no dust on him, nor a kink in his beautiful mane, nor a mark on his glossy hide.

  “Come hyar, you son of a gun,” said Stillwell.

  The horse dropped his head, snorted, and came obediently up. He was neither shy nor wild. He poked a friendly nose at Stillwell, and then looked at Al and the women. Unhooking the stirrups from the pommel, Stillwell let them fall and began to search the saddle for something which he evidently expected to find. Presently from somewhere among the trappings he produced a folded bit of paper, and after scrutinizing it handed it to Al.

  “Addressed to you; an’ I’ll bet you two bits I know what’s in it,” he said.

  Alfred unfolded the letter, read it, and then looked at Stillwell.

  “Bill, you’re a pretty good guesser. Gene’s made for the border. He sent the horse by somebody, no names mentioned, and wants my sister to have him if she will accept.”

  “Any mention of Danny Mains?” asked the rancher.

  “Not a word.”

  “Thet’s bad. Gene ’d know about Danny if anybody did. But he’s a close-mouthed cuss. So he’s sure hittin’ for Mexico. Wonder if Danny’s goin’, too? Wal, there’s two of the best cowmen I ever seen gone to hell, an’ I’m sorry.”

  With that he bowed his head and, grumbling to himself, went into the house. Alfred lifted the reins over the head of the horse and, leading him to Madeline, slipped the knot over her arm and placed the letter in her hand.

  “Majesty, I’d accept the horse,” he said. “Stewart is only a cowboy now, and as tough as any I’ve known. But he comes of a good family. He was a college man and a gentleman once. He went to the bad out here, like so many fellows go, like I nearly did. Then he had told me about his sister and mother. He cared a good deal for them. I think he has been a source of unhappiness to them. It was mostly when he was reminded of this in some way that he’d get drunk. I have always stuck to him, and I would do so yet if I had the chance. You can see Bill is heartbroken about Danny Mains and Stewart. I think he rather hoped to get good news. There’s not much chance of them coming back now, at least not in the case of Stewart. This giving up his horse means he’s going to join the rebel forces across the border. What wouldn’t I give to see that cowboy break loose on a bunch of Greasers! Oh, damn the luck! I beg your pardon, Majesty. But I’m upset, too. I’m sorry about Stewart. I liked him pretty well before he thrashed that coyote of a sheriff, Pat Hawe, and afterward I guess I liked him more. You read the letter, sister, and accept the horse.”

  In silence Madeline bent her gaze from her brother’s face to the letter:

  FRIEND AL,—I’m sending my horse down to you because I’m going away and haven’t the nerve to take him where he’d get hurt or fall into strange hands.

  If you think it’s all right, why, give him to your sister with my respects. But if you don’t like the idea, Al, or if she won’t have him, then he’s for you. I’m not forgetting your kindness to me, even if I never showed it. And, Al, my horse has never felt a quirt or a spur, and I’d like to think you’d never hurt him.

  I’m hoping your sister will take him. She’ll be good to him, and she can afford to take care of him. And, while I’m waiting to be plugged by a Greaser bullet, if I happen to have a picture in mind of how she’ll look up on my horse, why, man, it’s not going to make any difference to you. She needn’t ever know it.

  Between you and me, Al, don’t let her or Flo ride alone over Don Carlos’s way. If I had time I could tell you something about that slick Greaser. And tell your sister, if there’s ever any reason for her to run away from anybody when she’s up on that roan, just let her lean over and yell in his ear. She’ll find herself riding the wind.

  So long,

  GENE STEWART.

  Madeline thoughtfully folded the letter and murmured: “How he must love his horse!”

  “Well, I should say so,” replied Alfred. “Flo will tell you. She’s the only person Gene ever let ride that horse, unless, as Bill thinks, the little Mexican girl Bonita rode him out of El Cajon the other night. Well, sister mine, how about it—will you accept the horse?”

  “Assuredly. And very happy indeed am I to get him. Al, you said, I think, that Mr. Stewart named him after me—saw my nickname in the New York paper?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I will not change his name. But, Al, how shall I ever climb up on him? He’s taller than I am. What a giant of a horse! Oh, look at him—he’s nosing my hand. I really believe he understood what I said. Al, did you ever see such a splendid head and such beautiful eyes? They are so large and dark and soft—and human. Oh, I am a fickle woman, for I am forgetting White Stockings.”

  “I’ll gamble he’ll make you forget any other horse,” said Alfred. “You’ll have to get on him from the porch.”

  As Madeline was not dressed for the saddle, she did not attempt to mount.

  “Come, Majesty—how strange that sounds!—we must get acquainted. You have now a new owner, a very severe young woman who will demand loyalty from you and obedience, and some day, after a decent period, she will expect love.”

  Madeline led the horse to and fro, and was delighted with his gentleness. She discovered that he did not need to be led. He came at her call, followed
her like a pet dog, rubbed his black muzzle against her. Sometimes, at the turns in their walk, he lifted his head and with ears forward looked up the trail by which he had come, and beyond the foothills. He was looking over the range. Some one was calling to him, perhaps, from beyond the mountains. Madeline liked him the better for that memory, and pitied the wayward cowboy who had parted with his only possession for very love of it.

  That afternoon when Alfred lifted Madeline to the back of the big roan she felt high in the air.

  “We’ll have a run out to the mesa,” said her brother, as he mounted. “Keep a tight rein on him, and ease up when you want him to go faster. But don’t yell in his ear unless you want Florence and me to see you disappear on the horizon.”