Desert Gold and the Light of Western Stars

by Zane Grey

  Nels was not so large a man as Nick, and did not look so formidable as he waved his club at the gaping cowboys. Still he was lithe, tough, strong. Briskly, with a debonair manner, he stepped up and then delivered a mighty swing at the ball. He missed. The power and momentum of his swing flung him off his feet, and he actually turned upside down and spun round on his head. The cowboys howled. Stillwell’s stentorian laugh rolled across the mesa. Madeline and her guests found it impossible to restrain their mirth. And when Nels got up he cast a reproachful glance at Madeline. His feelings were hurt.

  His second attempt, not by any means so violent, resulted in as clean a miss as the first, and brought jeers from the cowboys. Nels’s red face flamed redder. Angrily he swung again. The mound of sand spread over the teeing-ground and the exasperating little ball rolled a few inches. This time he had to build up the sand mound and replace the ball himself. Stillwell stood scornfully by, and the boys addressed remarks to Nels.

  “Take off them blinders,” said one.

  “Nels, your eyes are shore bad,” said another.

  “You don’t hit where you look.”

  “Nels, your left eye has sprung a limp.”

  “Why, you dog-goned old fule, you cain’t hit thet bawl.”

  Nels essayed again, only to meet ignominious failure. Then carefully he gathered himself together, gauged distance, balanced the club, swung cautiously. And the head of the club made a beautiful curve round the ball.

  “Shore it’s jest thet crooked club,” he declared.

  He changed clubs and made another signal failure. Rage suddenly possessing him, he began to swing wildly. Always, it appeared, the illusive little ball was not where he aimed. Stillwell hunched his huge bulk, leaned hands on knees, and roared his riotous mirth. The cowboys leaped up and down in glee.

  “You cain’t hit thet bawl,” sang out one of the noisiest. A few more whirling, desperate lunges on the part of Nels, all as futile as if the ball had been thin air, finally brought to the dogged cowboy a realization that golf was beyond him.

  Stillwell bawled: “Oh, haw, haw, haw! Nels, you’re—too old—eyes no good!”

  Nels slammed down the club, and when he straightened up with the red leaving his face, then the real pride and fire of the man showed. Deliberately he stepped off ten paces and turned toward the little mound upon which rested the ball. His arm shot down, elbow crooked, hand like a claw.

  “Aw, Nels, this is fun!” yelled Stillwell.

  But swift as a gleam of light Nels flashed his gun, and the report came with the action. Chips flew from the golf-ball as it tumbled from the mound. Nels had hit it without raising the dust. Then he dropped the gun back in its sheath and faced the cowboys.

  “Mebbe my eyes ain’t so orful bad,” he said, coolly, and started to walk off.

  “But look a-heah, Nels,” yelled Stillwell, “we come out to play gol-lof! We can’t let you knock the ball around with your gun. What’d you want to get mad for? It’s only fun. Now you an’ Nick hang round heah an’ be sociable. We ain’t depreciatin’ your company none, nor your usefulness on occasions. An’ if you just hain’t got inborn politeness sufficient to do the gallant before the ladies, why, remember Stewart’s orders.”

  “Stewart’s orders?” queried Nels, coming to a sudden halt.

  “That’s what I said,” replied Stillwell, with asperity. “His orders. Are you forgettin’ orders? Wal, you’re a fine cowboy. You an’ Nick an’ Monty, ’specially, are to obey orders.”

  Nels took off his sombrero and scratched his head. “Bill, I reckon I’m some forgetful. But I was mad. I’d’a remembered pretty soon, an’ mebbe my manners.”

  “Sure you would,” replied Stillwell. “Wal, now, we don’t seem to be proceedin’ much with my gol-lof team. Next ambitious player step up.”

  In Ambrose, who showed some skill in driving, Stillwell found one of his team. The succeeding players, however, were so poor and so evenly matched that the earnest Stillwell was in despair. He lost his temper just as speedily as Nels had. Finally Ed Linton’s wife appeared riding up with Ambrose’s wife, and perhaps this helped, for Ed suddenly disclosed ability that made Stillwell single him out.

  “Let me coach you a little,” said Bill.

  “Sure, if you like,” replied Ed. “But I know more about this game than you do.”

  “Wal, then, let’s see you hit a ball straight. Seems to me you got good all-fired quick. It’s amazin’ strange.” Here Bill looked around to discover the two young wives modestly casting eyes of admiration upon their husbands. “Haw, haw! It ain’t so darned strange. Mebbe that’ll help some. Now, Ed, stand up and don’t sling your club as if you was ropin’ a steer. Come round easylike an’ hit straight.”

  Ed made several attempts which, although better than those of his predecessors, were rather discouraging to the exacting coach. Presently, after a particularly atrocious shot, Stillwell strode in distress here and there, and finally stopped a dozen paces or more in front of the teeing-ground. Ed, who for a cowboy was somewhat phlegmatic, calmly made ready for another attempt.

  “Fore!” he called.

  Stillwell stared.

  “Fore!” yelled Ed.

  “Why’re you hollerin’ that way at me?” demanded Bill.

  “I mean for you to lope off the horizon. Get back from in front.”

  “Oh, that was one of them durned crazy words Monty is always hollerin’. Wal. I reckon I’m safe enough hyar. You couldn’t hit me in a million years.”

  “Bill, ooze away,” urged Ed.

  “Didn’t I say you couldn’t hit me? What am I coach-in’ you for? It’s because you hit crooked, ain’t it? Wal, go ahaid an’ break your back.”

  Ed Linton was a short, heavy man, and his stocky build gave evidence of considerable strength. His former strokes had not been made at the expense of exertion, but now he got ready for a supreme effort. A sudden silence clamped down upon the exuberant cowboys. It was one of those fateful moments when the air was charged with disaster. As Ed swung the club it fairly whistled.

  Crack! Instantly came a thump. But no one saw the ball until it dropped from Stillwell’s shrinking body. His big hands went spasmodically to the place that hurt, and a terrible groan rumbled from him.

  Then the cowboys broke into a frenzy of mirth that seemed to find adequate expression only in dancing and rolling accompaniment to their howls. Stillwell recovered his dignity as soon as he caught his breath, and he advanced with a rueful face.

  “Wal, boys, it’s on Bill,” he said. “I’m a livin’ proof of the pig-headedness of mankind. Ed, you win. You’re captain of the team. You hit straight, an’ if I hadn’t been obstructin’ the general atmosphere that ball would sure have gone clear to the Chiricahuas.”

  Then making a megaphone of his huge hands, he yelled a loud blast of defiance at Monty and Link.

  “Hey, you swell gol-lofers! We’re waitin’. Come on if you ain’t scared.”

  Instantly Monty and Link quit practising, and like two emperors came stalking across the links.

  “Guess my bluff didn’t work much,” said Stillwell. Then he turned to Madeline and her friends. “Sure I hope, Miss Majesty, that you-all won’t weaken an’ go over to the enemy. Monty is some eloquent, an’, besides, he has a way of gettin’ people to agree with him. He’ll be plumb wild when he heahs what he an’ Link are up against. But it’s a square deal, because he wouldn’t help us or lend the book that shows how to play. An’, besides, it’s policy for us to beat him. Now, if you’ll elect who’s to be caddies an’ umpire I’ll be powerful obliged.”

  Madeline’s friends were hugely amused over the prospective match; but, except for Dorothy and Castleton, they disclaimed any ambition for active participation. Accordingly, Madeline appointed Castleton to judge the play, Dorothy to act as caddie for Ed Linton, and she herself to be caddie for Ambrose. While Stillwell beamingly announced this momentous news to his team and supporters Monty and Link were striding up.


  Both were diminutive in size, bow-legged, lame in one foot, and altogether unprepossessing. Link was young, and Monty’s years, more than twice Link’s, had left their mark. But it would have been impossible to tell Monty’s age. As Stillwell said, Monty was burned to the color and hardness of a cinder. He never minded the heat, and always wore heavy sheepskin chaps with the wool outside. This made him look broader than he was long. Link, partial to leather, had, since he became Madeline’s chauffeur, taken to leather altogether. He carried no weapon, but Monty wore a huge gun-sheath and gun. Link smoked a cigarette and looked coolly impudent. Monty was dark-faced, swaggering, for all the world like a barbarian chief.

  “That Monty makes my flesh creep,” said Helen, low-voiced. “Really, Mr. Stillwell, is he so bad—desperate—as I’ve heard? Did he ever kill anybody?”

  “Sure. Most as many as Nels,” replied Stillwell, cheerfully.

  “Oh! And is that nice Mr. Nels a desperado, too? I wouldn’t have thought so. He’s so kind and old-fashioned and soft-voiced.”

  “Nels is sure an example of the dooplicity of men, Miss Helen. Don’t you listen to his soft voice. He’s really as bad as a side-winder rattlesnake.”

  At this juncture Monty and Link reached the teeing-ground, and Stillwell went out to meet them. The other cowboys pressed forward to surround the trio. Madeline heard Stillwell’s voice, and, evidently, he was explaining that his team was to have skilled advice during the play. Suddenly there came from the center of the group a loud, angry roar that broke off as suddenly. Then followed excited voices all mingled together. Presently Monty appeared, breaking away from restraining hands, and he strode toward Madeline.

  Monty Price was a type of cowboy who had never been known to speak to a woman unless he was first addressed, and then he answered in blunt, awkward shyness. Upon this great occasion, however, it appeared that he meant to protest or plead with Madeline, for he showed stress of emotion. Madeline had never gotten acquainted with Monty. She was a little in awe, if not in fear of him, and now she found it imperative for her to keep in mind that more than any other of the wild fellows on her ranch this one should be dealt with as if he were a big boy.

  Monty removed his sombrero—something he had never done before—and the single instant when it was off was long enough to show his head entirely bald. This was one of the hall-marks of that terrible Montana prairie fire through which he had fought to save the life of a child. Madeline did not forget it, and all at once she wanted to take Monty’s side. Remembering Stillwell’s wisdom, however, she forbore yielding to sentiment, and called upon her wits.

  “Miss—Miss Hammond,” began Monty, stammering, “I’m extendin’ admirin’ greetin’s to you an’ your friends. Link an’ me are right down proud to play the match game with you watchin’. But Bill says you’re goin’ to caddy for his team an’ coach ’em on the fine points. An’ I want to ask, all repectful, if thet’s fair an’ square?”

  “Monty, that is for you to say,” replied Madeline. “It was my suggestion. But if you object in the least, of course, we shall withdraw. It seems fair to me, because you have learned the game; you are expert, and I understand the other boys have no chance with you. Then you have coached Link. I think it would be sportsman-like of you to accept the handicap.”

  “Aw, a handicap! Thet was what Bill was drivin’ at. Why didn’t he say so? Every time Bill comes to a word thet’s pie to us old golfers he jest stumbles. Miss Majesty, you’ve made it all clear as print. An’ I may say with becomin’ modesty thet you wasn’t mistaken none about me bein’ sportsmanlike. Me an’ Link was born thet way. An’ we accept the handicap. Lackin’ thet handicap, I reckon Link an’ me would have no ambish to play our most be-ootiful game. An’ thankin’ you, Miss Majesty, an’ all your friends, I want to add thet if Bill’s outfit couldn’t beat us before, they’ve got a swell chanct now, with you ladies a-watchin’ me an’ Link.”

  Monty had seemed to expand with pride as he delivered this speech, and at the end he bowed low and turned away. He joined the group round Stillwell. Once more there was animated discussion and argument and expostulation. One of the cowboys came for Castleton and led him away to exploit upon ground rules.

  It seemed to Madeline that the game never would begin. She strolled on the rim of the mesa, arm in arm with Edith Wayne, and while Edith talked she looked out over the gray valley leading to the rugged black mountains and the vast red wastes. In the foreground on the gray slope she saw cattle in movement and cowboys riding to and fro. She thought of Stewart. Then Boyd Harvey came for them, saying all details had been arranged. Stillwell met them half-way, and this cool, dry, old cattleman, whose face and manner scarcely changed at the announcement of a cattle-raid, now showed extreme agitation.

  “Wal, Miss Majesty, we’ve gone an’ made a foozle right at the start,” he said, dejectedly.

  “A foozle? But the game has not yet begun,” replied Madeline.

  “A bad start, I mean. It’s amazin’ bad, an’ we’re licked already.”

  “What in the world is wrong?”

  She wanted to laugh, but Stillwell’s distress restrained her.

  “Wal, it’s this way. That darn Monty is as cute an’ slick as a fox. After he got done declaimin’ about the handicap he an’ Link was so happy to take, he got Castleton over hyar an’ drove us all dotty with his crazy gol-lof names. Then he borrowed Castleton’s gol-lof coat. I reckon borrowed is some kind word. He just about took that blazin’ coat off the Englishman. Though I ain’t sayin’ but that Castleton was agreeable when he tumbled to Monty’s meanin’. Which was nothin’ more’n to break Ambrose’s heart. That coat dazzles Ambrose. You know how vain Ambrose is. Why, he’d die to get to wear that Englishman’s gol-lof coat. An’ Monty forestalled him. It’s plumb pitiful to see the look in Ambrose’s eyes. He won’t be able to play much. Then what do you think? Monty fixed Ed Linton, all right. Usually Ed is easy-goin’ an’ cool. But now he’s on the rampage. Wal, mebbe it’s news to you to learn that Ed’s wife is powerful, turrible jealous of him. Ed was somethin’ of a devil with the wimmen. Monty goes over an’ tells Beulah—that’s Ed’s wife—that Ed is goin’ to have for caddie the lovely Miss Dorothy with the goo-goo eyes. I reckon this was some disrespectful, but with all doo respect to Miss Dorothy, she has got a pair of unbridled eyes. Mebbe it’s just natural for her to look at a feller like that. Oh, it’s all right; I’m not sayin’ anythin’! I know it’s all proper an’ regular for girls back East to use their eyes. But out hyar it’s bound to result disastrous. All the boys talk about among themselves is Miss Dot’s eyes, an’ all they brag about is which feller is the luckiest. Anyway, sure Ed’s wife knows it. An’ Monty up an’ told her that it was fine for her to come out an’ see how swell Ed was prancin’ round under the light of Miss Dot’s brown eyes. Beulah calls over Ed, figgertively speakin’, ropes him for a minnit. Ed comes back huggin’ a grouch as big as a hill. Oh, it was funny! He was goin’ to punch Monty’s haid off. An’ Monty stands there an’ laughs. Says Monty, sarcastic as alkali water: ‘Ed, we-all knowed you was a heap married man, but you’re some locoed to give yourself away.’ That settled Ed. He’s some touchy about the way Beulah hen-pecks him. He lost his spirit. An’ now he couldn’t play marbles, let alone gol-lof. Nope, Monty was too smart. An’ I reckon he was right about brains bein’ what wins.”

  The game began. At first Madeline and Dorothy essayed to direct the endeavors of their respective players. But all they said and did only made their team play the worse. At the third hole they were far behind and hopelessly bewildered. What with Monty’s borrowed coat, with its dazzling effect upon Ambrose, and Link’s oft-repeated allusion to Ed’s matrimonial state, and Stillwell’s vociferated disgust, and the clamoring good intention and pursuit of the cowboy supporters, and the embarrassing presence of the ladies, Ambrose and Ed wore through all manner of strange play until it became ridiculous.

  “Hey, Link,” came Monty’s voice booming over the links, “our esteeme
d rivals are playin’ shinny.”

  Madeline and Dorothy gave up, presently, when the game became a rout; and they sat down with their followers to watch the fun. Whether by hook or crook, Ed and Ambrose forged ahead to come close upon Monty and Link. Castleton disappeared in a mass of gesticulating, shouting cowboys. When that compact mass disintegrated Castleton came forth rather hurriedly, it appeared, to stalk back toward his hostess and friends.

  “Look!” exclaimed Helen, in delight. “Castleton is actually excited. Whatever did they do to him? Oh, this is immense!”

  Castleton was excited, indeed, and also somewhat disheveled.

  “By Jove, that was a rum go,” he said, as he came up.

  “Never saw such blooming golf! I resigned my office as umpire.”

  Only upon considerable pressure did he reveal the reason.

  “It was like this, don’t you know. They were all together over there watching each other. Monty Price’s ball dropped into a hazard, and he moved it to improve the lie. By Jove, they’ve all been doing that. But over there the game was waxing hot. Stillwell and his cowboys saw Monty move the ball, and there was a row. They appealed to me. I corrected the play, showed the rules. Monty agreed he was in the wrong. However, when it came to moving his ball back to its former lie in the hazard there was more blooming trouble. Monty placed the ball to suit him, and then he transfixed me with an evil eye.

  “‘Dook,’ he said. I wish the bloody cowboy would not call me that. ‘Dook, mebee this game ain’t as important as international politics or some other things relatin’, but there’s some health an’ peace dependin’ on it. Savvy? For some space our opponents have been dead to honor an’ sportsmanlike conduct. I calculate the game depends on my next drive. I’m placin’ my ball as near to where it was as human eyesight could. You seen where it was same as I seen it. You’re the umpire, an’, Dook, I take you as a honorable man. Moreover, never in my born days has my word been doubted without sorrow. So I’m askin’ you, wasn’t my ball layin’ just about here?’