by Zane Grey
Through the open doors and windows of Madeline’s chamber burst the sounds of horses stamping to a halt, then harsh speech of men, and a low cry of a woman in pain.
Rapid steps crossed the porch, entered Madeline’s room. Nels appeared in the doorway. Madeline was surprised to see that he had not been at the dinner-table. She was disturbed at sight of his face.
“Stewart, you’re wanted outdoors,” called Nels, bluntly. “Monty, you slope out here with me. You, Nick, an’ Stillwell—I reckon the rest of you hed better shut the doors an’ stay inside.”
Nels disappeared. Quick as a cat Monty glided out. Madeline heard his soft, swift steps pass from her room into her office. He had left his guns there. Madeline trembled. She saw Stewart get up quietly and, without any change of expression on his dark, sad face, leave the patio. Nick Steele followed him. Stillwell dropped his wine-glass. As it broke, shivering the silence, his huge smile vanished. His face set into the old cragginess, and the red slowly thickened into black. Stillwell went out and closed the door behind him.
Then there was a blank silence. The enjoyment of the moment had been rudely disrupted. Madeline glanced down the lines of brown faces to see the pleasure fade into the old familiar hardness.
“What’s wrong?” asked Alfred, rather stupidly. The change of mood had been too rapid for him. Suddenly he awakened, thoroughly aroused at the interruption. “I’m going to see who’s butted in here to spoil our dinner,” he said, and strode out.
He returned before any one at the table had spoken or moved, and now the dull red of anger mottled his forehead.
“It’s the sheriff of El Cajon!” he exclaimed, contemptuously. “Pat Hawe with some of his tough deputies come to arrest Gene Stewart. They’ve got that poor little Mexican girl out there tied on a horse. Confound that sheriff!”
Madeline calmly rose from the table, eluding Florence’s entreating hand, and started for the door. The cowboys jumped up. Alfred barred her progress.
“Alfred, I am going out,” she said.
“No, I guess not,” he replied. “That’s no place for you.”
“I am going.” She looked straight at him.
“Madeline! Why, what is it? You look— Dear, there’s pretty sure to be trouble outside. Maybe there’ll be a fight. You can do nothing. You must not go.”
“Perhaps I can prevent trouble,” she replied.
As she left the patio she was aware that Alfred, with Florence at his side and the cowboys behind, were starting to follow her. When she got out of her room upon the porch she heard several men in loud, angry discussion. Then, at sight of Bonita helplessly and cruelly bound upon a horse, pale and disheveled and suffering, Madeline experienced the thrill that sight or mention of this girl always gave her. It yielded to a hot pang in her breast—that live pain which so shamed her. But almost instantly, as a second glance showed an agony in Bonita’s face, her bruised arms where the rope bit deep into the flesh, her little brown hands stained with blood, Madeline was overcome by pity for the unfortunate girl and a woman’s righteous passion at such barbarous treatment of one of her own sex.
The man holding the bridle of the horse on which Bonita had been bound was at once recognized by Madeline as the big-bodied, bullet-headed guerrilla who had found the basket of wine in the spring at camp. Redder of face, blacker of beard, coarser of aspect, evidently under the influence of liquor, he was as fierce-looking as a gorilla and as repulsive. Besides him there were three other men present, all mounted on weary horses. The one in the foreground, gaunt, sharp-featured, red-eyed, with a pointed beard, she recognized as the sheriff of El Cajon.
Madeline hesitated, then stopped in the middle of the porch. Alfred, Florence, and several others followed her out; the rest of the cowboys and guests crowded the windows and doors. Stillwell saw Madeline, and, throwing up his hands, roared to be heard. This quieted the gesticulating, quarreling men.
“Wal now, Pat Hawe, what’s drivin’ you like a locoed steer on the rampage?” demanded Stillwell.
“Keep in the traces, Bill,” replied Hawe. “You savvy what I come fer. I’ve been bidin’ my time. But I’m ready now. I’m hyar to arrest a criminal.”
The huge frame of the old cattleman jerked as if he had been stabbed. His face turned purple.
“What criminal?” he shouted, hoarsely.
The sheriff flicked his quirt against his dirty boot, and he twisted his thin lips into a leer. The situation was agreeable to him.
“Why, Bill, I knowed you hed a no-good outfit ridin’ this range; but I wasn’t wise thet you hed more’n one criminal.”
“Cut that talk! Which cowboy are you wantin’ to arrest?”
Hawe’s manner altered.
“Gene Stewart,” he replied, curtly.
“On what charge?”
“Fer killin’ a Greaser one night last fall.”
“So you’re still harpin’ on that? Pat, you’re on the wrong trail. You can’t lay that killin’ onto Stewart. The thing’s ancient by now. But if you insist on bringin’ him to court let the arrest go to-day—we’re hevin’ some fiesta hyar—an’ I’ll fetch Gene in to El Cajon.”
“Nope. I reckon I’ll take him when I got the chance, before he slopes.”
“I’m givin’ you my word,” thundered Stillwell.
“I reckon I don’t hev to take your word, Bill, or anybody else’s.”
Stillwell’s great bulk quivered with his rage, yet he made a successful effort to control it.
“See hyar, Pat Hawe, I know what’s reasonable. Law is law. But in this country there always has been an’ is now a safe an’ sane way to proceed with the law. Mebbe you’ve forgot that. The law as invested in one man in a wild country is liable, owin’ to that man’s weaknesses an’ onlimited authority, to be disputed even by a decent ole cattleman like myself. I’m a-goin’ to give you a hunch. Pat, you’re not overliked in these parts. You’ve rid too much with a high hand. Some of your deals hev been shady, an’ don’t you overlook what I’m sayin’. But you’re the sheriff, an’ I’m respectin’ your office. I’m respectin’ it this much. If the milk of human decency is so soured in your breast that you can’t hev a kind feelin’, then try to avoid the onpleasantness that’ll result from any contrary move on your part to-day. Do you get that hunch?”
“Stillwell, you’re threatenin’ an officer,” replied Hawe, angrily.
“Will you hit the trail quick out of hyar?” queried Stillwell, in strained voice. “I guarantee Stewart’s appearance in El Cajon any day you say.”
“No. I come to arrest him, an’ I’m goin’ to.”
“So that’s your game!” shouted Stillwell. “We-all are glad to get you straight, Pat. Now listen, you cheap, red-eyed coyote of a sheriff! You don’t care how many enemies you make. You know you’ll never get office again in this county. What do you care now? It’s amazin’ strange how earnest you are to hunt down the man who killed that particular Greaser. I reckon there’s been some dozen or more killin’s of Greasers in the last year. Why don’t you take to trailin’ some of them killin’s? I’ll tell you why. You’re afraid to go near the border. An’ your hate of Gene Stewart makes you want to hound him an’ put him where he’s never been yet—in jail. You want to spite his friends. Wal, listen, you lean-jawed, skunk-bitten coyote! Go ahead an’ try to arrest him!”
Stillwell took one mighty stride off the porch. His last words had been cold. His rage appeared to have been transferred to Hawe. The sheriff had begun to stutter and shake a lanky red hand at the cattleman when Stewart stepped out.
“Here, you fellows, give me a chance to say a word.”
As Stewart appeared the Mexican girl suddenly seemed vitalized out of her stupor. She strained at her bonds, as if to lift her hands beseechingly. A flush animated her haggard face, and her big dark eyes lighted.
“Señor Gene!” she moaned. “Help me! I so seek. They beat me, rope me, mos’ keel me. Oh, help me, Señor Gene!”
“Shut up, er I’ll g
ag you,” said the man who held Bonita’s horse.
“Muzzle her, Sneed, if she blabs again,” called Hawe.
Madeline felt something tense and strained working in the short silence. Was it only a phase of her thrilling excitement? Her swift glance showed the faces of Nels and Monty and Nick to be brooding, cold, watchful. She wondered why Stewart did not look toward Bonita. He, too, was now dark-faced, cool, quiet, with something ominous about him.
“Hawe, I’ll submit to arrest without any fuss,” he said, slowly, “if you’ll take the ropes off that girl.”
“Nope,” replied the sheriff. “She got away from me onct. She’s hawg-tied now, an’ she’ll stay hawg-tied.”
Madeline thought she saw Stewart give a slight start. But an unaccountable dimness came over her eyes, at brief intervals obscuring her keen sight. Vaguely she was conscious of a clogged and beating tumult in her breast.
“All right, let’s hurry out of here,” said Stewart. “You’ve made annoyance enough. Ride down to the corral with me. I’ll get my horse and go with you.”
“Hold on!” yelled Hawe, as Stewart turned away. “Not so fast. Who’s doin’ this? You don’t come no El Capitan stunts on me. You’ll ride one of my pack-horses, an’ you’ll go in irons.”
“You want to handcuff me?” queried Stewart, with sudden swift start of passion.
“Want to? Haw, haw! Nope, Stewart, thet’s jest my way with hoss-thieves, raiders, Greasers, murderers, an’ sich. See hyar, you Sneed, git off an’ put the irons on this man.”
The guerrilla called Sneed slid off his horse and began to fumble in his saddle-bags.
“You see, Bill,” went on Hawe, “I swore in a new depooty fer this particular job. Sneed is some handy. He rounded up thet little Mexican cat fer me.”
Stillwell did not hear the sheriff; he was gazing at Stewart in a kind of imploring amaze.
“Gene, you ain’t goin’ to stand fer them handcuffs?” he pleaded.
“Yes,” replied the cowboy. “Bill, old friend, I’m an outsider here. There’s no call for Miss Hammond and—and her brother and Florence to be worried further about me. Their happy day has already been spoiled on my account. I want to get out quick.”
“Wal, you might be too damn considerate of Miss Hammond’s sensitive feelin’s.” There was now no trace of the courteous, kindly old rancher. He looked harder than stone. “How about my feelin’s? I want to know if you’re goin’ to let this sneakin’ coyote, this last gasp of the old rum-guzzlin’ frontier sheriffs put you in irons an’ hawg-tie you an’ drive you off to jail?”
“Yes,” replied Stewart, steadily.
“Wal, by Gawd! You, Gene Stewart! What’s come over you? Why, man, go in the house, an’ I’ll tend to this feller. Then to-morrow you can ride in an’ give yourself up like a gentleman.”
“No. I’ll go. Thanks, Bill, for the way you and the boys would stick to me. Hurry, Hawe, before my mind changes.”
His voice broke at the last, betraying the wonderful control he had kept over his passions. As he ceased speaking he seemed suddenly to become spiritless. He dropped his head.
Madeline saw in him then a semblance to the hopeless, shamed Stewart of earlier days. The vague riot in her breast leaped into conscious fury—a woman’s passionate repudiation of Stewart’s broken spirit. It was not that she would have him be a law-breaker; it was that she could not bear to see him deny his manhood. Once she had entreated him to become her kind of a cowboy—a man in whom reason tempered passion. She had let him see how painful and shocking any violence was to her. And the idea had obsessed him, softened him, had grown like a stultifying lichen upon his will, had shorn him of a wild, bold spirit she now strangely longed to see him feel. When the man Sneed came forward, jingling the iron fetters, Madeline’s blood turned to fire. She would have forgiven Stewart then for lapsing into the kind of cowboy it had been her blind and sickly sentiment to abhor. This was a man’s West—a man’s game. What right had a woman reared in a softer mold to use her beauty and her influence to change a man who was bold and free and strong? At that moment, with her blood hot and racing, she would have gloried in the violence which she had so deplored; she would have welcomed the action that had characterized Stewart’s treatment of Don Carlos; she had in her the sudden dawning temper of a woman who had been assimilating the life and nature around her, and who would not have turned her eyes away from a harsh and bloody deed.
But Stewart held forth his hands to be manacled. Then Madeline heard her own voice burst out in a ringing imperious, “Wait!”
In the time it took her to make the few steps to the edge of the porch, facing the men, she not only felt her anger and justice and pride summoning forces to her command, but there was something else calling—a deep, passionate, mysterious thing not born of the moment.
Sneed dropped the manacles. Stewart’s face took on a chalky whiteness. Hawe, in a slow, stupid embarrassment beyond his control, removed his sombrero in a respect that seemed wrenched from him.
“Mr. Hawe, I can prove to you that Stewart was not concerned in any way whatever with the crime for which you want to arrest him.”
The sheriff’s stare underwent a blinking change. He coughed, stammered, and tried to speak. Manifestly, he had been thrown completely off his balance. Astonishment slowly merged into discomfiture.
“It was absolutely impossible for Stewart to have been connected with that assault,” went on Madeline, swiftly, “for he was with me in the waiting-room of the station at the moment the assault was made outside. I assure you I have a distinct and vivid recollection. The door was open. I heard the voices of quarreling men. They grew louder. The language was Spanish. Evidently, these men had left the dance-hall opposite and were approaching the station. I heard a woman’s voice mingling with the others. It, too, was Spanish, and I could not understand. But the tone was beseeching. Then I heard footsteps on the gravel. I knew Stewart heard them. I could see from his face that something dreadful was about to happen. Just outside the door then there were hoarse, furious voices, a scuffle, a muffled shot, a woman’s cry, the thud of a falling body, and rapid footsteps of a man running away. Next, the girl Bonita staggered into the door. She was white, trembling, terror-stricken. She recognized Stewart, appealed to him. Stewart supported her and endeavored to calm her. He was excited. He asked her if Danny Mains had been shot, or if he had done the shooting. The girl said no. She told Stewart that she had danced a little, flirted a little with vaqueros, and they had quarreled over her. Then Stewart took her outside and put her upon his horse. I saw the girl ride that horse down the street to disappear in the darkness.”
While Madeline spoke another change appeared to be working in the man Hawe. He was not long disconcerted, but his discomfiture wore to a sullen fury, and his sharp features fixed in an expression of craft.
“Thet’s mighty interestin’, Miss Hammond, most as interestin’ as a story book,” he said. “Now, since you’re so obligin’ a witness, I’d sure like to put a question or two. What time did you arrive at El Cajon thet night?”
“It was after eleven o’clock,” replied Madeline.
“Nobody there to meet you?”
“No.”
“The station agent an’ operator both gone?”
“Yes.”
“Wal, how soon did this feller Stewart show up?” Hawe continued, with a wry smile.
“Very soon after my arrival. I think—perhaps fifteen minutes, possibly a little more.”
“Some dark an’ lonesome around thet station, wasn’t it?”
“Indeed yes.”
“An’ what time was the Greaser shot?” queried Hawe, with his little eyes gleaming like coals.
“Probably close to half past one. It was two o’clock when I looked at my watch at Florence Kingsley’s house. Directly after Stewart sent Bonita away he took me to Miss Kingsley’s. So, allowing for the walk and a few minutes’ conversation with her, I can pretty definitely say the shooting took place at a
bout half past one.”
Stillwell heaved his big frame a step closer to the sheriff.
“What’re you drivin’ at?” he roared, his face black again.
“Evidence,” snapped Hawe.
Madeline marveled at this interruption; and as Stewart irresistibly drew her glance she saw him gray-faced as ashes, shaking, utterly unnerved.
“I thank you, Miss Hammond,” he said, huskily. “But you needn’t answer any more of Hawe’s questions. He’s—he’s—it’s not necessary. I’ll go with him now, under arrest. Bonita will corroborate your testimony in court, and that will save me from this—this man’s spite.”
Madeline, looking at Stewart, seeing a humility she at first took for cowardice, suddenly divined that it was not fear for himself which made him dread further disclosures of that night, but fear for her—fear of shame she might suffer through him.
Pat Hawe cocked his head to one side, like a vulture about to strike with his beak, and cunningly eyed Madeline.
“Considered as testimony, what you’ve said is sure important an’ conclusive. But I’m calculatin’ thet the court will want to hev explained why you stayed from eleven-thirty till one-thirty in thet waitin’-room alone with Stewart.”
His deliberate speech met with what Madeline imagined a remarkable reception from Stewart, who gave a tigerish start; from Stillwell, whose big hands tore at the neck of his shirt, as if he was choking; from Alfred, who now strode hotly forward to be stopped by the cold and silent Nels; from Monty Price, who uttered a violent. “Aw!” which was both a hiss and a roar.
In the rush of her thought Madeline could not interpret the meaning of these things which seemed so strange at that moment. But they were portentous. Even as she was forming a reply to Hawe’s speech she felt a chill creep over her.
“Stewart detained me in the waiting-room,” she said, clear-voiced as a bell. “But we were not alone—all the time.”
For a moment the only sound following her words was a gasp from Stewart. Hawe’s face became transformed with a hideous amaze and joy.
“Detained?” he whispered, craning his lean and corded neck. “How’s thet?”
