Desert Gold and the Light of Western Stars

by Zane Grey

  “I guess it’s all right,” he said, rather dubiously. “You really must not go over toward Don Carlos’s. It’s only a few miles home.”

  “Sure it’s all right. We can ride, can’t we?” retorted Florence. “Better have a care for yourself, going off over there to mix in goodness knows what.”

  Alfred said good-by, spurred his horse, and rode away.

  “If Bill didn’t forget to telephone!” exclaimed Florence. “I declare he and Al were sure rattled.”

  Florence dismounted and went into the house. She left the door open. Madeline had some difficulty in holding Majesty. It struck Madeline that Florence stayed rather long indoors. Presently she came out with sober face and rather tight lips.

  “I couldn’t get anybody on the ’phone. No answer. I tried a dozen times.”

  “Why, Florence!” Madeline was more concerned by the girl’s looks than by the information she imparted.

  “The wire’s been cut,” said Florence. Her gray glance swept swiftly after Alfred, who was now far out of earshot. “I don’t like this a little bit. Heah’s where I’ve got to ‘figger,’ as Bill says.”

  She pondered a moment, then hurried into the house, to return presently with the field-glass that Alfred had used. With this she took a survey of the valley, particularly in the direction of Madeline’s ranch-house. This was hidden by low, rolling ridges which were quite close by.

  “Anyway, nobody in that direction can see us leave heah,” she mused. “There’s mesquite on the ridges. We’ve got cover long enough to save us till we can see what’s ahead.”

  “Florence, what—what do you expect?” asked Madeline, nervously.

  “I don’t know. There’s never any telling about Greasers. I wish Bill and Al hadn’t left us. Still, come to think of that, they couldn’t help us much in case of a chase. We’d run right away from them. Besides, they’d shoot. I guess I’m as well satisfied that we’ve got the job of getting home on our own hands. We don’t dare follow Al toward Don Carlos’s ranch. We know there’s trouble over there. So all that’s left is to hit the trail for home. Come, let’s ride. You stick like a Spanish needle to me.”

  A heavy growth of mesquite covered the top of the first ridge, and the trail went through it. Florence took the lead, proceeding cautiously, and as soon as she could see over the summit she used the field-glass. Then she went on. Madeline, following closely, saw down the slope of the ridge to a bare, wide, grassy hollow, and onward to more rolling land, thick with cactus and mesquite. Florence appeared cautious, deliberate, yet she lost no time. She was ominously silent. Madeline’s misgivings took definite shape in the fear of vaqueros in ambush.

  Upon the ascent of the third ridge, which Madeline remembered was the last uneven ground between the point she had reached and home, Florence exercised even more guarded care in advancing. Before she reached the top of this ridge she dismounted, looped her bridle round a dead snag, and, motioning Madeline to wait, she slipped ahead through the mesquite out of sight. Madeline waited, anxiously listening and watching. Certain it was that she could not see or hear anything alarming. The sun began to have a touch of heat; the morning breeze rustled the thin mesquite foliage; the deep magenta of a cactus flower caught her eye; a long-tailed, cruel-beaked, brown bird sailed so close to her she could have touched it with her whip. But she was only vaguely aware of these things. She was watching for Florence, listening for some sound fraught with untoward meaning. All of a sudden she saw Majesty’s ears were held straight up. Then Florence’s face, now strangely white, showed round the turn of the trail.

  “’S-s-s-sh!” whispered Florence, holding up a warning finger. She reached the black horse and petted him, evidently to still an uneasiness he manifested. “We’re in for it,” she went on. “A whole bunch of vaqueros hiding among the mesquite over the ridge! They’ve not seen or heard us yet. We’d better risk riding ahead, cut off the trail, and beat them to the ranch. Madeline, you’re white as death! Don’t faint now!”

  “I shall not faint. But you frighten me. Is there danger? What shall we do?”

  “There’s danger. Madeline, I wouldn’t deceive you,” went on Florence, in an earnest whisper. “Things have turned out just as Gene Stewart hinted. Oh, we should—Al should have listened to Gene! I believe—I’m afraid Gene knew!”

  “Knew what?” asked Madeline.

  “Never mind now. Listen. We daren’t take the back trail. We’ll go on. I’ve a scheme to fool that grinning Don Carlos. Get down, Madeline—hurry.”

  Madeline dismounted.

  “Give me your white sweater. Take it off— And that white hat! Hurry, Madeline.”

  “Florence, what on earth do you mean?” cried Madeline.

  “Not so loud,” whispered the other. Her gray eyes snapped. She had divested herself of sombrero and jacket, which she held out to Madeline. “Heah. Take these. Give me yours. Then get up on the black. I’ll ride Majesty. Rustle now, Madeline. This is no time to talk.”

  “But, dear, why—why do you want—? Ah! You’re going to make the vaqueros take you for me!”

  “You guessed it. Will you—”

  “I shall not allow you to do anything of the kind,” returned Madeline.

  It was then that Florence’s face, changing, took on the hard, stern sharpness so typical of a cowboy’s. Madeline had caught glimpses of that expression in Alfred’s face, and on Stewart’s when he was silent, and on Stillwell’s always. It was a look of iron and fire—unchangeable, unquenchable will. There was even much of violence in the swift action whereby Florence compelled Madeline to the change of apparel.

  “It’d been my idea, anyhow, if Stewart hadn’t told me to do it,” said Florence, her words as swift as her hands. “Don Carlos is after you—you, Miss Madeline Hammond! He wouldn’t ambush a trail for any one else. He’s not killing cowboys these days. He wants you for some reason. So Gene thought, and now I believe him. Well, we’ll know for sure in five minutes. You ride the black; I’ll ride Majesty. We’ll slip round through the brush, out of sight and sound, till we can break out into the open. Then we’ll split. You make straight for the ranch. I’ll cut loose for the valley where Gene said positively the cowboys were with the cattle. The vaqueros will take me for you. They all know those striking white things you wear. They’ll chase me. They’ll never get anywhere near me. And you’ll be on a fast horse. He can take you home ahead of any vaqueros. But you won’t be chased. I’m staking all on that. Trust me, Madeline. If it were only my calculation maybe I’d— It’s because I remember Stewart. That cowboy knows things. Come, this heah’s the safest and smartest way to fool Don Carlos.”

  Madeline felt herself more forced than persuaded into acquiescence. She mounted the black and took up the bridle. In another moment she was guiding her horse off the trail in the tracks of Majesty. Florence led off at right angles, threading a slow passage through the mesquite. She favored sandy patches and open aisles between the trees, and was careful not to break a branch. Often she stopped to listen. This detour of perhaps half a mile brought Madeline to where she could see open ground, the ranch-house only a few miles off, and the cattle dotting the valley. She had not lost her courage, but it was certain that these familiar sights somewhat lightened the pressure upon her breast. Excitement gripped her. The shrill whistle of a horse made both the black and Majesty jump. Florence quickened the gait down the slope. Soon Madeline saw the edge of the brush, the gray-bleached grass and level ground.

  Florence waited at the opening between the low trees. She gave Madeline a quick, bright glance.

  “All over but the ride! That’ll sure be easy. Bolt now and keep your nerve!”

  When Florence wheeled the fiery roan and screamed in his ear Madeline seemed suddenly to grow lax and helpless. The big horse leaped into thundering action. This was memorable of Bonita of the flying dark hair and the wild night ride. Florence’s hair streamed on the wind and shone gold in the sunlight. Yet Madeline saw her with the same thrill with which she
had seen the wild-riding Bonita. Then hoarse shouts unclamped Madeline’s power of movement, and she spurred the black into the open.

  He wanted to run, and he was swift. Madeline loosened the reins—laid them loose upon his neck. His action was strange to her. He was hard to ride. But he was fast, and she cared for nothing else. Madeline knew horses well enough to realize that the black had found he was free and carrying a light weight. A few times she took up the bridle and pulled to right or left, trying to guide him. He kept a straight course, however, and crashed through small patches of mesquite and jumped the cracks and washes. Uneven ground offered no perceptible obstacle to his running. To Madeline there was now a thrilling difference in the lash of wind and the flash of the gray ground underneath. She was running away from something; what that was she did not know. But she remembered Florence, and she wanted to look back, yet hated to do so for fear of the nameless danger Florence had mentioned.

  Madeline listened for the pounding of pursuing hoofs in her rear. Involuntarily she glanced back. On the mile or more of gray level between her and the ridge there was not a horse, a man, or anything living. She wheeled to look back on the other side, down the valley slope.

  The sight of Florence riding Majesty in zigzag flight before a whole troop of vaqueros blanched Madeline’s cheek and made her grip the pommel of her saddle in terror. That strange gait of her roan was not his wonderful stride. Could Majesty be running wild? Madeline saw one vaquero draw closer, whirling his lasso round his head, but he did not get near enough to throw. So it seemed to Madeline. Another vaquero swept across in front of the first one. Then, when Madeline gasped in breathless expectancy, the roan swerved to elude the attack. It flashed over Madeline that Florence was putting the horse to some such awkward flight as might have been expected of an Eastern girl frightened out of her wits. Madeline made sure of this when, after looking again, she saw that Florence, in spite of the horse’s breaking gait and the irregular course, was drawing slowly and surely down the valley.

  Madeline had not lost her head to the extent of forgetting her own mount and the nature of the ground in front. When, presently, she turned again to watch Florence, uncertainty ceased in her mind. The strange features of that race between girl and vaqueros were no longer in evidence. Majesty was in his beautiful, wonderful stride, low down along the ground, stretching, with his nose level and straight for the valley. Between him and the lean horses in pursuit lay an ever-increasing space. He was running away from the vaqueros. Florence was indeed “riding the wind,” as Stewart had aptly expressed his idea of flight upon the fleet roan.

  A dimness came over Madeline’s eyes, and it was not all owing to the sting of the wind. She rubbed it away, seeing Florence as a flying dot in a strange blur. What a daring, intrepid girl! This kind of strength—and aye, splendid thought for a weaker sister—was what the West inculcated in a woman.

  The next time Madeline looked back Florence was far ahead of her pursuers and going out of sight behind a low knoll. Assured of Florence’s safety, Madeline put her mind to her own ride and the possibilities awaiting at the ranch. She remembered the failure to get any of her servants or cowboys on the telephone. To be sure, a windstorm had once broken the wire. But she had little real hope of such being the case in this instance. She rode on, pulling the black as she neared the ranch. Her approach was from the south and off the usual trail, so that she went up the long slope of the knoll toward the back of the house. Under these circumstances she could not consider it out of the ordinary that she did not see any one about the grounds.

  It was perhaps fortunate for her, she thought, that the climb up the slope cut the black’s speed so she could manage him. He was not very hard to stop. The moment she dismounted, however, he jumped and trotted off. At the edge of the slope, facing the corrals, he halted to lift his head and shoot up his ears. Then he let out a piercing whistle and dashed down the lane.

  Madeline, prepared by that warning whistle, tried to fortify herself for a new and unexpected situation; but as she espied an unfamiliar company of horsemen rapidly riding down a hollow leading from the foothills she felt the return of fears gripping at her like cold hands, and she fled precipitously into the house.

  CHAPTER 11

  A BAND OF GUERRILLAS

  Madeline bolted the door, and, flying into the kitchen, she told the scared servants to shut themselves in. Then she ran to her own rooms. It was only a matter of a few moments for her to close and bar the heavy shutters, yet even as she was fastening the last one in the room she used as an office a clattering roar of hoofs seemed to swell up to the front of the house. She caught a glimpse of wild, shaggy horses and ragged, dusty men. She had never seen any vaqueros that resembled these horsemen. Vaqueros had grace and style; they were fond of lace and glitter and fringe; they dressed their horses in silvered trappings. But the riders now trampling into the driveway were uncouth, lean, savage. They were guerrillas, a band of the raiders who had been harassing the border since the beginning of the revolution. A second glimpse assured Madeline that they were not all Mexicans.

  The presence of outlaws in that band brought home to Madeline her real danger. She remembered what Stillwell had told her about recent outlaw raids along the Rio Grande. These flying bands, operating under the excitement of the revolution, appeared here and there, everywhere, in remote places, and were gone as quickly as they came. Mostly they wanted money and arms, but they would steal anything, and unprotected women had suffered at their hands.

  Madeline, hurriedly collecting her securities and the considerable money she had in her desk, ran out, closed and locked the door, crossed the patio to the opposite side of the house, and, entering again, went down a long corridor, trying to decide which of the many unused rooms would be best to hide in. And before she made up her mind she came to the last room. Just then a battering on door or window in the direction of the kitchen and shrill screams from the servant women increased Madeline’s alarm.

  She entered the last room. There was no lock or bar upon the door. But the room was large and dark, and it was half full of bales of alfalfa hay. Probably it was the safest place in the house; at least, time would be necessary to find any one hidden there. She dropped her valuables in a dark corner and covered them with loose hay. That done, she felt her way down a narrow aisle between the piled-up bales and presently crouched in a niche.

  With the necessity of action over for the immediate present, Madeline became conscious that she was quivering and almost breathless. Her skin felt tight and cold. There was a weight on her chest; her mouth was dry, and she had a strange tendency to swallow. Her listening faculty seemed most acute. Dull sounds came from parts of the house remote from her. In the intervals of silence between these sounds she heard the squeaking and rustling of mice in the hay. A mouse ran over her hand.

  She listened, waiting, hoping yet dreading to hear the clattering approach of her cowboys. There would be fighting—blood—men injured, perhaps killed. Even the thought of violence of any kind hurt her. But perhaps the guerrillas would run in time to avoid a clash with her men. She hoped for that, prayed for it. Through her mind flitted what she knew of Nels, of Monty, of Nick Steele; and she experienced a sensation that left her somewhat chilled and sick. Then she thought of the dark-browed, fire-eyed Stewart. She felt a thrill drive away the cold nausea. And her excitement augmented.

  Waiting, listening increased all her emotions. Nothing appeared to be happening. Yet hours seemed to pass while she crouched there. Had Florence been overtaken? Could any of those lean horses outrun Majesty? She doubted it; she knew it could not be true. Nevertheless, the strain of uncertainty was torturing.

  Suddenly the bang of the corridor door pierced her through and through with the dread of uncertainty. Some of the guerrillas had entered the east wing of the house. She heard a babel of jabbering voices, the shuffling of boots and clinking of spurs, the slamming of doors and ransacking of rooms.

  Madeline lost faith in her hiding-pla
ce. Moreover, she found it impossible to take the chance. The idea of being caught in that dark room by those ruffians filled her with horror. She must get out into the light. Swiftly she rose and went to the window. It was rather more of a door than window, being a large aperture closed by two wooden doors on hinges. The iron hook yielded readily to her grasp, and one door stuck fast while the other opened a few inches. She looked out upon a green slope covered with flowers and bunches of sage and bushes. Neither man nor horse showed in the narrow field of her vision. She believed she would be safer hidden out there in the shrubbery than in the house. The jump from the window would be easy for her. And with her quick decision came a rush and stir of spirit that warded off her weakness.

  She pulled at the door. It did not budge. It had caught at the bottom. Pulling with all her might proved to be in vain. Pausing, with palms hot and bruised, she heard a louder, closer approach of the invaders of her home. Fear, wrath, and impotence contested for supremacy over her and drove her to desperation. She was alone here, and she must rely on herself. And as she strained every muscle to move that obstinate door and heard the quick, harsh voices of men and the sounds of a hurried search she suddenly felt sure that they were hunting for her. She knew it. She did not wonder at it. But she wondered if she were really Madeline Hammond, and if it were possible that brutal men would harm her. Then the tramping of heavy feet on the floor of the adjoining room lent her the last strength of fear. Pushing with hands and shoulders, she moved the door far enough to permit the passage of her body. Then she stepped up on the sill and slipped through the aperture. She saw no one. Lightly she jumped down and ran in among the bushes. But these did not afford her the cover she needed. She stole from one clump to another, finding too late that she had chosen with poor judgment. The position of the bushes had drawn her closer to the front of the house rather than away from it, and just before her were horses, and beyond a group of excited men. With her heart in her throat Madeline crouched down.