Chapter XI: A Band of Guerrillas (5)

“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.”

XIX. Don Carlos

Stewart took Nels, Monty, and Nick Steele aside out of earshot, and they evidently entered upon an earnest colloquy. Presently the other cowboys were called. They all talked more or less, but the deep voice of Stewart predominated over the others. Then the consultation broke up, and the cowboys scattered.

“Rustle, you Indians!” ordered Stewart.

The ensuing scene of action was not reassuring to Madeline and her friends. They were quiet, awaiting some one to tell them what to do. At the offset the cowboys appeared to have forgotten Madeline. Some of them ran off into the woods, others into the open, grassy places, where they rounded up the horses and burros. Several cowboys spread tarpaulins upon the ground and began to select and roll small packs, evidently for hurried travel. Nels mounted his horse to ride down the trail. Monty and Nick Steele went off into the grove, leading their horses. Stewart climbed up a steep jumble of stone between two sections of low, cracked cliff back of the camp.

Castleton offered to help the packers, and was curtly told he would be in the way. Madeline’s friends all importuned her: Was there real danger? Were the guerrillas coming? Would a start be made at once for the ranch? Why had the cowboys suddenly become so different? Madeline answered as best she could; but her replies were only conjecture, and modified to allay the fears of her guests. Helen was in a white glow of excitement.

Soon cowboys appeared riding barebacked horses, driving in others and the burros. Some of these horses were taken away and evidently hidden in deep recesses between the crags. The string of burros were packed and sent off down the trail in charge of a cowboy. Nick Steele and Monty returned. Then Stewart appeared, clambering down the break between the cliffs.

His next move was to order all the baggage belonging to Madeline and her guests taken up the cliff. This was strenuous toil, requiring the need of lassoes to haul up the effects.

“Get ready to climb,” said Stewart, turning to Madelines party.

“Where?” asked Helen.

He waved his hand at the ascent to be made. Exclamations of dismay followed his gesture.

“Mr. Stewart, is there danger?” asked Dorothy; and her voice trembled.

This was the question Madeline had upon her lips to ask Stewart, but she could not speak it.

“No, there’s no danger,” replied Stewart, “but we’re taking precautions we all agreed on as best.”

Dorothy whispered that she believed Stewart lied. Castleton asked another question, and then Harvey followed suit. Mrs. Beck made a timid query.

“Please keep quiet and do as you’re told,” said Stewart, bluntly.

At this juncture, when the last of the baggage was being hauled up the cliff, Monty approached Madeline and removed his sombrero. His black face seemed the same, yet this was a vastly changed Monty.

“Miss Hammond, I’m givin’ notice I resign my job,” he said.

“Monty! What do you mean? What does Nels mean now, when danger threatens?”

“We jest quit. Thet’s all,” replied Monty, tersely. He was stern and somber; he could not stand still; his eyes roved everywhere.

Castleton jumped up from the log where he had been sitting, and his face was very red.

“Mr. Price, does all this blooming fuss mean we are to be robbed or attacked or abducted by a lot of ragamuffin guerrillas?”

“You’ve called the bet.”

Dorothy turned a very pale face toward Monty.

“Mr. Price, you wouldn’t—you couldn’t desert us now? You and Mr. Nels—”

“Desert you?” asked Monty, blankly.

“Yes, desert us. Leave us when we may need you so much, with something dreadful coming.”

Monty uttered a short, hard laugh as he bent a strange look upon the girl.

“Me an’ Nels is purty much scared, an’ we’re goin’ to slope. Miss Dorothy, bein’ as we’ve rustled round so much; it sorta hurts us to see nice young girls dragged off by the hair.”

Dorothy uttered a little cry and then became hysterical. Castleton for once was fully aroused.

“By Gad! You and your partner are a couple of blooming cowards. Where now is that courage you boasted of?”

Monty’s dark face expressed extreme sarcasm.

“Dook, in my time I’ve seen some bright fellers, but you take the cake. It’s most marvelous how bright you are. Figger’n’ me an’ Nels so correct. Say, Dook, if you don’t git rustled off to Mexico an’ roped to a cactus-bush you’ll hev a swell story fer your English chums. Bah Jove! You’ll tell ’em how you seen two old-time gun-men run like scared jack-rabbits from a lot of Greasers. Like hell you will! Unless you lie like the time you told about proddin’ the lion. That there story allus—”

“Monty, shut up!” yelled Stewart, as he came hurriedly up. Then Monty slouched away, cursing to himself.

Madeline and Helen, assisted by Castleton, worked over Dorothy, and with some difficulty quieted her. Stewart passed several times without noticing them, and Monty, who had been so ridiculously eager to pay every little attention to Dorothy, did not see her at all. Rude it seemed; in Monty’s ease more than that. Madeline hardly knew what to make of it.

Stewart directed cowboys to go to the head of the open place in the cliff and let down lassoes. Then, with little waste of words, he urged the women toward this rough ladder of stones.

“We want to hide you,” he said, when they demurred. “If the guerrillas come we’ll tell them you’ve all gone down to the ranch. If we have to fight you’ll be safe up there.”

Helen stepped boldly forward and let Stewart put the loop of a lasso round her and tighten it. He waved his hand to the cowboys above.

“Just walk up, now,” he directed Helen.

It proved to the watchers to be an easy, safe, and rapid means of scaling the steep passage. The men climbed up without assistance. Mrs. Beck, as usual, had hysteria; she half walked and was half dragged up. Stewart supported Dorothy with one arm, while with the other he held to the lasso. Ambrose had to carry Christine. The Mexican women required no assistance. Edith Wayne and Madeline climbed last; and, once up, Madeline saw a narrow bench, thick with shrubs, and overshadowed by huge, leaning crags. There were holes in the rock, and dark fissures leading back. It was a rough, wild place. Tarpaulins and bedding were then hauled up, and food and water. The cowboys spread comfortable beds in several of the caves, and told Madeline and her friends to be as quiet as possible, not to make a light, and to sleep dressed, ready for travel at a moment’s notice.

After the cowboys had gone down it was not a cheerful group left there in the darkening twilight. Castleton prevailed upon them to eat.

“This is simply great,” whispered Helen.

“Oh, it’s awful!” moaned Dorothy. “It’s your fault, Helen. You prayed for something to happen.”

“I believe it’s a horrid trick those cowboys are playing,” said Mrs. Beck.

Madeline assured her friends that no trick was being played upon them, and that she deplored the discomfort and distress, but felt no real alarm. She was more inclined to evasive kindness here than to sincerity, for she had a decided uneasiness. The swift change in the manner and looks of her cowboys had been a shock to her. The last glance she had of Stewart’s face, then stern, almost sad, and haggard with worry, remained to augment her foreboding.

Darkness appeared to drop swiftly down; the coyotes began their haunting, mournful howls; the stars showed and grew brighter; the wind moaned through the tips of the pines. Castleton was restless. He walked to and fro before the overhanging shelf of rock, where his companions sat lamenting, and presently he went out to the ledge of the bench. The cowboys below had built a fire, and the light from it rose in a huge, fan-shaped glow. Castleton’s little figure stood out black against this light. Curious and anxious also, Madeline joined him and peered down from the cliff. The distance was short, and occasionally she could distinguish a word spoken by the cowboys. They were unconcernedly cooking and eating. She marked the absence of Stewart, and mentioned it to Castleton. Silently Castleton pointed almost straight down, and there in the gloom stood Stewart, with the two stag-hounds at his feet.

Presently Nick Steele silenced the camp-fire circle by raising a warning hand. The cowboys bent their heads, listening. Madeline listened with all her might. She heard one of the hounds whine, then the faint beat of horse’s hoofs. Nick spoke again and turned to his supper, and the other men seemed to slacken in attention. The beat of hoofs grew louder, entered the grove, then the circle of light. The rider was Nels. He dismounted, and the sound of his low voice just reached Madeline.

“Gene, it’s Nels. Somethin’ doin’,” Madeline heard one of the cowboys call, softly.

“Send him over,” replied Stewart.

Nels stalked away from the fire.

“See here, Nels, the boys are all right, but I don’t want them to know everything about this mix-up,” said Stewart, as Nels came up. “Did you find the girl?”

Madeline guessed that Stewart referred to the Mexican girl Bonita.

“No. But I met”—Madeline did not catch the name—“an’ he was wild. He was with a forest-ranger. An’ they said Pat Hawe had trailed her an’ was takin’ her down under arrest.”

Stewart muttered deep under his breath, evidently cursing.

“Wonder why he didn’t come on up here?” he queried, presently. “He can see a trail.”

“Wal, Gene, Pat knowed you was here all right, fer thet ranger said Pat hed wind of the guerrillas, an’ Pat said if Don Carlos didn’t kill you—which he hoped he’d do—then it ’d be time enough to put you in jail when you come down.”

“He’s dead set to arrest me, Nels.”

“An’ he’ll do it, like the old lady who kept tavern out West. Gene, the reason thet red-faced coyote didn’t trail you up here is because he’s scared. He allus was scared of you. But I reckon he’s shore scared to death of me an’ Monty.”

“Well, we’ll take Pat in his turn. The thing now is, when will that Greaser stalk us, and what’ll we do when he comes?”

“My boy, there’s only one way to handle a Greaser. I shore told you thet. He means rough toward us. He’ll come smilin’ up, all soci’ble like, insinuatin’ an’ sweeter ’n a woman. But he’s treacherous; he’s wuss than an Indian. An’, Gene, we know for a positive fact how his gang hev been operatin’ between these hills an’ Agua Prieta. They’re no nervy gang of outlaws like we used to hev. But they’re plumb bad. They’ve raided and murdered through the San Luis Pass an’ Guadalupe Canyon. They’ve murdered women, an’ wuss than thet, both north an’ south of Agua Prieta. Mebbe the U. S. cavalry don’t know it, an’ the good old States; but we, you an’ me an’ Monty an’ Nick, we know it. We know jest about what thet rebel war down there amounts to. It’s guerrilla war, an’ shore some harvest-time fer a lot of cheap thieves an’ outcasts.”

“Oh, you’re right, Nels. I’m not disputing that,” replied Stewart. “If it wasn’t for Miss Hammond and the other women, I’d rather enjoy seeing you and Monty open up on that bunch. I’m thinking I’d be glad to meet Don Carlos. But Miss Hammond! Why, Nels, such a woman as she is would never recover from the sight of real gun-play, let alone any stunts with a rope. These Eastern women are different. I’m not belittling our Western women. It’s in the blood. Miss Hammond is—is—”

“Shore she is,” interrupted Nels; “but she’s got a damn sight more spunk than you think she has, Gene Stewart. I’m no thick-skulled cow. I’d hate somethin’ powerful to hev Miss Hammond see any rough work, let alone me an’ Monty startin’ somethin’. An’ me an’ Monty’ll stick to you, Gene, as long as seems reasonable. Mind, ole feller, beggin’ your pardon, you’re shore stuck on Miss Hammond, an’ over-tender not to hurt her feelin’s or make her sick by lettin’ some blood. We’re in bad here, an’ mebbe we’ll hev to fight. Sabe, senor? Wal, we do you can jest gamble thet Miss Hammond’ll be game. An’ I’ll bet you a million pesos thet if you got goin’ onct, an’ she seen you as I’ve seen you—wal, I know what she’d think of you. This old world ain’t changed much. Some women may be white-skinned an’ soft-eyed an’ sweet-voiced an’ high-souled, but they all like to see a man! Gene, here’s your game. Let Don Carlos come along. Be civil. If he an’ his gang are hungry, feed ’em. Take even a little overbearin’ Greaser talk. Be blind if he wants his gang to steal somethin’. Let him think the women hev mosied down to the ranch. But if he says you’re lyin’—if he as much as looks round to see the women—jest jump him same as you jumped Pat Hawe. Me an’ Monty’ll hang back fer thet, an’ if your strong bluff don’t go through, if the Don’s gang even thinks of flashin’ guns, then we’ll open up. An’ all I got to say is if them Greasers stand fer real gun-play they’ll be the fust I ever seen.”

“Nels, there are white men in that gang,” said Stewart.

“Shore. But me an’ Monty’ll be thinkin’ of thet. If they start anythin’ it’ll hev to be shore quick.”

“All right, Nels, old friend, and thanks,” replied Stewart. Nels returned to the camp-fire, and Stewart resumed his silent guard.

Madeline led Castleton away from the brink of the wall.

“By Jove! Cowboys are blooming strange folk!” he exclaimed. “They are not what they pretend to be.”

“Indeed, you are right,” replied Madeline. “I cannot understand them. Come, let us tell the others that Nels and Monty were only talking and do not intend to leave us. Dorothy, at least, will be less frightened if she knows.”

Dorothy was somewhat comforted. The others, however, complained of the cowboys’ singular behavior. More than once the idea was advanced that an elaborate trick had been concocted. Upon general discussion this idea gained ground. Madeline did not combat it, because she saw it tended to a less perturbed condition of mind among her guests. Castleton for once proved that he was not absolutely obtuse, and helped along the idea.

They sat talking in low voices until a late hour. The incident now began to take on the nature of Helen’s long-yearned-for adventure. Some of the party even grew merry in a subdued way. Then, gradually, one by one they tired and went to bed. Helen vowed she could not sleep in a place where there were bats and crawling things. Madeline fancied, however, that they all went to sleep while she lay wide-eyed, staring up at the black bulge of overhanging rock and beyond the starry sky.

To keep from thinking of Stewart and the burning anger he had caused her to feel for herself, Madeline tried to keep her mind on other things. But thought of him recurred, and each time there was a hot commotion in her breast hard to stifle. Intelligent reasoning seemed out of her power. In the daylight it had been possible for her to be oblivious to Stewart’s deceit after the moment of its realization. At night, however, in the strange silence and hovering shadows of gloom, with the speaking stars seeming to call to her, with the moan of the wind in the pines, and the melancholy mourn of coyotes in the distance, she was not able to govern her thought and emotion. The day was practical, cold; the night was strange and tense. In the darkness she had fancies wholly unknown to her in the bright light of the sun. She battled with a haunting thought. She had inadvertently heard Nels’s conversation with Stewart; she had listened, hoping to hear some good news or to hear the worst; she had learned both, and, moreover, enlightenment on one point of Stewart’s complex motives. He wished to spare her any sight that might offend, frighten, or disgust her. Yet this Stewart, who showed a fineness of feeling that might have been wanting even in Boyd Harvey, maintained a secret rendezvous with that pretty, abandoned Bonita. Here always the hot shame, like a live, stinging, internal fire, abruptly ended Madeline’s thought. It was intolerable, and it was the more so because she could neither control nor understand it. The hours wore on, and at length, as the stars began to pale and there was no sound whatever, she fell asleep.

She was called out of her slumber. Day had broken bright and cool. The sun was still below the eastern crags. Ambrose, with several other cowboys, had brought up buckets of spring-water, and hot coffee and cakes. Madeline’s party appeared to be none the worse for the night’s experience. Indeed, the meager breakfast might have been as merrily partaken of as it was hungrily had not Ambrose enjoined silence.

“They’re expectin’ company down below,” he said.

This information and the summary manner in which the cowboys soon led the party higher up among the ruined shelves of rock caused a recurrence of anxiety. Madeline insisted on not going beyond a projection of cliff from which she could see directly down into the camp. As the vantage-point was one affording concealment, Ambrose consented, but he placed the frightened Christine near Madeline and remained there himself.

“Ambrose, do you really think the guerrillas will come?” asked Madeline.

“Sure. We know. Nels just rode in and said they were on their way up. Miss Hammond, can I trust you? You won’t let out a squeal if there’s a fight down there? Stewart told me to hide you out of sight or keep you from lookin’.”

“I promise not to make any noise,” replied Madeline. Madeline arranged her coat so that she could lie upon it, and settled down to wait developments. There came a slight rattling of stones in the rear. She turned to see Helen sliding down a bank with a perplexed and troubled cowboy. Helen came stooping low to where Madeline lay and said: “I am going to see what happens, if I die in the attempt! I can stand it if you can.” She was pale and big-eyed. Ambrose promptly swore at the cowboy who had let her get away from him. “Take a half-hitch on her yourself an’ see where you end up,” replied the fellow, and disappeared in the jumble of rocks. Ambrose, finding words useless, sternly and heroically prepared to carry Helen back to the others. He laid hold of her. In a fury, with eyes blazing, Helen whispered:

“Let go of me! Majesty, what does this fool mean?”

Madeline laughed. She knew Helen, and had marked the whisper, when ordinarily Helen would have spoken imperiously, and not low. Madeline explained to her the exigency of the situation. “I might run, but I’ll never scream,” said Helen. With that Ambrose had to be content to let her stay. However, he found her a place somewhat farther back from Madeline’s position, where he said there was less danger of her being seen. Then he sternly bound her to silence, tarried a moment to comfort Christine, and returned to where Madeline lay concealed. He had been there scarcely a moment when he whispered:

“I hear hosses. The guerrillas are comin’.”

Madeline’s hiding-place was well protected from possible discovery from below. She could peep over a kind of parapet, through an opening in the tips of the pines that reached up to the cliff, and obtain a commanding view of the camp circle and its immediate surroundings. She could not, however, see far either to right or left of the camp, owing to the obstructing foliage. Presently the sound of horses’ hoofs quickened the beat of her pulse and caused her to turn keener gaze upon the cowboys below.

Although she had some inkling of the course Stewart and his men were to pursue, she was not by any means prepared for the indifference she saw. Frank was asleep, or pretended to be. Three cowboys were lazily and unconcernedly attending to camp-fire duties, such as baking biscuits, watching the ovens, and washing tins and pots. The elaborate set of aluminum plates, cups, etc., together with the other camp fixtures that had done service for Madeline’s party, had disappeared. Nick Steele sat with his back to a log, smoking his pipe. Another cowboy had just brought the horses closer into camp, where they stood waiting to be saddled. Nels appeared to be fussing over a pack. Stewart was rolling a cigarette. Monty had apparently nothing to do for the present except whistle, which he was doing much more loudly than melodiously. The whole ensemble gave an impression of careless indifference.

The sound of horses’ hoofs grew louder and slowed its beat. One of the cowboys pointed down the trail, toward which several of his comrades turned their heads for a moment, then went on with their occupations.

Presently a shaggy, dusty horse bearing a lean, ragged, dark rider rode into camp and halted. Another followed, and another. Horses with Mexican riders came in single file and stopped behind the leader.

The cowboys looked up, and the guerrillas looked down. “Buenos dias, senor,” ceremoniously said the foremost guerrilla.