by Zane Grey
She had shunned the light of the stars as she had violently dismissed every hinting suggestive memory of Stewart’s kisses. But one night she went deliberately to her window. There they shone. Her stars! Beautiful, passionless as always, but strangely closer, warmer, speaking a kinder language, helpful as they had never been, teaching her now that regret was futile, revealing to her in their one grand, blazing task the supreme duty of life—to be true.
Those shining stars made her yield. She whispered to them that they had claimed her—the West claimed her—Stewart claimed her forever, whether he lived or died. She gave up to her love. And it was as if he was there in person, dark-faced, fire-eyed, violent in his action, crushing her to his breast in that farewell moment, kissing her with one burning kiss of passion, then with cold, terrible lips of renunciation.
“I am your wife!” she whispered to him. In that moment, throbbing, exalted, quivering in her first sweet, tumultuous surrender to love, she would have given her all, her life, to be in his arms again, to meet his lips, to put forever out of his power any thought of wild sacrifice.
* * *
And on the morning of the next day, when Madeline went out upon the porch, Stillwell, haggard and stern, with a husky, incoherent word, handed her a message from El Cajon. She read:
“El Capitan Stewart captured by rebel soldiers in fight at Agua Prieta yesterday. He was a sharpshooter in the Federal ranks. Sentenced to death Thursday at sunset.”
CHAPTER 24
THE RIDE
“Stillwell!” Madeline’s cry was more than the utterance of a breaking heart. It was full of agony. But also it uttered the shattering of a structure built of false pride, of old beliefs, of bloodless standards, of ignorance of self. It betrayed the final conquest of her doubts, and out of their darkness blazed the unquenchable spirit of a woman who had found herself, her love, her salvation, her duty to a man, and who would not be cheated.
The old cattleman stood mute before her, staring at her white face, at her eyes of flame.
“Stillwell! I am Stewart’s wife!”
“My Gawd, Miss Majesty!” he burst out. “I knowed somethin’ turrible was wrong. Aw, sure it’s a pity—”
“Do you think I’ll let him be shot when I know him now, when I’m no longer blind, when I love him?” she asked, with passionate swiftness. “I will save him. This is Wednesday morning. I have thirty-six hours to save his life. Stillwell, send for Link and the car!”
She went into her office. Her mind worked with extraordinary rapidity and clearness. Her plan, born in one lightning-like flash of thought, necessitated the careful wording of telegrams to Washington, to New York, to San Antonio. These were to Senators, Representatives, men high in public and private life, men who would remember her and who would serve her to their utmost. Never before had her position meant anything to her comparable with what it meant now. Never in all her life had money seemed the power that it was then. If she had been poor! A shuddering chill froze the thought at its inception. She dispelled heartbreaking thoughts. She had power. She had wealth. She would set into operation all the unlimited means these gave her—the wires and pulleys and strings underneath the surface of political and international life, the open, free, purchasing value of money or the deep, underground, mysterious, incalculably powerful influence moved by gold. She could save Stewart. She must await resu1ts—deadlocked in feeling, strained perhaps almost beyond endurance, because the suspense would be great; but she would allow no possibility of failure to enter her mind.
When she went outside, the car was there with Link, helmet in hand, a cool, bright gleam in his eyes, and with Stillwell, losing his haggard misery, beginning to respond to Madeline’s spirit.
“Link, drive Stillwell to El Cajon in time for him to catch the El Paso train,” she said. “Wait there for his return, and if any message comes from him, telephone it at once to me.”
Then she gave Stillwell the telegrams to send from El Cajon and drafts to cash in El Paso. She instructed him to go before the rebel junta, then stationed at Juarez, to explain the situation, to bid them expect communications from Washington officials requesting and advising Stewart’s exchange as a prisoner of war, to offer to buy his release from the rebel authorities.
When Stillwell had heard her through his huge, bowed form straightened, a ghost of his old smile just moved his lips. He was no longer young, and hope could not at once drive away stern and grim realities. As he bent over her hand his manner appeared courtly and reverent. But either he was speechless or felt the moment not one for him to break silence.
He climbed to a seat beside Link, who pocketed the watch he had been studying and leaned over the wheel. There was a crack, a muffled sound bursting into a roar, and the big car jerked forward to bound over the edge of the slope, to leap down the long incline, to shoot out upon the level valley floor and disappear in moving dust.
For the first time in days Madeline visited the gardens, the corrals, the lakes, the quarters of the cowboys. Though imagining she was calm, she feared she looked strange to Nels, to Nick, to Frankie Slade, to those boys best known to her. The situation for them must have been one of tormenting pain and bewilderment. They acted as if they wanted to say something to her, but found themselves spellbound. She wondered—did they know she was Stewart’s wife? Stillwell had not had time to tell them; besides, he would not have mentioned the fact. These cowboys only knew that Stewart was sentenced to be shot; they knew if Madeline had not been angry with him he would not have gone in desperate fighting mood across the border. She spoke of the weather, of the horses and cattle, asked Nels when he was to go on duty, and turned away from the wide, sunlit, adobe-arched porch where the cowboys stood silent and bareheaded. Then one of her subtle impulses checked her.
“Nels, you and Nick need not go on duty to-day,” she said. “I may want you. I—I—”
She hesitated, paused, and stood lingering there. Her glance had fallen upon Stewart’s big black horse prancing in a near-by corral.
“I have sent Stillwell to El Paso,” she went on, in a low voice she failed to hold steady. “He will save Stewart. I have to tell you—I am Stewart’s wife!”
She felt the stricken amaze that made these men silent and immovable. With level gaze averted she left them. Returning to the house and her room, she prepared for something—for what? To wait!
Then a great invisible shadow seemed to hover behind her. She essayed many tasks, to fail of attention, to find that her mind held only Stewart and his fortunes. Why had he become a Federal? She reflected that he had won his title, El Capitan, fighting for Madero, the rebel. But Madero was now a Federal, and Stewart was true to him. In crossing the border had Stewart any other motive than the one he had implied to Madeline in his mocking smile and scornful words, “You might have saved me a hell of a lot of trouble!” What trouble? She felt again the cold shock of contact with the gun she had dropped in horror. He meant the trouble of getting himself shot in the only way a man could seek death without cowardice. But had he any other motive? She recalled Don Carlos and his guerrillas. Then the thought leaped up in her mind with gripping power that Stewart meant to hunt Don Carlos, to meet him, to kill him. It would be the deed of a silent, vengeful, implacable man driven by wild justice such as had been the deadly leaven in Monty Price. It was a deed to expect of Nels or Nick Steele—and aye, of Gene Stewart. Madeline felt regret that Stewart, as he had climbed so high, had not risen above deliberate seeking to kill his enemy, however evil that enemy.
The local newspapers, which came regularly a day late from El Paso and Douglas, had never won any particular interest from Madeline; now, however, she took up any copies she could find and read all the information pertaining to the revolution. Every word seemed vital to her, of moving significant force.
AMERICANS ROBBED BY MEXICAN REBELS
MADERA, State of Chihuahua, Mexico, July 17.—Having looted the Madera Lumber Company’s storehouses of $25,000 worth of goods and robbed scores
of foreigners of horses and saddles, the rebel command of Gen. Antonio Rojas, comprising a thousand men, started westward to-day through the state of Sonora for Aguaymas and Pacific coast points.
The troops are headed for Dolores, where a mountain pass leads into the state of Sonora. Their entrance will be opposed by 1,000 Maderista volunteers, who are reported to be waiting the rebel invasion.
The railroad south of Madera is being destroyed and many Americans who were traveling to Chihuahua from Juarez are marooned here.
General Rojas executed five men while here for alleged offenses of a trivial character. Gen. Rosalio y Hernandez, Lieut. Cipriano Amador, and three soldiers were the unfortunates.
WASHINGTON, July 17.—Somewhere in Mexico Patrick Dunne, an American citizen, is in prison under sentence of death. This much and no more the State Department learned through Representative Kinkaid of Nebraska. Consular officers in various sections of Mexico have been directed to make every effort to locate Dunne and save his life.
JUAREZ, Mexico, July 31.—General Orozco, chief of the rebels, declared to-day:
“If the United States will throw down the barriers and let us have all the ammunition we can buy, I promise in sixty days to have peace restored in Mexico and a stable government in charge.”
CASAS GRANDES, Chihuahau, July 31.—Rebel soldiers looted many homes of Mormons near here yesterday. All the Mormon families have fled to El Paso. Although General Salazar had two of his soldiers executed yesterday for robbing Mormons, he has not made any attempt to stop his men looting the unprotected homes of Americans.
Last night’s and to-day’s trains carried many Americans from Pearson, Madera, and other localities outside the Mormon settlements. Refugees from Mexico continued to pour into El Paso. About one hundred came last night, the majority of whom were men. Heretofore few men came.
* * *
Madeline read on in feverish absorption. It was not a real war, but a starving, robbing, burning, hopeless revolution. Five men executed for alleged offenses of a trivial nature! What chance had, then, a Federal prisoner, an enemy to be feared, an American cowboy in the clutches of those crazed rebels?
Madeline endured patiently, endured for long interminable hours while holding to her hope with indomitable will.
No message came. At sunset she went outdoors, suffering a torment of accumulating suspense. She faced the desert, hoping, praying for strength. The desert did not influence her as did the passionless, unchangeable stars that had soothed her spirit. It was red, mutable, shrouded in shadows, terrible like her mood. A dust-veiled sunset colored the vast, brooding, naked waste of rock and sand. The grim Chiricahua frowned black and sinister. The dim, blue domes of the Guadalupes seemed to whisper, to beckon to her. Beyond them somewhere was Stewart awaiting the end of a few brief hours—hours that to her were boundless, endless, insupportable.
Night fell. But now the white, pitiless stars failed her. Then she sought the seclusion and darkness of her room, there to lie with wide eyes, waiting, waiting. She had always been susceptible to the somber, mystic unrealities of the night, and now her mind slowly revolved round a vague and monstrous gloom. Nevertheless, she was acutely sensitive to outside impressions. She heard the measured tread of a guard, the rustle of wind stirring the window-curtain, the remote, mournful wail of a coyote. By and by the dead silence of the night insulated her with leaden oppression. There was silent darkness for so long that when the window casements showed gray she believed it was only fancy and that dawn would never come. She prayed for the sun not to rise, not to begin its short twelve-hour journey toward what might be a fatal setting for Stewart. But the dawn did lighten, swiftly she thought, remorselessly. Daylight had broken, and this was Thursday!
Sharp ringing of the telephone bell startled her, roused her into action. She ran to answer the call.
“Hello—hello—Miss Majesty!” came the hurried reply. “This’s Link talkin’. Messages for you. Favorable, the operator said. I’m to ride out with them. I’ll come a-hummin’.”
That was all. Madeline heard the bang of the receiver as Stevens threw it down. She passionately wanted to know more, but was immeasurably grateful for so much! Favorable! Then Stillwell had been successful. Her heart leaped. Suddenly she became weak, and her hands failed of their accustomed morning deftness. It took her what seemed a thousand years to dress. Breakfast meant nothing to her except that it helped her to pass dragging minutes.
Finally a low hum, mounting swiftly to a roar and ending with a sharp report, announced the arrival of the car. If her feet had kept pace with her heart she would have raced out to meet Link. She saw him, helmet thrown back, watch in hand, and he looked up at her with his cool, bright smile, with his familiar apologetic manner.
“Fifty-three minutes, Miss Majesty,” he said, “but I hed to ride round a herd of steers an’ bump a couple off the trail.”
He gave her a packet of telegrams. Madeline tore them open with shaking fingers, began to read with swift, dim eyes. Some were from Washington, assuring her of every possible service; some were from New York; others written in Spanish were from El Paso; and these she could not wholly translate in a brief glance. Would she never find Stillwell’s message? It was the last. It was lengthy. It read:
Bought Stewart’s release. Also arranged for his transfer as prisoner of war. Both matters official. He’s safe if we can get notice to his captors. Not sure I’ve reached them by wire. Afraid to trust it. You go with Link to Agua Prieta. Take the messages sent you in Spanish. They will protect you and secure Stewart’s freedom. Take Nels with you. Stop for nothing. Tell Link all—trust him—let him drive that car.
STILLWELL.
The first few lines of Stillwell’s message lifted Madeline to the heights of thanksgiving and happiness. Then, reading on, she experienced a check, a numb, icy, sickening pang. At the last line she flung off doubt and dread, and in white, cold passion faced the issue.
“Read,” she said, briefly, handing the telegram to Link. He scanned it and then looked blankly up at her.
“Link, do you know the roads, the trails—the desert between here and Agua Prieta?” she asked.
“Thet’s sure my old stampin’-ground. An’ I know Sonora, too.”
“We must reach Agua Prieta before sunset—long before, so if Stewart is in some near-by camp we can get to it in—in time.”
“Miss Majesty, it ain’t possible!” he exclaimed. “Still-well’s crazy to say thet.”
“Link, can an automobile be driven from here into northern Mexico?”
“Sure. But it’d take time.”
“We must do it in little time,” she went on, in swift eagerness. “Otherwise Stewart may be—probably will be—be shot.”
Link Stevens appeared suddenly to grow lax, shriveled, to lose all his peculiar pert brightness, to weaken and age.
“I’m only a—a cowboy, Miss Majesty.” He almost faltered. It was a singular change in him. “Thet’s an awful ride—down over the border. If by some luck I didn’t smash the car I’d turn your hair gray. You’d never be no good after thet ride!”
“I am Stewart’s wife,” she answered him, and she looked at him, not conscious of any motive to persuade or allure, but just to let him know the greatness of her dependence upon him.
He started violently—the old action of Stewart, the memorable action of Monty Price. This man was of the same wild breed.
Then Madeline’s words flowed in a torrent. “I am Stewart’s wife. I love him; I have been unjust to him; I must save him. Link, I have faith in you. I beseech you to do your best for Stewart’s sake—for my sake. I’ll risk the ride gladly—bravely. I’ll not care where or how you drive. I’d far rather plunge into a cañon—go to my death on the rocks—than not try to save Stewart.”
How beautiful the response of this rude cowboy—to realize his absolute unconsciousness of self, to see the haggard shade burn out of his face, the old, cool, devil-may-care spirit return to his eyes, and to feel someth
ing wonderful about him then! It was more than will or daring or sacrifice. A blood-tie might have existed between him and Madeline. She sensed again that indefinable brother-like quality, so fine, so almost invisible, which seemed to be an inalienable trait in these wild cowboys.
“Miss Majesty, thet ride figgers impossible, but I’ll do it!” he replied. His cool, bright glance thrilled her. “I’ll need mebbe half an hour to go over the car an’ to pack on what I’ll want.”
She could not thank him, and her reply was merely a request that he tell Nels and other cowboys off duty to come up to the house. When Link had gone Madeline gave a moment’s thought to preparations for the ride. She placed what money she had and the telegrams in a satchel. The gown she had on was thin and white, not suitable for travel, but she would not risk the losing of one moment in changing it. She put on a long coat and wound veils round her head and neck, arranging them in a hood so she could cover her face when necessary. She remembered to take an extra pair of goggles for Nels’s use, and then, drawing on her gloves, she went out ready for the ride.
A number of cowboys were waiting. She explained the situation and left them in charge of her home. With that she asked Nels to accompany her down into the desert. He turned white to his lips, and this occasioned Madeline to remember his mortal dread of the car and Link’s driving.
“Nels, I’m sorry to ask you,” she added. “I know you hate the car. But I need you—may need you, oh! so much.”
“Why, Miss Majesty, thet’s shore all a mistaken idee of yours about me hatin’ the car,” he said, in his slow, soft drawl. “I was only jealous of Link; an’ the boys, they made thet joke up on me about bein’ scared of ridin’ fast. Shore I’m powerful proud to go. An’ I reckon if you hedn’t asked me my feelin’s might hev been some hurt Because if you’re goin’ down among the Greasers you want me.”
