X - Don Carlos's Vaqueros
Early the following morning Stewart, with a company of cowboys, departed for Don Carlos's rancho. As the day wore on without any report from him, Stillwell appeared to grow more at ease; and at nightfall he told Madeline that he guessed there was now no reason for concern.
“Wal, though it's sure amazin' strange,” he continued, “I've been worryin' some about how we was goin' to fire Don Carlos. But Gene has a way of doin' things.”
Next day Stillwell and Alfred decided to ride over Don Carlos's place, taking Madeline and Florence with them, and upon the return trip to stop at Alfred's ranch. They started in the cool, gray dawn, and after three hours' riding, as the sun began to get bright, they entered a mesquite grove, surrounding corrals and barns, and a number of low, squat buildings and a huge, rambling structure, all built of adobe and mostly crumbling to ruin. Only one green spot relieved the bald red of grounds and walls; and this evidently was made by the spring which had given both value and fame to Don Carlos's range. The approach to the house was through a wide courtyard, bare, stony, hard packed, with hitching-rails and watering-troughs in front of a long porch. Several dusty, tired horses stood with drooping heads and bridles down, their wet flanks attesting to travel just ended.
“Wal, dog-gone it, Al, if there ain't Pat Hawe's hoss I'll eat it,” exclaimed Stillwell.
“What's Pat want here, anyhow?” growled Alfred.
No one was in sight; but Madeline heard loud voices coming from the house. Stillwell dismounted at the porch and stalked in at the door. Alfred leaped off his horse, helped Florence and Madeline down, and, bidding them rest and wait on the porch, he followed Stillwell.
“I hate these Greaser places,” said Florence, with a grimace. “They're so mysterious and creepy. Just watch now! They'll be dark-skinned, beady-eyed, soft-footed Greasers slip right up out of the ground! There'll be an ugly face in every door and window and crack.”
“It's like a huge barn with its characteristic odor permeated by tobacco smoke,” replied Madeline, sitting down beside Florence. “I don't think very much of this end of my purchase. Florence, isn't that Don Carlos's black horse over there in the corral?”
“It sure is. Then the Don's heah yet. I wish we hadn't been in such a hurry to come over. There! that doesn't sound encouraging.”
From the corridor came the rattling of spurs, tramping of boots, and loud voices. Madeline detected Alfred's quick notes when he was annoyed: “We'll rustle back home, then,” he said. The answer came, “No!” Madeline recognized Stewart's voice, and she quickly straightened up. “I won't have them in here,” went on Alfred.
“Outdoors or in, they've got to be with us!” replied Stewart, sharply. “Listen, Al,” came the boom of Stillwell's big voice, “now that we've butted in over hyar with the girls, you let Stewart run things.”
Then a crowd of men tramped pell-mell out upon the porch. Stewart, dark-browed and somber, was in the lead. Nels hung close to him, and Madeline's quick glance saw that Nels had undergone some indescribable change. The grinning, brilliant-eyed Don Carlos came jostling out beside a gaunt, sharp-featured man wearing a silver shield. This, no doubt, was Pat Hawe. In the background behind Stillwell and Alfred stood Nick Steele, head and shoulders over a number of vaqueros and cowboys.
“Miss Hammond, I'm sorry you came,” said Stewart, bluntly. “We're in a muddle here. I've insisted that you and Flo be kept close to us. I'll explain later. If you can't stop your ears I beg you to overlook rough talk.”
With that he turned to the men behind him: “Nick, take Booly, go back to Monty and the boys. Fetch out that stuff. All of it. Rustle, now!”
Stillwell and Alfred disengaged themselves from the crowd to take up positions in front of Madeline and Florence. Pat Hawe leaned against a post and insolently ogled Madeline and then Florence. Don Carlos pressed forward. His whole figure filled Madeline's reluctant but fascinated eyes. He wore tight velveteen breeches, with a heavy fold down the outside seam, which was ornamented with silver buttons. Round his waist was a sash, and a belt with fringed holster, from which protruded a pearl-handled gun. A vest or waistcoat, richly embroidered, partly concealed a blouse of silk and wholly revealed a silken scarf round his neck. His swarthy face showed dark lines, like cords, under the surface. His little eyes were exceedingly prominent and glittering. To Madeline his face seemed to be a bold, handsome mask through which his eyes piercingly betrayed the evil nature of the man.
He bowed low with elaborate and sinuous grace. His smile revealed brilliant teeth, enhanced the brilliance of his eyes. He slowly spread deprecatory hands.
“Senoritas, I beg a thousand pardons,” he said. How strange it was for Madeline to hear English spoken in a soft, whiningly sweet accent! “The gracious hospitality of Don Carlos has passed with his house.”
Stewart stepped forward and, thrusting Don Carlos aside, he called, “Make way, there!”
The crowd fell back to the tramp of heavy boots. Cowboys appeared staggering out of the corridor with long boxes. These they placed side by side upon the floor of the porch.
“Now, Hawe, we'll proceed with our business,” said Stewart. “You see these boxes, don't you?”
“I reckon I see a good many things round hyar,” replied Hawe, meaningly.
“Well, do you intend to open these boxes upon my say-so?”
“No!” retorted Hawe. “It's not my place to meddle with property as come by express an' all accounted fer regular.”
“You call yourself a sheriff!” exclaimed Stewart, scornfully.
“Mebbe you'll think so before long,” rejoined Hawe, sullenly.
“I'll open them. Here, one of you boys, knock the tops off these boxes,” ordered Stewart. “No, not you, Monty. You use your eyes. Let Booly handle the ax. Rustle, now!”
Monty Price had jumped out of the crowd into the middle of the porch. The manner in which he gave way to Booly and faced the vaqueros was not significant of friendliness or trust.
“Stewart, you're dead wrong to bust open them boxes. Thet's ag'in' the law,” protested Hawe, trying to interfere.
Stewart pushed him back. Then Don Carlos, who had been stunned by the appearance of the boxes, suddenly became active in speech and person. Stewart thrust him back also. The Mexican's excitement increased. He wildly gesticulated; he exclaimed shrilly in Spanish. When, however, the lids were wrenched open and an inside packing torn away he grew rigid and silent. Madeline raised herself behind Stillwell to see that the boxes were full of rifles and ammunition.
“There, Hawe! What did I tell you?” demanded Stewart. “I came over here to take charge of this ranch. I found these boxes hidden in an unused room. I suspected what they were. Contraband goods!”
“Wal, supposin' they are? I don't see any call fer sech all-fired fuss as you're makin'. Stewart, I calkilate you're some stuck on your new job an' want to make a big show before—”
“Hawe, stop slinging that kind of talk,” interrupted Stewart. “You got too free with your mouth once before! Now here, I'm supposed to be consulting an officer of the law. Will you take charge of these contraband goods?”
“Say, you're holdin' on high an' mighty,” replied Hawe, in astonishment that was plainly pretended. “What 're you drivin' at?”
Stewart muttered an imprecation. He took several swift strides across the porch; he held out his hands to Stillwell as if to indicate the hopelessness of intelligent and reasonable arbitration; he looked at Madeline with a glance eloquent of his regret that he could not handle the situation to please her. Then as he wheeled he came face to face with Nels, who had slipped forward out of the crowd.
Madeline gathered serious import from the steel-blue meaning flash of eyes whereby Nels communicated something to Stewart. Whatever that something was, it dispelled Stewart's impatience. A slight movement of his hand brought Monty Price forward with a jump. In these sudden jumps of Monty's there was a suggestion of restrained ferocity. Then Nels and Monty lined up behind Stewart. It was a deliberate action, even to Madeline, unmistakably formidable. Pat Hawe's face took on an ugly look; his eyes had a reddish gleam. Don Carlos added a pale face and extreme nervousness to his former expressions of agitation. The cowboys edged away from the vaqueros and the bronzed, bearded horsemen who were evidently Hawe's assistants.
“I'm driving at this,” spoke up Stewart, presently; and now he was slow and caustic. “Here's contraband of war! Hawe, do you get that? Arms and ammunition for the rebels across the border! I charge you as an officer to confiscate these goods and to arrest the smuggler—Don Carlos.”
These words of Stewart's precipitated a riot among Don Carlos and his followers, and they surged wildly around the sheriff. There was an upflinging of brown, clenching hands, a shrill, jabbering babel of Mexican voices. The crowd around Don Carlos grew louder and denser with the addition of armed vaqueros and barefooted stable-boys and dusty-booted herdsmen and blanketed Mexicans, the last of whom suddenly slipped from doors and windows and round comers. It was a motley assemblage. The laced, fringed, ornamented vaqueros presented a sharp contrast to the bare-legged, sandal-footed boys and the ragged herders. Shrill cries, evidently from Don Carlos, somewhat quieted the commotion. Then Don Carlos could be heard addressing Sheriff Hawe in an exhortation of mingled English and Spanish. He denied, he avowed, he proclaimed, and all in rapid, passionate utterance. He tossed his black hair in his vehemence; he waved his fists and stamped the floor; he rolled his glittering eyes; he twisted his thin lips into a hundred different shapes, and like a cornered wolf showed snarling white teeth.
It seemed to Madeline that Don Carlos denied knowledge of the boxes of contraband goods, then knowledge of their real contents, then knowledge of their destination, and, finally, everything except that they were there in sight, damning witnesses to somebody's complicity in the breaking of neutrality laws. Passionate as had been his denial of all this, it was as nothing compared to his denunciation of Stewart.
“Senor Stewart, he keel my Vaquero!” shouted Don Carlos, as, sweating and spent, he concluded his arraignment of the cowboy. “Him you must arrest! Senor Stewart a bad man! He keel my vaquero!”
“Do you hear thet?” yelled Hawe. “The Don's got you figgered fer thet little job at El Cajon last fall.”
The clamor burst into a roar. Hawe began shaking his finger in Stewart's face and hoarsely shouting. Then a lithe young vaquero, swift as an Indian, glided under Hawe's uplifted arm. Whatever the action he intended, he was too late for its execution. Stewart lunged out, struck the vaquero, and knocked him off the porch. As he fell a dagger glittered in the sunlight and rolled clinking over the stones. The man went down hard and did not move. With the same abrupt violence, and a manner of contempt, Stewart threw Hawe off the porch, then Don Carlos, who, being less supple, fell heavily. Then the mob backed before Stewart's rush until all were down in the courtyard.
The shuffling of feet ceased, the clanking of spurs, and the shouting. Nels and Monty, now reinforced by Nick Steele, were as shadows of Stewart, so closely did they follow him. Stewart waved them back and stepped down into the yard. He was absolutely fearless; but what struck Madeline so keenly was his magnificent disdain. Manifestly, he knew the nature of the men with whom he was dealing. From the look of him it was natural for Madeline to expect them to give way before him, which they did, even Hawe and his attendants sullenly retreating.
Don Carlos got up to confront Stewart. The prostrate vaquero stirred and moaned, but did not rise.
“You needn't jibber Spanish to me,” said Stewart. “You can talk American, and you can understand American. If you start a rough-house here you and your Greasers will be cleaned up. You've got to leave this ranch. You can have the stock, the packs and traps in the second corral. There's grub, too. Saddle up and hit the trail. Don Carlos, I'm dealing more than square with you. You're lying about these boxes of guns and cartridges. You're breaking the laws of my country, and you're doing it on property in my charge. If I let smuggling go on here I'd be implicated myself. Now you get off the range. If you don't I'll have the United States cavalry here in six hours, and you can gamble they'll get what my cowboys leave of you.”
Don Carlos was either a capital actor and gratefully relieved at Stewart's leniency or else he was thoroughly cowed by references to the troops. “Si, Senor! Gracias, Senor!” he exclaimed; and then, turning away, he called to his men. They hurried after him, while the fallen vaquero got to his feet with Stewart's help and staggered across the courtyard. In a moment they were gone, leaving Hawe and his several comrades behind.
Hawe was spitefully ejecting a wad of tobacco from his mouth and swearing in an undertone about “white-livered Greasers.” He cocked his red eye speculatively at Stewart.
“Wal, I reckon as you're so hell-bent on doin' it up brown thet you'll try to fire me off'n the range, too?”
“If I ever do, Pat, you'll need to be carried off,” replied Stewart. “Just now I'm politely inviting you and your deputy sheriffs to leave.”
“We'll go; but we're comin' back one of these days, an' when we do we'll put you in irons.”
“Hawe, if you've got it in that bad for me, come over here in the corral and let's fight it out.”
“I'm an officer, an' I don't fight outlaws an' sich except when I hev to make arrests.”
“Officer! You're a disgrace to the county. If you ever did get irons on me you'd take me some place out of sight, shoot me, and then swear you killed me in self-defense. It wouldn't be the first time you pulled that trick, Pat Hawe.”
“Ho, ho!” laughed Hawe, derisively. Then he started toward the horses.
Stewart's long arm shot out, his hand clapped on Hawe's shoulder, spinning him round like a top.
“You're leaving, Pat, but before you leave you'll come out with your play or you'll crawl,” said Stewart. “You've got it in for me, man to man. Speak up now and prove you're not the cowardly skunk I've always thought you. I've called your hand.”
Pat Hawe's face turned a blackish-purple hue.
“You can jest bet thet I've got it in fer you,” he shouted, hoarsely. “You're only a low-down cow-puncher. You never hed a dollar or a decent job till you was mixed up with thet Hammond woman—”
Stewart's hand flashed out and hit Hawe's face in a ringing slap. The sheriff's head jerked back, his sombrero fell to the ground. As he bent over to reach it his hand shook, his arm shook, his whole body shook.
Monty Price jumped straight forward and crouched down with a strange, low cry.
Stewart seemed all at once rigid, bending a little.
“Say Miss Hammond, if there's occasion to use her name,” said Stewart, in a voice that seemed coolly pleasant, yet had a deadly undernote.
Hawe did a moment's battle with strangling fury, which he conquered in some measure.
“I said you was a low-down, drunken cow-puncher, a tough as damn near a desperado as we ever hed on the border,” went on Hawe, deliberately. His speech appeared to be addressed to Stewart, although his flame-pointed eyes were riveted upon Monty Price. “I know you plugged that vaquero last fall, an' when I git my proof I'm comin' after you.”
“That's all right, Hawe. You can call me what you like, and you can come after me when you like,” replied Stewart. “But you're going to get in bad with me. You're in bad now with Monty and Nels. Pretty soon you'll queer yourself with all the cowboys and the ranchers, too. If that don't put sense into you—Here, listen to this. You knew what these boxes contained. You know Don Carlos has been smuggling arms and ammunition across the border. You know he is hand and glove with the rebels. You've been wearing blinders, and it has been to your interest. Take a hunch from me. That's all. Light out now, and the less we see of your handsome mug the better we'll like you.”
Muttering, cursing, pallid of face, Hawe climbed astride his horse. His comrades followed suit. Certain it appeared that the sheriff was contending with more than fear and wrath. He must have had an irresistible impulse to fling more invective and threat upon Stewart, but he was speechless. Savagely he spurred his horse, and as it snorted and leaped he turned in his saddle, shaking his fist. His comrades led the way, with their horses clattering into a canter. They disappeared through the gate.
************
When, later in the day, Madeline and Florence, accompanied by Alfred and Stillwell, left Don Carlos's ranch it was not any too soon for Madeline. The inside of the Mexican's home was more unprepossessing and uncomfortable than the outside. The halls were dark, the rooms huge, empty, and musty; and there was an air of silence and secrecy and mystery about them most fitting to the character Florence had bestowed upon the place.
On the other hand, Alfred's ranch-house, where the party halted to spend the night, was picturesquely located, small and cozy, camplike in its arrangement, and altogether agreeable to Madeline.
The day's long rides and the exciting events had wearied her. She rested while Florence and the two men got supper. During the meal Stillwell expressed satisfaction over the good riddance of the vaqueros, and with his usual optimism trusted he had seen the last of them. Alfred, too, took a decidedly favorable view of the day's proceedings. However, it was not lost upon Madeline that Florence appeared unusually quiet and thoughtful. Madeline wondered a little at the cause. She remembered that Stewart had wanted to come with them, or detail a few cowboys to accompany them, but Alfred had laughed at the idea and would have none of it.
After supper Alfred monopolized the conversation by describing what he wanted to do to improve his home before he and Florence were married.
Then at an early hour they all retired.
Madeline's deep slumbers were disturbed by a pounding upon the wall, and then by Florence's crying out in answer to a call:
“Get up! Throw some clothes on and come out!”
It was Alfred's voice.
“What's the matter?” asked Florence, as she slipped out of bed.
“Alfred, is there anything wrong?” added Madeline, sitting up.
The room was dark as pitch, but a faint glow seemed to mark the position of the window.
“Oh, nothing much,” replied Alfred. “Only Don Carlos's rancho going up in smoke.”
“Fire!” cried Florence, sharply.
“You'll think so when you see it. Hurry out. Majesty, old girl, now you won't have to tear down that heap of adobe, as you threatened. I don't believe a wall will stand after that fire.”
“Well, I'm glad of it,” said Madeline. “A good healthy fire will purify the atmosphere over there and save me expense. Ugh! that haunted rancho got on my nerves! Florence, I do believe you've appropriated part of my riding-habit. Doesn't Alfred have lights in this house?”
Florence laughingly helped Madeline to dress. Then they hurriedly stumbled over chairs, and, passing through the dining-room, went out upon the porch.
Away to the westward, low down along the horizon, she saw leaping red flames and wind-swept columns of smoke.
Stillwell appeared greatly perturbed.
“Al, I'm lookin' fer that ammunition to blow up,” he said. “There was enough of it to blow the roof off the rancho.”
“Bill, surely the cowboys would get that stuff out the first thing,” replied Alfred, anxiously.
“I reckon so. But all the same, I'm worryin'. Mebbe there wasn't time. Supposin' thet powder went off as the boys was goin' fer it or carryin' it out! We'll know soon. If the explosion doesn't come quick now we can figger the boys got the boxes out.”
For the next few moments there was a silence of sustained and painful suspense. Florence gripped Madeline's arm. Madeline felt a fullness in her throat and a rapid beating of her heart. Presently she was relieved with the others when Stillwell declared the danger of an explosion needed to be feared no longer.
“Sure you can gamble on Gene Stewart,” he added.
The night happened to be partly cloudy, with broken rifts showing the moon, and the wind blew unusually strong. The brightness of the fire seemed subdued. It was like a huge bonfire smothered by some great covering, penetrated by different, widely separated points of flame. These corners of flame flew up, curling in the wind, and then died down. Thus the scene was constantly changing from dull light to dark. There came a moment when a blacker shade overspread the wide area of flickering gleams and then obliterated them. Night enfolded the scene. The moon peeped a curved yellow rim from under broken clouds. To all appearances the fire had burned itself out. But suddenly a pinpoint of light showed where all had been dense black. It grew and became long and sharp. It moved. It had life. It leaped up. Its color warmed from white to red. Then from all about it burst flame on flame, to leap into a great changing pillar of fire that climbed high and higher. Huge funnels of smoke, yellow, black, white, all tinged with the color of fire, slanted skyward, drifting away on the wind.
“Wal, I reckon we won't hev the good of them two thousand tons of alfalfa we was figgerin' on,” remarked Stillwell.
“Ah! Then that last outbreak of fire was burning hay,” said Madeline. “I do not regret the rancho. But it's too bad to lose such a quantity of good feed for the stock.”
“It's lost, an' no mistake. The fire's dyin' as quick as she flared up. Wal, I hope none of the boys got risky to save a saddle or blanket. Monty—he's hell on runnin' the gantlet of fire. He's like a hoss that's jest been dragged out of a burnin' stable an' runs back sure locoed. There! She's smolderin' down now. Reckon we-all might jest as well turn in again. It's only three o'clock.”
“I wonder how the fire originated?” remarked Alfred. “Some careless cowboy's cigarette, I'll bet.”
Stillwell rolled out his laugh.
“Al, you sure are a free-hearted, trustin' feller. I'm some doubtin' the cigarette idee; but you can gamble if it was a cigarette it belonged to a cunnin' vaquero, an' wasn't dropped accident-like.”
“Now, Bill, you don't mean Don Carlos burned the rancho?” ejaculated Alfred, in mingled amaze and anger.
Again the old cattleman laughed.
“Powerful strange to say, my friend, ole Bill means jest thet.”
“Of course Don Carlos set that fire,” put in Florence, with spirit. “Al, if you live out heah a hundred years you'll never learn that Greasers are treacherous. I know Gene Stewart suspected something underhand. That's why he wanted us to hurry away. That's why he put me on the black horse of Don Carlos's. He wants that horse for himself, and feared the Don would steal or shoot him. And you, Bill Stillwell, you're as bad as Al. You never distrust anybody till it's too late. You've been singing ever since Stewart ordered the vaqueros off the range. But you sure haven't been thinking.”
“Wal, now, Flo, you needn't pitch into me jest because I hev a natural Christian spirit,” replied Stillwell, much aggrieved. “I reckon I've hed enough trouble in my life so's not to go lookin' fer more. Wal, I'm sorry about the hay burnin'. But mebbe the boys saved the stock. An' as fer that ole adobe house of dark holes an' under-ground passages, so long's Miss Majesty doesn't mind, I'm darn glad it burned. Come, let's all turn in again. Somebody'll ride over early an' tell us what's what.”
Madeline awakened early, but not so early as the others, who were up and had breakfast ready when she went into the dining-room. Stillwell was not in an amiable frame of mind. The furrows of worry lined his broad brow and he continually glanced at his watch, and growled because the cowboys were so late in riding over with the news. He gulped his breakfast, and while Madeline and the others ate theirs he tramped up and down the porch. Madeline noted that Alfred grew nervous and restless. Presently he left the table to join Stillwell outside.
“They'll slope off to Don Carlos's rancho and leave us to ride home alone,” observed Florence.
“Do you mind?” questioned Madeline.
“No, I don't exactly mind; we've got the fastest horses in this country. I'd like to run that big black devil off his legs. No, I don't mind; but I've no hankering for a situation Gene Stewart thinks—”
Florence began disconnectedly, and she ended evasively. Madeline did not press the point, although she had some sense of misgiving. Stillwell tramped in, shaking the floor with his huge boots; Alfred followed him, carrying a field-glass.
“Not a hoss in sight,” complained Stillwell. “Some-thin' wrong over Don Carlos's way. Miss Majesty, it'll be jest as well fer you an' Flo to hit the home trail. We can telephone over an' see that the boys know you're comin'.”
Alfred, standing in the door, swept the gray valley with his field-glass.
“Bill, I see running stock-horses or cattle; I can't make out which. I guess we'd better rustle over there.”
Both men hurried out, and while the horses were being brought up and saddled Madeline and Florence put away the breakfast-dishes, then speedily donned spurs, sombreros, and gauntlets.
“Here are the horses ready,” called Alfred. “Flo, that black Mexican horse is a prince.”
The girls went out in time to hear Stillwell's good-by as he mounted and spurred away. Alfred went through the motions of assisting Madeline and Florence to mount, which assistance they always flouted, and then he, too, swung up astride.
“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 as 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 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 wind-storm 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.
