XVII. The Lost Mine of the
Padres
In the cool, starry evenings the campers sat
around a blazing fire and told and listened to stories thrillingly fitted to
the dark crags and the wild solitude.
Monty Price had come to shine brilliantly as a
storyteller. He was an atrocious liar, but this fact would not have been
evident to his enthralled listeners if his cowboy comrades, in base jealousy,
had not betrayed him. The truth about his remarkable fabrications, however, had
not become known to Castleton, solely because of the Englishman's obtuseness.
And there was another thing much stranger than this and quite as amusing.
Dorothy Coombs knew Monty was a liar; but she was so fascinated by the glittering,
basilisk eyes he riveted upon her, so taken in by his horrible tales of blood,
that despite her knowledge she could not help believing them.
Manifestly Monty was very proud of his suddenly
acquired gift. Formerly he had hardly been known to open his lips in the
presence of strangers. Monty had developed more than one singular and hitherto
unknown trait since his supremacy at golf had revealed his possibilities. He
was as sober and vain and pompous about his capacity for lying as about anything
else. Some of the cowboys were jealous of him because he held the attention
and, apparently, the admiration of the ladies; and Nels was jealous, not
because Monty made himself out to be a wonderful gun-man, but because Monty
could tell a story. Nels really had been the hero of a hundred fights; he had
never been known to talk about them; but Dorothy's eyes and Helen's smile had
somehow upset his modesty. Whenever Monty would begin to talk Nels would growl
and knock his pipe on a log, and make it appear he could not stay and listen,
though he never really left the charmed circle of the camp-fire. Wild horses
could not have dragged him away.
One evening at twilight, as Madeline was leaving
her tent, she encountered Monty. Evidently, he had way-laid her. With the most
mysterious of signs and whispers he led her a little aside.
“Miss Hammond, I'm makin' bold to ask a favor of
you,” he said.
Madeline smiled her willingness.
“To-night, when they've all shot off their chins
an' it's quiet-like, I want you to ask me, jest this way, 'Monty, seein' as
you've hed more adventures than all them cow-punchers put together, tell us
about the most turrible time you ever hed.' Will you ask me, Miss Hammond, jest
kinda sincere like?”
“Certainly I will, Monty,” she replied.
His dark, seared face had no more warmth than a
piece of cold, volcanic rock, which it resembled. Madeline appreciated how
monstrous Dorothy found this burned and distorted visage, how deformed the
little man looked to a woman of refined sensibilities. It was difficult for
Madeline to look into his face. But she saw behind the blackened mask. And now
she saw in Monty's deep eyes a spirit of pure fun.
So, true to her word, Madeline remembered at an
opportune moment, when conversation had hushed and only the long, dismal wail
of coyotes broke the silence, to turn toward the little cowboy.
“Monty,” she said, and paused for effect—“Monty,
seeing that you have had more adventures than all the cowboys together, tell us
about the most terrible time you ever had.”
Monty appeared startled at the question that
fastened all eyes upon him. He waved a deprecatory hand.
“Aw, Miss Hammond, thankin' you all modest-like
fer the compliment, I'll hev to refuse,” replied Monty, laboring in distress.
“It's too harrowin' fer tender-hearted gurls to listen to.”
“Go on?” cried everybody except the cowboys. Nels
began to nod his head as if he, as well as Monty, understood human nature.
Dorothy hugged her knees with a kind of shudder. Monty had fastened the
hypnotic eyes upon her. Castleton ceased smoking, adjusted his eyeglass, and
prepared to listen in great earnestness.
Monty changed his seat to one where the light from
the blazing logs fell upon his face; and he appeared plunged into melancholy
and profound thought.
“Now I tax myself, I can't jest decide which was
the orfulest time I ever hed,” he said, reflectively.
Here Nels blew forth an immense cloud of smoke, as
if he desired to hide himself from sight. Monty pondered, and then when the
smoke rolled away he turned to Nels.
“See hyar, old pard, me an' you seen somethin' of
each other in the Panhandle, more 'n thirty years ago—”
“Which we didn't,” interrupted Nels, bluntly.
“Shore you can't make me out an ole man.”
“Mebbe it wasn't so darn long. Anyhow, Nels, you recollect
them three hoss-thieves I hung all on one cottonwood-tree, an' likewise thet
boo-tiful blond gurl I rescooed from a band of cutthroats who murdered her paw,
ole Bill Warren, the buffalo-hunter? Now, which of them two scraps was the
turriblest, in your idee?”
“Monty, my memory's shore bad,” replied the
unimpeachable Nels.
“Tell us about the beautiful blonde,” cried at
least three of the ladies. Dorothy, who had suffered from nightmare because of
a former story of hanging men on trees, had voicelessly appealed to Monty to
spare her more of that.
“All right, we'll hev the blond gurl,” said Monty,
settling back, “though I ain't thinkin' her story is most turrible of the two,
an' it'll rake over tender affections long slumberin' in my breast.”
As he paused there came a sharp, rapping sound.
This appeared to be Nels knocking the ashes out of his pipe on a stump—a true
indication of the passing of content from that jealous cowboy.
“It was down in the Panhandle, 'way over in the
west end of thet Comanche huntin'-ground, an' all the redskins an' outlaws in
thet country were hidin' in the river-bottoms, an' chasin' some of the last
buffalo herds thet hed wintered in there. I was a young buck them days, an'
purty much of a desperado, I'm thinkin'. Though of all the seventeen notches on
my gun—an' each notch meant a man killed face to face—there was only one thet I
was ashamed of. Thet one was fer an express messenger who I hit on the head
most unprofessional like, jest because he wouldn't hand over a leetle package.
I hed the kind of a reputashun thet made all the fellers in saloons smile an'
buy drinks.
“Well, I dropped into a place named Taylor's Bend,
an' was peaceful standin' to the bar when three cow-punchers come in, an', me
bein' with my back turned, they didn't recognize me an' got playful. I didn't
stop drinkin', an' I didn't turn square round; but when I stopped shootin'
under my arm the saloon-keeper hed to go over to the sawmill an' fetch a heap
of sawdust to cover up what was left of them three cow-punchers, after they was
hauled out. You see, I was rough them days, an' would shoot ears off an' noses
off an' hands off; when in later days I'd jest kill a man quick, same as Wild
Bill.
“News drifts into town thet night thet a gang of
cut-throats hed murdered ole Bill Warren an' carried off his gurl. I gathers up
a few good gun-men, an' we rid out an' down the river-bottom, to an ole log
cabin, where the outlaws hed a rondevoo. We rid up boldlike, an' made a hell of
a racket. Then the gang began to throw lead from the cabin, an' we all hunted
cover. Fightin' went on all night. In the mornin' all my outfit was killed but
two, an' they was shot up bad. We fought all day without eatin' or drinkin',
except some whisky I hed, an' at night I was on the job by my lonesome.
“Bein' bunged up some myself, I laid off an' went
down to the river to wash the blood off, tie up my wounds, an' drink a leetle.
While I was down there along comes one of the cutthroats with a bucket. Instead
of gettin' water he got lead, an' as he was about to croak he tells me a whole
bunch of outlaws was headin' in there, doo to-morrer. An' if I wanted to rescoo
the gurl I hed to be hurryin'. There was five fellers left in the cabin.
“I went back to the thicket where I hed left my
hoss, an' loaded up with two more guns an' another belt, an' busted a fresh box
of shells. If I recollect proper, I got some cigarettes, too. Well, I mozied
back to the cabin. It was a boo-tiful moonshiny night, an' I wondered if ole
Bill's gun was as purty as I'd heerd. The grass growed long round the cabin,
an' I crawled up to the door without startin' anythin'. Then I figgered. There
was only one door in thet cabin, an' it was black dark inside. I jest grabbed
open the door an' slipped in quick. It worked all right. They heerd me, but
hedn't been quick enough to ketch me in the light of the door. Of course there
was some shots, but I ducked too quick, an' changed my position.
“Ladies an' gentlemen, thet there was some dool by
night. An' I wasn't often in the place where they shot. I was most wonderful
patient, an' jest waited until one of them darned ruffians would get so nervous
he'd hev to hunt me up. When mornin' come there they was all piled up on the
floor, all shot to pieces. I found the gurl. Purty! Say, she was boo-tiful. We
went down to the river, where she begun to bathe my wounds. I'd collected a
dozen more or so, an' the sight of tears in her lovely eyes, an' my blood
a-stainin' of her little hands, jest nat'rally wakened a trembly spell in my
heart. I seen she was took the same way, an' thet settled it.
“We was comin' up from the river, an' I hed jest
straddled my hoss, with the gurl behind, when we run right into thet cutthroat
gang thet was doo about then. Bein' some handicapped, I couldn't drop more 'n
one gun-round of them, an' then I hed to slope. The whole gang follered me, an'
some miles out chased me over a ridge right into a big herd of buffalo. Before
I knowed what was what thet herd broke into a stampede, with me in the middle.
Purty soon the buffalo closed in tight. I knowed I was in some peril then. But
the gurl trusted me somethin' pitiful. I seen again thet she hed fell in love
with me. I could tell from the way she hugged me an' yelled. Before long I was
some put to it to keep my hoss on his feet. Far as I could see was dusty,
black, bobbin', shaggy humps. A huge cloud of dust went along over our heads.
The roar of tramplin' hoofs was turrible. My hoss weakened, went down, an' was
carried along a leetle while I slipped off with the gurl on to the backs of the
buffalo.
“Ladies, I ain't denyin' that then Monty Price was
some scairt. Fust time in my life! But the trustin' face of thet boo-tiful
gurl, as she lay in my arms an' hugged me an' yelled, made my spirit leap like
a shootin' star. I just began to jump from buffalo to buffalo. I must hev
jumped a mile of them bobbin' backs before I come to open places. An' here's
where I performed the greatest stunts of my life. I hed on my big spurs, an' I
jest sit down an' rid an' spurred till thet pertickler buffalo I was on got
near another, an' then I'd flop over. Thusly I got to the edge of the herd,
tumbled off'n the last one, an' rescooed the gurl.
“Well, as my memory takes me back, thet was a most
affectin' walk home to the little town where she lived. But she wasn't troo to
me, an' married another feller. I was too much a sport to kill him. But thet
low-down trick rankled in my breast. Gurls is strange. I've never stopped
wonderin' how any gurl who has been hugged an' kissed by one man could marry
another. But matoor experience teaches me thet sich is the case.”
The cowboys roared; Helen and Mrs. Beck and Edith
laughed till they cried; Madeline found repression absolutely impossible;
Dorothy sat hugging her knees, her horror at the story no greater than at
Monty's unmistakable reference to her and to the fickleness of women; and
Castleton for the first time appeared to be moved out of his imperturbability,
though not in any sense by humor. Indeed, when he came to notice it, he was
dumfounded by the mirth.
“By Jove! you Americans are an extraordinary
people,” he said. “I don't see anything blooming funny in Mr. Price's story of
his adventure. By Jove! that was a bally warm occasion. Mr. Price, when you
speak of being frightened for the only time in your life, I appreciate what you
mean. I have experienced that. I was frightened once.”
“Dook, I wouldn't hev thought it of you,” replied
Monty. “I'm sure tolerable curious to hear about it.”
Madeline and her friends dared not break the
spell, for fear that the Englishman might hold to his usual modest reticence.
He had explored in Brazil, seen service in the Boer War, hunted in India and
Africa—matters of experience of which he never spoke. Upon this occasion,
however, evidently taking Monty's recital word for word as literal truth, and
excited by it into a Homeric mood, he might tell a story. The cowboys almost
fell upon their knees in their importunity. There was a suppressed eagerness in
their solicitations, a hint of something that meant more than desire, great as
it was, to hear a story told by an English lord. Madeline divined instantly
that the cowboys had suddenly fancied that Castleton was not the dense and
easily fooled person they had made such game of; that he had played his part well;
that he was having fun at their expense; that he meant to tell a story, a lie
which would simply dwarf Monty's. Nels's keen, bright expectation suggested how
he would welcome the joke turned upon Monty. The slow closing of Monty's
cavernous smile, the gradual sinking of his proud bearing, the doubt with which
he began to regard Castleton—these were proofs of his fears.
“I have faced charging tigers and elephants in
India, and charging rhinos and lions in Africa,” began Castleton, his quick and
fluent speech so different from the drawl of his ordinary conversation; “but I
never was frightened but once. It will not do to hunt those wild beasts if you
are easily balled up. This adventure I have in mind happened in British East
Africa, in Uganda. I was out with safari, and we were in a native district much
infested by man-eating lions. Perhaps I may as well state that man-eaters are
very different from ordinary lions. They are always matured beasts, and
sometimes—indeed, mostly—are old. They become man-eaters most likely by
accident or necessity. When old they find it more difficult to make a kill,
being slower, probably, and with poorer teeth. Driven by hunger, they stalk and
kill a native, and, once having tasted human blood, they want no other. They
become absolutely fearless and terrible in their attacks.
“The natives of this village near where we camped
were in a terrorized state owing to depredations of two or more man-eaters. The
night of our arrival a lion leaped a stockade fence, seized a native from among
others sitting round a fire, and leaped out again, carrying the screaming
fellow away into the darkness. I determined to kill these lions, and made a
permanent camp in the village for that purpose. By day I sent beaters into the
brush and rocks of the river-valley, and by night I watched. Every night the
lions visited us, but I did not see one. I discovered that when they roared
around the camp they were not so liable to attack as when they were silent. It
was indeed remarkable how silently they could stalk a man. They could creep
through a thicket so dense you would not believe a rabbit could get through,
and do it without the slightest sound. Then, when ready to charge, they did so
with terrible onslaught and roar. They leaped right into a circle of fires,
tore down huts, even dragged natives from the low trees. There was no way to
tell at which point they would make an attack.
“After ten days or more of this I was worn out by
loss of sleep. And one night, when tired out with watching, I fell asleep. My
gun-bearer was alone in the tent with me. A terrible roar awakened me, then an
unearthly scream pierced right into my ears. I always slept with my rifle in my
hands, and, grasping it, I tried to rise. But I could not for the reason that a
lion was standing over me. Then I lay still. The screams of my gun-bearer told
me that the lion had him. I was fond of this fellow and wanted to save him. I
thought it best, however, not to move while the lion stood over me. Suddenly he
stepped, and I felt poor Luki's feet dragging across me. He screamed, 'Save me,
master!' And instinctively I grasped at him and caught his foot. The lion
walked out of the tent dragging me as I held to Luki's foot. The night was
bright moonlight. I could see the lion distinctly. He was a huge, black-maned
brute, and he held Luki by the shoulder. The poor lad kept screaming
frightfully. The man-eater must have dragged me forty yards before he became
aware of a double incumbrance to his progress. Then he halted and turned. By
Jove! he made a devilish fierce object with his shaggy, massive head, his
green-fire eyes, and his huge jaws holding Luki. I let go of Luki's foot and
bethought myself of the gun. But as I lay there on my side, before attempting
to rise, I made a horrible discovery. I did not have my rifle at all. I had
Luki's iron spear, which he always had near him. My rifle had slipped out of
the hollow of my arm, and when the lion awakened me, in my confusion I picked
up Luki's spear instead. The bloody brute dropped Luki and uttered a roar that
shook the ground. It was then I felt frightened. For an instant I was almost
paralyzed. The lion meant to charge, and in one spring he could reach me. Under
circumstances like those a man can think many things in little time. I knew to
try to run would be fatal. I remembered how strangely lions had been known to
act upon occasion. One had been frightened by an umbrella; one had been
frightened by a blast from a cow-horn; another had been frightened by a native
who in running from one lion ran right at the other which he had not seen.
Accordingly, I wondered if I could frighten the lion that meant to leap at me.
Acting upon wild impulse, I prodded him in the hind quarters with the spear.
Ladies and gentlemen, I am a blooming idiot if that lion did not cower like a
whipped dog, put his tail down, and begin to slink away. Quick to see my
chance, I jumped up yelling, and made after him, prodding him again. He let out
a bellow such as you could imagine would come from an outraged king of beasts.
I prodded again, and then he loped off. I found Luki not badly hurt. In fact,
he got well. But I've never forgotten that scare.”
When Castleton finished his narrative there was a
trenchant silence. All eyes were upon Monty. He looked beaten, disgraced, a
disgusted man. Yet there shone from his face a wonderful admiration for
Castleton.
“Dook, you win!” he said; and, dropping his head,
he left the camp-fire circle with the manner of a deposed emperor.
Then the cowboys exploded. The quiet, serene,
low-voiced Nels yelled like a madman and he stood upon his head. All the other
cowboys went through marvelous contortions. Mere noise was insufficient to
relieve their joy at what they considered the fall and humiliation of the
tyrant Monty.
The Englishman stood there and watched them in
amused consternation. They baffled his understanding. Plain it was to Madeline
and her friends that Castleton had told the simple truth. But never on the
earth, or anywhere else, could Nels and his comrades have been persuaded that Castleton
had not lied deliberately to humble their great exponent of Ananias.
Everybody seemed reluctant to break the camp-fire
spell. The logs had burned out to a great heap of opal and gold and red coals,
in the heart of which quivered a glow alluring to the spirit of dreams. As the
blaze subsided the shadows of the pines encroached darker and darker upon the
circle of fading light. A cool wind fanned the embers, whipped up flakes of
white ashes, and moaned through the trees. The wild yelps of coyotes were dying
in the distance, and the sky was a wonderful dark-blue dome spangled with white
stars.
“What a perfect night!” said Madeline. “This is a
night to understand the dream, the mystery, the wonder of the Southwest.
Florence, for long you have promised to tell us the story of the lost mine of
the padres. It will give us all pleasure, make us understand something of the
thrall in which this land held the Spaniards who discovered it so many years
ago. It will be especially interesting now, because this mountain hides
somewhere under its crags the treasures of the lost mine of the padres.”
“In the sixteenth century,” Florence began, in her
soft, slow voice so suited to the nature of the legend, “a poor young padre of
New Spain was shepherding his goats upon a hill when the Virgin appeared before
him. He prostrated himself at her feet, and when he looked up she was gone. But
upon the maguey plant near where she had stood there were golden ashes of a
strange and wonderful substance. He took the incident as a good omen and went
again to the hilltop. Under the maguey had sprung up slender stalks of white,
bearing delicate gold flowers, and as these flowers waved in the wind a fine
golden dust, as fine as powdered ashes, blew away toward the north. Padre Juan
was mystified, but believed that great fortune attended upon him and his poor
people. So he went again and again to the hilltop in hope that the Virgin would
appear to him.
“One morning, as the sun rose gloriously, he
looked across the windy hill toward the waving grass and golden flowers under
the maguey, and he saw the Virgin beckoning to him. Again he fell upon his
knees; but she lifted him and gave him of the golden flowers, and bade him
leave his home and people to follow where these blowing golden ashes led. There
he would find gold—pure gold—wonderful fortune to bring back to his poor people
to build a church for them, and a city.
“Padre Juan took the flowers and left his home,
promising to return, and he traveled northward over the hot and dusty desert,
through the mountain passes, to a new country where fierce and warlike Indians
menaced his life. He was gentle and good, and of a persuasive speech. Moreover,
he was young and handsome of person. The Indians were Apaches, and among them
he became a missionary, while always he was searching for the flowers of gold.
He heard of gold lying in pebbles upon the mountain slopes, but he never found
any. A few of the Apaches he converted; the most of them, however, were prone
to be hostile to him and his religion. But Padre Juan prayed and worked on.
“There came a time when the old Apache chief,
imagining the padre had designs upon his influence with the tribe, sought to
put him to death by fire. The chief's daughter, a beautiful, dark-eyed maiden,
secretly loved Juan and believed in his mission, and she interceded for his
life and saved him. Juan fell in love with her. One day she came to him wearing
golden flowers in her dark hair, and as the wind blew the flowers a golden dust
blew upon it. Juan asked her where to find such flowers, and she told him that
upon a certain day she would take him to the mountain to look for them. And
upon the day she led up to the mountain-top from which they could see beautiful
valleys and great trees and cool waters. There at the top of a wonderful slope
that looked down upon the world, she showed Juan the flowers. And Juan found
gold in such abundance that he thought he would go out of his mind. Dust of
gold! Grains of gold! Pebbles of gold! Rocks of gold! He was rich beyond all dreams.
He remembered the Virgin and her words. He must return to his people and build
their church, and the great city that would bear his name.
“But Juan tarried. Always he was going manana. He
loved the dark-eyed Apache girl so well that he could not leave her. He hated
himself for his infidelity to his Virgin, to his people. He was weak and false,
a sinner. But he could not go, and he gave himself up to love of the Indian
maiden.
“The old Apache chief discovered the secret love
of his daughter and the padre. And, fierce in his anger, he took her up into
the mountains and burned her alive and cast her ashes upon the wind. He did not
kill Padre Juan. He was too wise, and perhaps too cruel, for he saw the
strength of Juan's love. Besides, many of his tribe had learned much from the
Spaniard.
“Padre Juan fell into despair. He had no desire to
live. He faded and wasted away. But before he died he went to the old Indians
who had burned the maiden, and he begged them, when he was dead, to burn his
body and to cast his ashes to the wind from that wonderful slope, where they
would blow away to mingle forever with those of his Indian sweetheart.
“The Indians promised, and when Padre Juan died
they burned his body and took his ashes to the mountain heights and cast them
to the wind, where they drifted and fell to mix with the ashes of the Indian
girl he had loved.
“Years passed. More padres traveled across the
desert to the home of the Apaches, and they heard the story of Juan. Among
their number was a padre who in his youth had been one of Juan's people. He set
forth to find Juan's grave, where he believed he would also find the gold. And
he came back with pebbles of gold and flowers that shed a golden dust, and he
told a wonderful story. He had climbed and climbed into the mountains, and he
had come to a wonderful slope under the crags. That slope was yellow with
golden flowers. When he touched them golden ashes drifted from them and blew
down among the rocks. There the padre found dust of gold, grains of gold, pebbles
of gold, rocks of gold.
“Then all the padres went into the mountains. But
the discoverer of the mine lost his way. They searched and searched until they
were old and gray, but never found the wonderful slope and flowers that marked
the grave and the mine of Padre Juan.
“In the succeeding years the story was handed down
from father to son. But of the many who hunted for the lost mine of the padres
there was never a Mexican or an Apache. For the Apache the mountain slopes were
haunted by the spirit of an Indian maiden who had been false to her tribe and
forever accursed. For the Mexican the mountain slopes were haunted by the
spirit of the false padre who rolled stones upon the heads of those adventurers
who sought to find his grave and his accursed gold.”
XVIII. Bonita
Florence's story of the lost mine fired Madeline's
guests with the fever for gold-hunting. But after they had tried it a few times
and the glamour of the thing wore off they gave up and remained in camp. Having
exhausted all the resources of the mountain, such that had interest for them,
they settled quietly down for a rest, which Madeline knew would soon end in a
desire for civilized comforts. They were almost tired of roughing it. Helen's
discontent manifested itself in her remark, “I guess nothing is going to
happen, after all.”
Madeline awaited their pleasure in regard to the
breaking of camp; and meanwhile, as none of them cared for more exertion, she
took her walks without them, sometimes accompanied by one of the cowboys, always
by the stag-hounds. These walks furnished her exceeding pleasure. And, now that
the cowboys would talk to her without reserve, she grew fonder of listening to
their simple stories. The more she knew of them the more she doubted the wisdom
of shut-in lives. Companionship with Nels and most of the cowboys was in its
effect like that of the rugged pines and crags and the untainted wind. Humor,
their predominant trait when a person grew to know them, saved Madeline from
finding their hardness trying. They were dreamers, as all men who lived lonely
lives in the wilds were dreamers.
The cowboys all had secrets. Madeline learned some
of them. She marveled most at the strange way in which they hid emotions,
except of violence of mirth and temper so easily aroused. It was all the more
remarkable in view of the fact that they felt intensely over little things to
which men of the world were blind and dead. Madeline had to believe that a hard
and perilous life in a barren and wild country developed great principles in
men. Living close to earth, under the cold, bleak peaks, on the dust-veiled
desert, men grew like the nature that developed them—hard, fierce, terrible,
perhaps, but big—big with elemental force.
But one day, while out walking alone, before she
realized it she had gone a long way down a dim trail winding among the rocks.
It was the middle of a summer afternoon, and all about her were shadows of the
crags crossing the sunlit patches. The quiet was undisturbed. She went on and
on, not blind to the fact that she was perhaps going too far from camp, but
risking it because she was sure of her way back, and enjoying the wild, craggy
recesses that were new to her. Finally she came out upon a bank that broke
abruptly into a beautiful little glade. Here she sat down to rest before
undertaking the return trip.
Suddenly Russ, the keener of the stag-hounds,
raised his head and growled. Madeline feared he might have scented a
mountain-lion or wildcat. She quieted him and carefully looked around. To each
side was an irregular line of massive blocks of stone that had weathered from
the crags. The little glade was open and grassy, with here a pine-tree, there a
boulder. The outlet seemed to go down into a wilderness of canyons and ridges.
Looking in this direction, Madeline saw the slight, dark figure of a woman
coming stealthily along under the pines. Madeline was amazed, then a little
frightened, for that stealthy walk from tree to tree was suggestive of secrecy,
if nothing worse.
Presently the woman was joined by a tall man who
carried a package, which he gave to her. They came on up the glade and appeared
to be talking earnestly. In another moment Madeline recognized Stewart. She had
no greater feeling of surprise than had at first been hers. But for the next
moment she scarcely thought at all—merely watched the couple approaching. In a
flash came back her former curiosity as to Stewart's strange absences from
camp, and then with the return of her doubt of him the recognition of the
woman. The small, dark head, the brown face, the big eyes—Madeline now saw
distinctly—belonged to the Mexican girl Bonita. Stewart had met her there. This
was the secret of his lonely trips, taken ever since he had come to work for
Madeline. This secluded glade was a rendezvous. He had her hidden there.
Quietly Madeline arose, with a gesture to the
dogs, and went back along the trail toward camp. Succeeding her surprise was a
feeling of sorrow that Stewart's regeneration had not been complete. Sorrow
gave place to insufferable distrust that while she had been romancing about
this cowboy, dreaming of her good influence over him, he had been merely base.
Somehow it stung her. Stewart had been nothing to her, she thought, yet she had
been proud of him. She tried to revolve the thing, to be fair to him, when
every instinctive tendency was to expel him, and all pertaining to him, from
her thoughts. And her effort at sympathy, at extenuation, failed utterly before
her pride. Exerting her will-power, she dismissed Stewart from her mind.
Madeline did not think of him again till late that
afternoon, when, as she was leaving her tent to join several of her guests,
Stewart appeared suddenly in her path.
“Miss Hammond, I saw your tracks down the trail,”
he began, eagerly, but his tone was easy and natural. “I'm thinking—well, maybe
you sure got the idea—”
“I do not wish for an explanation,” interrupted
Madeline.
Stewart gave a slight start. His manner had a
semblance of the old, cool audacity. As he looked down at her it subtly
changed.
What effrontery, Madeline thought, to face her
before her guests with an explanation of his conduct! Suddenly she felt an
inward flash of fire that was pain, so strange, so incomprehensible, that her
mind whirled. Then anger possessed her, not at Stewart, but at herself, that
anything could rouse in her a raw emotion. She stood there, outwardly cold,
serene, with level, haughty eyes upon Stewart; but inwardly she was burning
with rage and shame.
“I'm sure not going to have you think—” He began
passionately, but he broke off, and a slow, dull crimson blotted over the
healthy red-brown of his neck and cheeks.
“What you do or think, Stewart, is no concern of
mine.”
“Miss—Miss Hammond! You don't believe—” faltered
Stewart.
The crimson receded from his face, leaving it pale.
His eyes were appealing. They had a kind of timid look that struck Madeline
even in her anger. There was something boyish about him then. He took a step
forward and reached out with his hand open-palmed in a gesture that was humble,
yet held a certain dignity.
“But listen. Never mind now what you—you think
about me. There's a good reason—”
“I have no wish to hear your reason.”
“But you ought to,” he persisted.
“Sir!”
Stewart underwent another swift change. He started
violently. A dark tide shaded his face and a glitter leaped to his eyes. He
took two long strides—loomed over her.
“I'm not thinking about myself,” he thundered.
“Will you listen?”
“No,” she replied; and there was freezing hauteur
in her voice. With a slight gesture of dismissal, unmistakable in its finality,
she turned her back upon him. Then she joined her guests.
Stewart stood perfectly motionless. Then slowly he
began to lift his right hand in which he held his sombrero. He swept it up and
up high over his head. His tall form towered. With fierce suddenness he flung
his sombrero down. He leaped at his black horse and dragged him to where his
saddle lay. With one pitch he tossed the saddle upon the horse's back. His
strong hands flashed at girths and straps. Every action was swift, decisive,
fierce. Bounding for his bridle, which hung over a bush, he ran against a
cowboy who awkwardly tried to avoid the onslaught.
“Get out of my way!” he yelled.
Then with the same savage haste he adjusted the
bridle on his horse.
“Mebbe you better hold on a minnit, Gene, ole
feller,” said Monty Price.
“Monty, do you want me to brain you?” said
Stewart, with the short, hard ring in his voice.
“Now, considerin' the high class of my brains, I
oughter be real careful to keep 'em,” replied Monty. “You can betcher life,
Gene, I ain't goin' to git in front of you. But I jest says—Listen!”
Stewart raised his dark face. Everybody listened.
And everybody heard the rapid beat of a horse's hoofs. The sun had set, but the
park was light. Nels appeared down the trail, and his horse was running. In
another moment he was in the circle, pulling his bay back to a sliding halt. He
leaped off abreast of Stewart.
Madeline saw and felt a difference in Nels's
presence.
“What's up, Gene?” he queried, sharply.
“I'm leaving camp,” replied Stewart, thickly. His
black horse began to stamp as Stewart grasped bridle and mane and kicked the
stirrup round.
Nels's long arm shot out, and his hand fell upon
Stewart, holding him down.
“Shore I'm sorry,” said Nels, slowly. “Then you
was goin' to hit the trail?”
“I am going to. Let go, Nels.”
“Shore you ain't goin', Gene?”
“Let go, damn you!” cried Stewart, as he wrestled
free.
“What's wrong?” asked Nels, lifting his hand
again.
“Man! Don't touch me!”
Nels stepped back instantly. He seemed to become
aware of Stewart's white, wild passion. Again Stewart moved to mount.
“Nels, don't make me forget we've been friends,”
he said.
“Shore I ain't fergettin',” replied Nels. “An' I
resign my job right here an' now!”
His strange speech checked the mounting cowboy.
Stewart stepped down from the stirrup. Then their hard faces were still and
cold while their eyes locked glances.
Madeline was as much startled by Nels's speech as
Stewart. Quick to note a change in these men, she now sensed one that was
unfathomable.
“Resign?” questioned Stewart.
“Shore. What 'd you think I'd do under
circumstances sich as has come up?”
“But see here, Nels, I won't stand for it.”
“You're not my boss no more, an' I ain't beholdin'
to Miss Hammond, neither. I'm my own boss, an' I'll do as I please. Sabe,
senor?”
Nels's words were at variance with the meaning in
his face.
“Gene, you sent me on a little scout down in the
mountains, didn't you?” he continued.
“Yes, I did,” replied Stewart, with a new
sharpness in his voice.
“Wal, shore you was so good an' right in your
figgerin', as opposed to mine, that I'm sick with admirin' of you. If you
hedn't sent me—wal, I'm reckonin' somethin' might hev happened. As it is we're
shore up against a hell of a proposition!”
How significant was the effect of his words upon
all the cowboys! Stewart made a fierce and violent motion, terrible where his
other motions had been but passionate. Monty leaped straight up into the air in
a singular action as suggestive of surprise as it was of wild acceptance of
menace. Like a stalking giant Nick Steele strode over to Nels and Stewart. The
other cowboys rose silently, without a word.
Madeline and her guests, in a little group,
watched and listened, unable to divine what all this strange talk and action
meant.
“Hold on, Nels, they don't need to hear it,” said
Stewart, hoarsely, as he waved a hand toward Madeline's silent group.
“Wal, I'm sorry, but I reckon they'd as well know
fust as last. Mebbe thet yearnin' wish of Miss Helen's fer somethin' to happen
will come true. Shore I—”
“Cut out the joshin',” rang out Monty's strident
voice.
It had as decided an effect as any preceding words
or action. Perhaps it was the last thing needed to transform these men, doing
unaccustomed duty as escorts of beautiful women, to their natural state as men
of the wild.
“Tell us what's what,” said Stewart, cool and
grim.
“Don Carlos an' his guerrillas are campin' on the
trails thet lead up here. They've got them trails blocked. By to-morrer they'd
hed us corralled. Mebbe they meant to surprise us. He's got a lot of Greasers
an' outlaws. They're well armed. Now what do they mean? You-all can figger it
out to suit yourselves. Mebbe the Don wants to pay a sociable call on our
ladies. Mebbe his gang is some hungry, as usual. Mebbe they want to steal a few
hosses, or anythin' they can lay hands on. Mebbe they mean wuss, too. Now my
idee is this, an' mebbe it's wrong. I long since separated from love with
Greasers. Thet black-faced Don Carlos has got a deep game. Thet two-bit of a
revolution is hevin' hard times. The rebels want American intervention. They'd
stretch any point to make trouble. We're only ten miles from the border.
Suppose them guerrillas got our crowd across thet border? The U. S. cavalry
would foller. You-all know what thet'd mean. Mebbe Don Carlos's mind works thet
way. Mebbe it don't. I reckon we'll know soon. An' now, Stewart, whatever the
Don's game is, shore you're the man to outfigger him. Mebbe it's just as well
you're good an' mad about somethin'. An' I resign my job because I want to feel
unbeholdin' to anybody. Shore it struck me long since thet the old days hed
come back fer a little spell, an' there I was trailin' a promise not to hurt
any Greaser.”
