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

“Yes.”

“It has been going on without my knowledge?”

“Yes.”

“Since when?”

“Since I brought you down from the mountains last month.”

“How long is it to continue?”

“That's hard to say. Till the revolution is over, anyhow.”

She mused a moment, looking away to the west, where the great void was filling with red haze. She believed implicitly in him, and the menace hovering near her fell like a shadow upon her present happiness.

“What must I do?” she asked.

“I think you ought to send your friends back East—and go with them, until this guerrilla war is over.”

“Why, Stewart, they would be broken-hearted, and so would I.”

He had no reply for that.

“If I do not take your advice it will be the first time since I have come to look to you for so much,” she went on. “Cannot you suggest something else? My friends are having such a splendid visit. Helen is getting well. Oh, I should be sorry to see them go before they want to.”

“We might take them up into the mountains and camp out for a while,” he said, presently. “I know a wild place up among the crags. It's a hard climb, but worth the work. I never saw a more beautiful spot. Fine water, and it will be cool. Pretty soon it'll be too hot here for your party to go out-of-doors.”

“You mean to hide me away among the crags and clouds?” replied Madeline, with a laugh.

“Well, it'd amount to that. Your friends need not know. Perhaps in a few weeks this spell of trouble on the border will be over till fall.”

“You say it's a hard climb up to this place?”

“It surely is. Your friends will get the real thing if they make that trip.”

“That suits me. Helen especially wants something to happen. And they are all crazy for excitement.”

“They'd get it up there. Bad trails, canyons to head, steep climbs, wind-storms, thunder and lightning, rain, mountain-lions and wildcats.”

“Very well, I am decided. Stewart, of course you will take charge? I don't believe I—Stewart, isn't there something more you could tell me—why you think, why you know my own personal liberty is in peril?”

“Yes. But do not ask me what it is. If I hadn't been a rebel soldier I would never have known.”

“If you had not been a rebel soldier, where would Madeline Hammond be now?” she asked, earnestly.

He made no reply.

“Stewart,” she continued, with warm impulse, “you once mentioned a debt you owed me—” And seeing his dark face pale, she wavered, then went on. “It is paid.”

“No, no,” he answered, huskily.

“Yes. I will not have it otherwise.”

“No. That never can be paid.”

Madeline held out her hand.

“It is paid, I tell you,” she repeated.

Suddenly he drew back from the outstretched white hand that seemed to fascinate him.

“I'd kill a man to touch your hand. But I won't touch it on the terms you offer.”

His unexpected passion disconcerted her.

“Stewart, no man ever before refused to shake hands with me, for any reason. It—it is scarcely flattering,” she said, with a little laugh. “Why won't you? Because you think I offer it as mistress to servant—rancher to cowboy?”

“No.”

“Then why? The debt you owed me is paid. I cancel it. So why not shake hands upon it, as men do?”

“I won't. That's all.”

“I fear you are ungracious, whatever your reason,” she replied. “Still, I may offer it again some day. Good night.”

He said good night and turned. Madeline wonderingly watched him go down the path with his hand on the black horse's neck.

She went in to rest a little before dressing for dinner, and, being fatigued from the day's riding and excitement, she fell asleep. When she awoke it was twilight. She wondered why her Mexican maid had not come to her, and she rang the bell. The maid did not put in an appearance, nor was there any answer to the ring. The house seemed unusually quiet. It was a brooding silence, which presently broke to the sound of footsteps on the porch. Madeline recognized Stillwell's tread, though it appeared to be light for him. Then she heard him call softly in at the open door of her office. The suggestion of caution in his voice suited the strangeness of his walk. With a boding sense of trouble she hurried through the rooms. He was standing outside her office door.

“Stillwell!” she exclaimed.

“Anybody with you?” he asked, in a low tone.

“No.”

“Please come out on the porch,” he added.

She complied, and, once out, was enabled to see him. His grave face, paler than she had ever beheld it, caused her to stretch an appealing hand toward him. Stillwell intercepted it and held it in his own.

“Miss Majesty, I'm amazin' sorry to tell worrisome news.” He spoke almost in a whisper, cautiously looked about him, and seemed both hurried and mysterious. “If you'd heerd Stewart cuss you'd sure know how we hate to hev to tell you this. But it can't be avoided. The fact is we're in a bad fix. If your guests ain't scared out of their skins it'll be owin' to your nerve an' how you carry out Stewart's orders.”

“You can rely upon me,” replied Madeline, firmly, though she trembled.

“Wal, what we're up against is this: that gang of bandits Pat Hawe was chasin'—they're hidin' in the house!”

“In the house?” echoed Madeline, aghast.

“Miss Majesty, it's the amazin' truth, an' shamed indeed am I to admit it. Stewart—why, he's wild with rage to think it could hev happened. You see, it couldn't hev happened if I hedn't sloped the boys off to the gol-lof-links, an' if Stewart hedn't rid out on the mesa after us. It's my fault. I've hed too much femininity around fer my old haid. Gene cussed me—he cussed me sure scandalous. But now we've got to face it—to figger.”

“Do you mean that a gang of hunted outlaws—bandits—have actually taken refuge somewhere in my house?” demanded Madeline.