The Light of the Western Stars by Zane Grey (read along books .TXT) 📗

the forest. The sun sank low, and the shafts of gold fell with a long slant among the firs. Majesty's hoofs made no sound on the soft ground, and Stewart strode on without speaking. Neither his hurry nor vigilance relaxed until at least two miles had been covered. Then he held to a straighter course and did not send so many glances into the darkening woods. The level of the forest began to be cut up by little hollows, all of which sloped and widened. Presently the soft ground gave place to bare, rocky soil. The horse snorted and tossed his head. A sound of splashing water broke the silence. The hollow opened into a wider one through which a little brook murmured its way over the stones. Majesty snorted again and stopped and bent his head.

“He wants a drink,” said Madeline. “I'm thirsty, too, and very tired.”

Stewart lifted her out of the saddle, and as their hands parted she felt something moist and warm. Blood was running down her arm and into the palm of her hand.

“I'm—bleeding,” she said, a little unsteadily. “Oh, I remember. My arm was hurt.”

She held it out, the blood making her conscious of her weakness. Stewart's fingers felt so firm and sure. Swiftly he ripped the wet sleeve. Her forearm had been cut or scratched. He washed off the blood.

“Why, Stewart, it's nothing. I was only a little nervous. I guess that's the first time I ever saw my own blood.”

He made no reply as he tore her handkerchief into strips and bound her arm. His swift motions and his silence gave her a hint of how he might meet a more serious emergency. She felt safe. And because of that impression, when he lifted his head and she saw that he was pale and shaking, she was surprised. He stood before her folding his scarf, which was still wet, and from which he made no effort to remove the red stains.

“Miss Hammond,” he said, hoarsely, “it was a man's hands—a Greaser's finger-nails—that cut your arm. I know who he was. I could have killed him. But I mightn't have got your freedom. You understand? I didn't dare.”

Madeline gazed at Stewart, astounded more by his speech than his excessive emotion.

“My dear boy!” she exclaimed. And then she paused. She could not find words.

He was making an apology to her for not killing a man who had laid a rough hand upon her person. He was ashamed and seemed to be in a torture that she would not understand why he had not killed the man. There seemed to be something of passionate scorn in him that he had not been able to avenge her as well as free her.

“Stewart, I understand. You were being my kind of cowboy. I thank you.”

But she did not understand so much as she implied. She had heard many stories of this man's cool indifference to peril and death. He had always seemed as hard as granite. Why should the sight of a little blood upon her arm pale his cheek and shake his hand and thicken his voice? What was there in his nature to make him implore her to see the only reason he could not kill an outlaw? The answer to the first question was that he loved her. It was beyond her to answer the second. But the secret of it lay in the same strength from which his love sprang—an intensity of feeling which seemed characteristic of these Western men of simple, lonely, elemental lives. All at once over Madeline rushed a tide of realization of how greatly it was possible for such a man as Stewart to love her. The thought came to her in all its singular power. All her Eastern lovers who had the graces that made them her equals in the sight of the world were without the only great essential that a lonely, hard life had given to Stewart. Nature here struck a just balance. Something deep and dim in the future, an unknown voice, called to Madeline and disturbed her. And because it was not a voice to her intelligence she deadened the ears of her warm and throbbing life and decided never to listen.

“Is it safe to rest a little?” she asked. “I am so tired. Perhaps I'll be stronger if I rest.”

“We're all right now,” he said. “The horse will be better, too. I ran him out. And uphill, at that.”

“Where are we?”

“Up in the mountains, ten miles and more from the ranch. There's a trail just below here. I can get you home by midnight. They'll be some worried down there.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing much to any one but you. That's the—the hard luck of it. Florence caught us out on the slope. We were returning from the fire. We were dead beat. But we got to the ranch before any damage was done. We sure had trouble in finding a trace of you. Nick spotted the prints of your heels under the window. And then we knew. I had to fight the boys. If they'd come after you we'd never have gotten you without a fight. I didn't want that. Old Bill came out packing a dozen guns. He was crazy. I had to rope Monty. Honest, I tied him to the porch. Nels and Nick promised to stay and hold him till morning. That was the best I could do. I was sure lucky to come up with the band so soon. I had figured right. I knew that guerrilla chief. He's a bandit in Mexico. It's a business with him. But he fought for Madero, and I was with him a good deal. He may be a Greaser, but he's white.”

“How did you effect my release?”

“I offered them money. That's what the rebels all want. They need money. They're a lot of poor, hungry devils.”

“I gathered that you offered to pay ransom. How much?”

“Two thousand dollars Mex. I gave my word. I'll have to take the money. I told them when and where I'd meet them.”

“Certainly. I'm glad I've got the money.” Madeline laughed. “What a strange thing to happen to me! I wonder what dad would say to that? Stewart, I'm afraid he'd say two thousand dollars is more than I'm worth. But tell me. That rebel chieftain did not demand money?”

“No. The money is for his men.”

“What did you say to him? I saw you whisper in his ear.”

Stewart dropped his head, averting her direct gaze.

“We were comrades before Juarez. One day I dragged him out of a ditch. I reminded him. Then I—I told him something I—I thought—”

“Stewart, I know from the way he looked at me that you spoke of me.”

Her companion did not offer a reply to this, and Madeline did not press the point.

“I heard Don Carlos's name several times. That interests me. What have Don Carlos and his vaqueros to do with this?”

“That Greaser has all to do with it,” replied Stewart, grimly. “He burned his ranch and corrals to keep us from getting them. But he