XX. The Sheriff of El Cajon
About the middle of the forenoon of that day Madeline reached the ranch.Her guests had all arrived there late the night before, and wanted onlyher presence and the assurance of her well-being to consider the last ofthe camping trip a rare adventure. Likewise, they voted it the cowboys'masterpiece of a trick. Madeline's delay, they averred, had been onlya clever coup to give a final effect. She did not correct theirimpression, nor think it needful to state that she had been escortedhome by only one cowboy.
Her guests reported an arduous ride down the mountain, with only oneincident to lend excitement. On the descent they had fallen in withSheriff Hawe and several of his deputies, who were considerably underthe influence of drink and very greatly enraged by the escape of theMexican girl Bonita. Hawe had used insulting language to the ladiesand, according to Ambrose, would have inconvenienced the party on somepretext or other if he had not been sharply silenced by the cowboys.
Madeline's guests were two days in recovering from the hard ride. On thethird day they leisurely began to prepare for departure. This period wasdoubly trying for Madeline. She had her own physical need of rest, and,moreover, had to face a mental conflict that could scarcely be postponedfurther. Her sister and friends were kindly and earnestly persistent intheir entreaties that she go back East with them. She desired to go.It was not going that mattered; it was how and when and under whatcircumstances she was to return that roused in her disturbing emotion.Before she went East she wanted to have fixed in mind her futurerelation to the ranch and the West. When the crucial hour arrived shefound that the West had not claimed her yet. These old friends hadwarmed cold ties.
It turned out, however, that there need be no hurry about making thedecision. Madeline would have welcomed any excuse to procrastinate;but, as it happened, a letter from Alfred made her departure out of thequestion for the present. He wrote that his trip to California had beenvery profitable, that he had a proposition for Madeline from a largecattle company, and, particularly, that he wanted to marry Florence soonafter his arrival home and would bring a minister from Douglas for thatpurpose.
Madeline went so far, however, as to promise Helen and her friends thatshe would go East soon, at the very latest by Thanksgiving. With thatpromise they were reluctantly content to say good-by to the ranch andto her. At the last moment there seemed a great likelihood of a hitchin plans for the first stage of that homeward journey. All of Madeline'sguests held up their hands, Western fashion, when Link Stevens appearedwith the big white car. Link protested innocently, solemnly, that hewould drive slowly and safely; but it was necessary for Madeline toguarantee Link's word and to accompany them before they would enter thecar. At the station good-bys were spoken and repeated, and Madeline'spromise was exacted for the hundredth time.
Dorothy Coombs's last words were: "Give my love to Monty Price. Tell himI'm--I'm glad he kissed me!"
Helen's eyes had a sweet, grave, yet mocking light as she said:
"Majesty, bring Stewart with you when you come. He'll be the rage."
Madeline treated the remark with the same merry lightness with which itwas received by the others; but after the train had pulled out andshe was on her way home she remembered Helen's words and looks withsomething almost amounting to a shock. Any mention of Stewart, anythought of him, displeased her.
"What did Helen mean?" mused Madeline. And she pondered. That mockinglight in Helen's eyes had been simply an ironical glint, a cynical gleamfrom that worldly experience so suspicious and tolerant in its wisdom.The sweet gravity of Helen's look had been a deeper and more subtlething. Madeline wanted to understand it, to divine in it a new relationbetween Helen and herself, something fine and sisterly that might leadto love. The thought, however, revolving around a strange suggestion ofStewart, was poisoned at its inception, and she dismissed it.
Upon the drive in to the ranch, as she was passing the lower lake, shesaw Stewart walking listlessly along the shore. When he became aware ofthe approach of the car he suddenly awakened from his aimless saunteringand disappeared quickly in the shade of the shrubbery. This was not byany means the first time Madeline had seen him avoid a possible meetingwith her. Somehow the act had pained her, though affording her a relief.She did not want to meet him face to face.
It was annoying for her to guess that Stillwell had something to say inStewart's defense. The old cattleman was evidently distressed. Severaltimes he had tried to open a conversation with Madeline relating toStewart; she had evaded him until the last time, when his persistencehad brought a cold and final refusal to hear another word about theforeman. Stillwell had been crushed.
As days passed Stewart remained at the ranch without his oldfaithfulness to his work. Madeline was not moved to a kinder frame ofmind to see him wandering dejectedly around. It hurt her, and becauseit hurt her she grew all the harder. Then she could not help hearingsnatches of conversation which strengthened her suspicions that Stewartwas losing his grip on himself, that he would soon take the downwardcourse again. Verification of her own suspicion made it a belief, andbelief brought about a sharp conflict between her generosity and somefeeling that she could not name. It was not a question of justiceor mercy or sympathy. If a single word could have saved Stewart fromsinking his splendid manhood into the brute she had recoiled from atChiricahua, she would not have spoken it. She could not restore him tohis former place in her regard; she really did not want him at theranch at all. Once, considering in wonder her knowledge of men, sheinterrogated herself to see just why she could not overlook Stewart'stransgression. She never wanted to speak to him again, or see him, orthink of him. In some way, through her interest in Stewart, she had cometo feel for herself an inexplicable thing close to scorn.
A telegram from Douglas, heralding the coming of Alfred and a minister,put an end to Madeline's brooding, and she shared something of FlorenceKingsley's excitement. The cowboys were as eager and gossipy as girls.It was arranged to have the wedding ceremony performed in Madeline'sgreat hall-chamber, and the dinner in the cool, flower-scented patio.
Alfred and his minister arrived at the ranch in the big white car. Theyappeared considerably wind-blown. In fact, the minister was breathless,almost sightless, and certainly hatless. Alfred, used as he was to windand speed, remarked that he did not wonder at Nels's aversion to ridinga fleeting cannon-ball. The imperturbable Link took off his cap andgoggles and, consulting his watch, made his usual apologetic report toMadeline, deploring the fact that a teamster and a few stray cattle onthe road had held him down to the manana time of only a mile a minute.
Arrangements for the wedding brought Alfred's delighted approval. Whenhe had learned all Florence and Madeline would tell him he expresseda desire to have the cowboys attend; and then he went on to talk aboutCalifornia, where he was going take Florence on a short trip. He wascuriously interested to find out all about Madeline's guests and whathad happened to them. His keen glance at Madeline grew softer as shetalked.
"I breathe again," he said, and laughed. "I was afraid. Well, I musthave missed some sport. I can just fancy what Monty and Nels did to thatEnglishman. So you went up to the crags. That's a wild place. I'm notsurprised at guerrillas falling in with you up there. The crags werea famous rendezvous for Apaches--it's near the border--almostinaccessible--good water and grass. I wonder what the U. S. cavalrywould think if they knew these guerrillas crossed the border right undertheir noses. Well, it's practically impossible to patrol some of thatborder-line. It's desert, mountain, and canyon, exceedingly wild andbroken. I'm sorry to say that there seems to be more trouble in sightwith these guerrillas than at any time heretofore. Orozco, the rebelleader, has failed to withstand Madero's army. The Federals areoccupying Chihuahua now, and are driving the rebels north. Orozco hasbroken up his army into guerrilla bands. They are moving north and west,intending to carry on guerrilla warfare in Sonora. I can't say just howthis will affect us here. But we're too close to the border for comfort.These guerrillas are night-riding hawks;
they can cross the border, raidus here, and get back the same night. Fighting, I imagine, will notbe restricted to northern Mexico. With the revolution a failure theguerrillas will be more numerous, bolder, and hungrier. Unfortunately,we happen to be favorably situated for them down here in this wildernesscorner of the state."
On the following day Alfred and Florence were married. Florence'ssister and several friends from El Cajon were present, besides Madeline,Stillwell, and his men. It was Alfred's express wish that Stewartattend the ceremony. Madeline was amused when she noticed the painfullysuppressed excitement of the cowboys. For them a wedding must havebeen an unusual and impressive event. She began to have a betterunderstanding of the nature of it when they cast off restraint andpressed forward to kiss the bride. In all her life Madeline had neverseen a bride kissed so much and so heartily, nor one so flushed anddisheveled and happy. This indeed was a joyful occasion. There wasnothing of the "effete East" about Alfred Hammond; he might have been aWesterner all his days. When Madeline managed to get through the pressof cowboys to offer her congratulations Alfred gave her a bear hug anda kiss. This appeared to fascinate the cowboys. With shining eyesand faces aglow, with smiling, boyish boldness, they made a rush atMadeline. For one instant her heart leaped to her throat. They lookedas if they could most shamelessly kiss and maul her. That little,ugly-faced, soft-eyed, rude, tender-hearted ruffian, Monty Price, wasin the lead. He resembled a dragon actuated by sentiment. All at onceMadeline's instinctive antagonism to being touched by strange hands orlips battled with a real, warm, and fun-loving desire to let the cowboyswork their will with her. But she saw Stewart hanging at the back of thecrowd, and something--some fierce, dark expression of pain--amazed her,while it froze her desire to be kind. Then she did not know what changemust have come to her face and bearing; but she saw Monty fall backsheepishly and the other cowboys draw aside to let her lead the way intothe patio.
The dinner began quietly enough with the cowboys divided betweenembarrassment and voracious appetites that they evidently feared toindulge. Wine, however, loosened their tongues, and when Stillwell gotup to make the speech everybody seemed to expect of him they greeted himwith a roar.
Stillwell was now one huge, mountainous smile. He was so happy that heappeared on the verge of tears. He rambled on ecstatically till he cameto raise his glass.
"An' now, girls an' boys, let's all drink to the bride an' groom; totheir sincere an' lastin' love; to their happiness an' prosperity; totheir good health an' long life. Let's drink to the unitin' of the Eastwith the West. No man full of red blood an' the real breath of lifecould resist a Western girl an' a good hoss an' God's free hand--thatopen country out there. So we claim Al Hammond, an' may we be true tohim. An', friends, I think it fittin' that we drink to his sister an' toour hopes. Heah's to the lady we hope to make our Majesty! Heah's to theman who'll come ridin' out of the West, a fine, big-hearted man with afast hoss an' a strong rope, an' may he win an' hold her! Come, friends,drink."
A heavy pound of horses' hoofs and a yell outside arrested Stillwell'svoice and halted his hand in midair.
The patio became as silent as an unoccupied room.
Through the open doors and windows of Madeline's chamber burst thesounds of horses stamping to a halt, then harsh speech of men, and a lowcry of a woman in pain.
Rapid steps crossed the porch, entered Madeline's room. Nels appeared inthe doorway. Madeline was surprised to see that he had not been at thedinner-table. She was disturbed at sight of his face.
"Stewart, you're wanted outdoors," called Nels, bluntly. "Monty, youslope out here with me. You, Nick, an' Stillwell--I reckon the rest ofyou hed better shut the doors an' stay inside."
Nels disappeared. Quick as a cat Monty glided out. Madeline heard hissoft, swift steps pass from her room into her office. He had lefthis guns there. Madeline trembled. She saw Stewart get up quietly andwithout any change of expression on his dark, sad face leave the patio.Nick Steele followed him. Stillwell dropped his wine-glass. As it broke,shivering the silence, his huge smile vanished. His face set into theold cragginess and the red slowly thickened into black. Stillwell wentout and closed the door behind him.
Then there was a blank silence. The enjoyment of the moment had beenrudely disrupted. Madeline glanced down the lines of brown faces to seethe pleasure fade into the old familiar hardness.
"What's wrong?" asked Alfred, rather stupidly. The change of mood hadbeen too rapid for him. Suddenly he awakened, thoroughly aroused atthe interruption. "I'm going to see who's butted in here to spoil ourdinner," he said, and strode out.
He returned before any one at the table had spoken or moved, and now thedull red of anger mottled his forehead.
"It's the sheriff of El Cajon!" he exclaimed, contemptuously. "Pat Hawewith some of his tough deputies come to arrest Gene Stewart. They've gotthat poor little Mexican girl out there tied on a horse. Confound thatsheriff!"
Madeline calmly rose from the table, eluding Florence's entreatinghand, and started for the door. The cowboys jumped up. Alfred barred herprogress.
"Alfred, I am going out," she said.
"No, I guess not," he replied. "That's no place for you."
"I am going." She looked straight at him.
"Madeline! Why, what is it? You look--Dear, there's pretty sure to betrouble outside. Maybe there'll be a fight. You can do nothing. You mustnot go."
"Perhaps I can prevent trouble," she replied.
As she left the patio she was aware that Alfred, with Florence at hisside and the cowboys behind, were starting to follow her. When she gotout of her room upon the porch she heard several men in loud, angrydiscussion. Then, at sight of Bonita helplessly and cruelly bound upona horse, pale and disheveled and suffering, Madeline experienced thethrill that sight or mention of this girl always gave her. It yielded toa hot pang in her breast--that live pain which so shamed her. But almostinstantly, as a second glance showed an agony in Bonita's face, herbruised arms where the rope bit deep into the flesh, her littlebrown hands stained with blood, Madeline was overcome by pity for theunfortunate girl and a woman's righteous passion at such barbaroustreatment of one of her own sex.
The man holding the bridle of the horse on which Bonita had been boundwas at once recognized by Madeline as the big-bodied, bullet-headedguerrilla who had found the basket of wine in the spring at camp.Redder of face, blacker of beard, coarser of aspect, evidently underthe influence of liquor, he was as fierce-looking as a gorilla and asrepulsive. Besides him there were three other men present, all mountedon weary horses. The one in the foreground, gaunt, sharp-featured,red-eyed, with a pointed beard, she recognized as the sheriff of ElCajon.
Madeline hesitated, then stopped in the middle of the porch. Alfred,Florence, and several others followed her out; the rest of the cowboysand guests crowded the windows and doors. Stillwell saw Madeline,and, throwing up his hands, roared to be heard. This quieted thegesticulating, quarreling men.
"Wal now, Pat Hawe, what's drivin' you like a locoed steer on therampage?" demanded Stillwell.
"Keep in the traces, Bill," replied Hawe. "You savvy what I come fer.I've been bidin' my time. But I'm ready now. I'm hyar to arrest acriminal."
The huge frame of the old cattleman jerked as if he had been stabbed.His face turned purple.
"What criminal?" he shouted, hoarsely.
The sheriff flicked his quirt against his dirty boot, and he twisted histhin lips into a leer. The situation was agreeable to him.
"Why, Bill, I knowed you hed a no-good outfit ridin' this range; but Iwasn't wise thet you hed more 'n one criminal."
"Cut that talk! Which cowboy are you wantin' to arrest?"
Hawe's manner altered.
"Gene Stewart," he replied, curtly.
"On what charge?"
"Fer killin' a Greaser one night last fall."
"So you're still harpin' on that? Pat, you're on the wrong trail. Youcan't lay that killin' onto Stewart. The thing's ancient by now. Butif you insist on bringin'
him to court, let the arrest go to-day--we'rehevin' some fiesta hyar--an' I'll fetch Gene in to El Cajon."
"Nope. I reckon I'll take him when I got the chance, before he slopes."
"I'm givin' you my word," thundered Stillwell.
"I reckon I don't hev to take your word, Bill, or anybody else's."
Stillwell's great bulk quivered with his rage, yet he made a successfuleffort to control it.
"See hyar, Pat Hawe, I know what's reasonable. Law is law. But in thiscountry there always has been an' is now a safe an' sane way to proceedwith the law. Mebbe you've forgot that. The law as invested in oneman in a wild country is liable, owin' to that man's weaknesses an'onlimited authority, to be disputed even by a decent ole cattleman likemyself. I'm a-goin' to give you a hunch. Pat, you're not overliked inthese parts. You've rid too much with a high hand. Some of your dealshev been shady, an' don't you overlook what I'm sayin'. But you're thesheriff, an' I'm respectin' your office. I'm respectin' it this much. Ifthe milk of human decency is so soured in your breast that you can't heva kind feelin', then try to avoid the onpleasantness that'll result fromany contrary move on your part to-day. Do you get that hunch?"
"Stillwell, you're threatenin' an officer," replied Hawe, angrily.
"Will you hit the trail quick out of hyar?" queried Stillwell, instrained voice. "I guarantee Stewart's appearance in El Cajon any dayyou say."
"No. I come to arrest him, an' I'm goin' to."
"So that's your game!" shouted Stillwell. "We-all are glad to get youstraight, Pat. Now listen, you cheap, red-eyed coyote of a sheriff! Youdon't care how many enemies you make. You know you'll never get officeagain in this county. What do you care now? It's amazin' strange howearnest you are to hunt down the man who killed that particular Greaser.I reckon there's been some dozen or more killin's of Greasers in thelast year. Why don't you take to trailin' some of them killin's? I'lltell you why. You're afraid to go near the border. An' your hate of GeneStewart makes you want to hound him an' put him where he's neverbeen yet--in jail. You want to spite his friends. Wal, listen, youlean-jawed, skunk-bitten coyote! Go ahead an' try to arrest him!"
Stillwell took one mighty stride off the porch. His last words had beencold. His rage appeared to have been transferred to Hawe. The sheriffhad begun to stutter and shake a lanky red hand at the cattleman whenStewart stepped out.
"Here, you fellows, give me a chance to say a word."
As Stewart appeared the Mexican girl suddenly seemed vitalized outof her stupor. She strained at her bonds, as if to lift her handsbeseechingly. A flush animated her haggard face, and her big dark eyeslighted.
"Senor Gene!" she moaned. "Help me! I so seek. They beat me, rope me,'mos' keel me. Oh, help me, Senor Gene!"
"Shut up, er I'll gag you," said the man who held Bonita's horse.
"Muzzle her, Sneed, if she blabs again," called Hawe. Madeline feltsomething tense and strained working in the short silence. Was it only aphase of her thrilling excitement? Her swift glance showed the faces ofNels and Monty and Nick to be brooding, cold, watchful. She wondered whyStewart did not look toward Bonita. He, too, was now dark-faced, cool,quiet, with something ominous about him.
"Hawe, I'll submit to arrest without any fuss," he said, slowly, "ifyou'll take the ropes off that girl."
"Nope," replied the sheriff. "She got away from me onct. She's hawg-tiednow, an' she'll stay hawg-tied."
Madeline thought she saw Stewart give a slight start. But anunaccountable dimness came over her eyes, at brief intervals obscuringher keen sight. Vaguely she was conscious of a clogged and beatingtumult in her breast.
"All right, let's hurry out of here," said Stewart. "You've madeannoyance enough. Ride down to the corral with me. I'll get my horse andgo with you."
"Hold on!" yelled Hawe, as Stewart turned away. "Not so fast. Who'sdoin' this? You don't come no El Capitan stunts on me. You'll ride oneof my pack-horses, an' you'll go in irons."
"You want to handcuff me?" queried Stewart, with sudden swift start ofpassion.
"Want to? Haw, haw! Nope, Stewart, thet's jest my way with hoss-thieves,raiders, Greasers, murderers, an' sich. See hyar, you Sneed, git off an'put the irons on this man."
The guerrilla called Sneed slid off his horse and began to fumble in hissaddle-bags.
"You see, Bill," went on Hawe, "I swore in a new depooty fer thisparticular job. Sneed is some handy. He rounded up thet little Mexicancat fer me."
Stillwell did not hear the sheriff; he was gazing at Stewart in a kindof imploring amaze.
"Gene, you ain't goin' to stand fer them handcuffs?" he pleaded.
"Yes," replied the cowboy. "Bill, old friend, I'm an outsider here.There's no call for Miss Hammond and--and her brother and Florence to beworried further about me. Their happy day has already been spoiled on myaccount. I want to get out quick."
"Wal, you might be too damn considerate of Miss Hammond's sensitivefeelin's." There was now no trace of the courteous, kindly old rancher.He looked harder than stone. "How about my feelin's? I want to knowif you're goin' to let this sneakin' coyote, this last gasp of the oldrum-guzzlin' frontier sheriffs, put you in irons an' hawg-tie you an'drive you off to jail?"
"Yes," replied Stewart, steadily.
"Wal, by Gawd! You, Gene Stewart! What's come over you? Why, man, go inthe house, an' I'll 'tend to this feller. Then to-morrow you can ride inan' give yourself up like a gentleman."
"No. I'll go. Thanks, Bill, for the way you and the boys would stick tome. Hurry, Hawe, before my mind changes."
His voice broke at the last, betraying the wonderful control he had keptover his passions. As he ceased speaking he seemed suddenly to becomespiritless. He dropped his head.
Madeline saw in him then a semblance to the hopeless, shamed Stewart ofearlier days. The vague riot in her breast leaped into conscious fury--awoman's passionate repudiation of Stewart's broken spirit. It was notthat she would have him be a lawbreaker; it was that she could not bearto see him deny his manhood. Once she had entreated him to become herkind of a cowboy--a man in whom reason tempered passion. She had let himsee how painful and shocking any violence was to her. And the idea hadobsessed him, softened him, had grown like a stultifying lichen upon hiswill, had shorn him of a wild, bold spirit she now strangely longedto see him feel. When the man Sneed came forward, jingling the ironfetters, Madeline's blood turned to fire. She would have forgivenStewart then for lapsing into the kind of cowboy it had been her blindand sickly sentiment to abhor. This was a man's West--a man's game.What right had a woman reared in a softer mold to use her beauty andher influence to change a man who was bold and free and strong? At thatmoment, with her blood hot and racing, she would have gloried in theviolence which she had so deplored: she would have welcomed the actionthat had characterized Stewart's treatment of Don Carlos; she had in herthe sudden dawning temper of a woman who had been assimilating the lifeand nature around her and who would not have turned her eyes away from aharsh and bloody deed.
But Stewart held forth his hands to be manacled. Then Madeline heard herown voice burst out in a ringing, imperious "Wait!"
In the time it took her to make the few steps to the edge of the porch,facing the men, she not only felt her anger and justice and pridesummoning forces to her command, but there was something else calling--adeep, passionate, mysterious thing not born of the moment.
Sneed dropped the manacles. Stewart's face took on a chalky whiteness.Hawe, in a slow, stupid embarrassment beyond his control, removed hissombrero in a respect that seemed wrenched from him.
"Mr. Hawe, I can prove to you that Stewart was not concerned in any waywhatever with the crime for which you want to arrest him."
The sheriff's stare underwent a blinking change. He coughed, stammered,and tried to speak. Manifestly, he had been thrown completely off hisbalance. Astonishment slowly merged into discomfiture.
"It was absolutely impossible for Stewart to have been connected withthat assault," went on Madeline, swiftly, "for he was w
ith me in thewaiting-room of the station at the moment the assault was made outside.I assure you I have a distinct and vivid recollection. The door wasopen. I heard the voices of quarreling men. They grew louder. Thelanguage was Spanish. Evidently these men had left the dance-hallopposite and were approaching the station. I heard a woman's voicemingling with the others. It, too, was Spanish, and I could notunderstand. But the tone was beseeching. Then I heard footsteps onthe gravel. I knew Stewart heard them. I could see from his face thatsomething dreadful was about to happen. Just outside the door then therewere hoarse, furious voices, a scuffle, a muffled shot, a woman's cry,the thud of a falling body, and rapid footsteps of a man running away.Next, the girl Bonita staggered into the door. She was white, trembling,terror-stricken. She recognized Stewart, appealed to him. Stewartsupported her and endeavored to calm her. He was excited. He asked herif Danny Mains had been shot, or if he had done the shooting. The girlsaid no. She told Stewart that she had danced a little, flirted a littlewith vaqueros, and they had quarreled over her. Then Stewart took heroutside and put her upon his horse. I saw the girl ride that horse downthe street to disappear in the darkness."
While Madeline spoke another change appeared to be working in the manHawe. He was not long disconcerted, but his discomfiture wore to asullen fury, and his sharp features fixed in an expression of craft.
"Thet's mighty interestin', Miss Hammond, 'most as interestin' as astory-book," he said. "Now, since you're so obligin' a witness, I'd surelike to put a question or two. What time did you arrive at El Cajon thetnight?"
"It was after eleven o'clock," replied Madeline.
"Nobody there to meet you?"
"No."
"The station agent an' operator both gone?"
"Yes."
"Wal, how soon did this feller Stewart show up?" Hawe continued, with awry smile.
"Very soon after my arrival. I think--perhaps fifteen minutes, possiblya little more."
"Some dark an' lonesome around thet station, wasn't it?"
"Indeed yes."
"An' what time was the Greaser shot?" queried Hawe, with his little eyesgleaming like coals.
"Probably close to half past one. It was two o'clock when I looked at mywatch at Florence Kingsley's house. Directly after Stewart sent Bonitaaway he took me to Miss Kingsley's. So, allowing for the walk and a fewminutes' conversation with her, I can pretty definitely say the shootingtook place at about half past one."
Stillwell heaved his big frame a step closer to the sheriff. "What 'reyou drivin' at?" he roared, his face black again.
"Evidence," snapped Hawe.
Madeline marveled at this interruption; and as Stewart irresistibly drewher glance she saw him gray-faced as ashes, shaking, utterly unnerved.
"I thank you, Miss Hammond," he said, huskily. "But you needn't answerany more of Hawe's questions. He's--he's--It's not necessary. I'll gowith him now, under arrest. Bonita will corroborate your testimony incourt, and that will save me from this--this man's spite."
Madeline, looking at Stewart, seeing a humility she at first took forcowardice, suddenly divined that it was not fear for himself which madehim dread further disclosures of that night, but fear for her--fear ofshame she might suffer through him.
Pat Hawe cocked his head to one side, like a vulture about to strikewith his beak, and cunningly eyed Madeline.
"Considered as testimony, what you've said is sure important an'conclusive. But I'm calculatin' thet the court will want to hevexplained why you stayed from eleven-thirty till one-thirty in thetwaitin'-room alone with Stewart."
His deliberate speech met with what Madeline imagined a remarkablereception from Stewart, who gave a tigerish start; from Stillwell, whosebig hands tore at the neck of his shirt, as if he was choking; fromAlfred, who now strode hotly forward, to be stopped by the cold andsilent Nels; from Monty Price, who uttered a violent "Aw!" which wasboth a hiss and a roar.
In the rush of her thought Madeline could not interpret the meaningof these things which seemed so strange at that moment. But they wereportentous. Even as she was forming a reply to Hawe's speech she felt achill creep over her.
"Stewart detained me in the waiting-room," she said, clear-voiced as abell. "But we were not alone--all the time."
For a moment the only sound following her words was a gasp from Stewart.Hawe's face became transformed with a hideous amaze and joy.
"Detained?" he whispered, craning his lean and corded neck. "How'sthet?"
"Stewart was drunk. He--"
With sudden passionate gesture of despair Stewart appealed to her:
"Oh, Miss Hammond, don't! don't! DON'T!..."
Then he seemed to sink down, head lowered upon his breast, in uttershame. Stillwell's great hand swept to the bowed shoulder, and he turnedto Madeline.
"Miss Majesty, I reckon you'd be wise to tell all," said the oldcattleman, gravely. "There ain't one of us who could misunderstand anymotive or act of yours. Mebbe a stroke of lightnin' might clear thismurky air. Whatever Gene Stewart did that onlucky night--you tell it."
Madeline's dignity and self-possession had been disturbed by Stewart'simportunity. She broke into swift, disconnected speech:
"He came into the station--a few minutes after I got there. I asked-tobe shown to a hotel. He said there wasn't any that would accommodatemarried women. He grasped my hand--looked for a wedding-ring. Then I sawhe was--he was intoxicated. He told me he would go for a hotelporter. But he came back with a padre--Padre Marcos. The poor priestwas--terribly frightened. So was I. Stewart had turned into a devil. Hefired his gun at the padre's feet. He pushed me into a bench. Again heshot--right before my face. I--I nearly fainted. But I heard him cursingthe padre--heard the padre praying or chanting--I didn't know what.Stewart tried to make me say things in Spanish. All at once he asked myname. I told him. He jerked at my veil. I took it off. Then he threwhis gun down--pushed the padre out of the door. That was just before thevaqueros approached with Bonita. Padre Marcos must have seen them--musthave heard them. After that Stewart grew quickly sober. He wasmortified--distressed--stricken with shame. He told me he had beendrinking at a wedding--I remember, it was Ed Linton's wedding. Then heexplained--the boys were always gambling--he wagered he would marry thefirst girl who arrived at El Cajon. I happened to be the first one. Hetried to force me to marry him. The rest--relating to the assault on thevaquero--I have already told you."
Madeline ended, out of breath and panting, with her hands pressed uponher heaving bosom. Revelation of that secret liberated emotion; thosehurried outspoken words had made her throb and tremble and burn.Strangely then she thought of Alfred and his wrath. But he stoodmotionless, as if dazed. Stillwell was trying to holster up the crushedStewart.
Hawe rolled his red eyes and threw back his head.
"Ho, ho, ho! Ho, ho, ho! Say, Sneed, you didn't miss any of it, did ye?Haw, haw! Best I ever heerd in all my born days. Ho, ho!"
Then he ceased laughing, and with glinting gaze upon Madeline, insolentand vicious and savage, he began to drawl:
"Wal now, my lady, I reckon your story, if it tallies with Bonita's an'Padre Marcos's, will clear Gene Stewart in the eyes of the court."Here he grew slower, more biting, sharper and harder of face. "Butyou needn't expect Pat Hawe or the court to swaller thet part of yourstory--about bein' detained unwillin'!"
Madeline had not time to grasp the sense of his last words. Stewarthad convulsively sprung upward, white as chalk. As he leaped at HaweStillwell interposed his huge bulk and wrapped his arms around Stewart.There was a brief, whirling, wrestling struggle. Stewart appeared to bebesting the old cattleman.
"Help, boys, help!" yelled Stillwell. "I can't hold him. Hurry, orthere's goin' to be blood spilled!"
Nick Steele and several cowboys leaped to Stillwell's assistance.Stewart, getting free, tossed one aside and then another. They closedin on him. For an instant a furious straining wrestle of powerful bodiesmade rasp and shock and blow. Once Stewart heaved them from him. Butthey plunged back
upon him--conquered him.
"Gene! Why, Gene!" panted the old cattleman. "Sure you're locoed--toact this way. Cool down! Cool down! Why, boy, it's all right. Jeststand still--give us a chance to talk to you. It's only ole Bill, youknow--your ole pal who's tried to be a daddy to you. He's only wantin'you to hev sense--to be cool--to wait."
"Let me go! Let me go!" cried Stewart; and the poignancy of that crypierced Madeline's heart. "Let me go, Bill, if you're my friend. I savedyour life once--over in the desert. You swore you'd never forget. Boys,make him let me go! Oh, I don't care what Hawe's said or done to me! Itwas that about her! Are you all a lot of Greasers? How can you stand it?Damn you for a lot of cowards! There's a limit, I tell you." Then hisvoice broke, fell to a whisper. "Bill, dear old Bill, let me go. I'llkill him! You know I'll kill him!"
"Gene, I know you'd kill him if you hed an even break," repliedStillwell, soothingly. "But, Gene, why, you ain't even packin' a gun!An' there's Pat lookin' nasty, with his hand nervous-like. He seen youhed no gun. He'd jump at the chance to plug you now, an' then hollerabout opposition to the law. Cool down, son; it'll all come right."
Suddenly Madeline was transfixed by a terrible sound.
Her startled glance shifted from the anxious group round Stewart to seethat Monty Price had leaped off the porch. He crouched down with hisbands below his hips, where the big guns swung. From his distorted lipsissued that which was combined roar and bellow and Indian war-whoop,and, more than all, a horrible warning cry. He resembled a hunchbackabout to make the leap of a demon. He was quivering, vibrating. Hiseyes, black and hot, were fastened with most piercing intentness uponHawe and Sneed.
"Git back, Bill, git back!" he roared. "Git 'em back!" With one lungeStillwell shoved Stewart and Nick and the other cowboys up on the porch.Then he crowded Madeline and Alfred and Florence to the wall, tried toforce them farther. His motions were rapid and stern. But failing to getthem through door and windows, he planted his wide person betweenthe women and danger. Madeline grasped his arm, held on, and peeredfearfully from behind his broad shoulder.
"You, Hawe! You, Sneed!" called Monty, in that same wild voice. "Don'tyou move a finger or an eyelash!"
Madeline's faculties nerved to keen, thrilling divination. She graspedthe relation between Monty's terrible cry and the strange hunchedposture he had assumed. Stillwell's haste and silence, too, werepregnant of catastrophe.
"Nels, git in this!" yelled Monty; and all the time he never shifted hisintent gaze as much as a hair's-breadth from Hawe and his deputy. "Nels,chase away them two fellers hangin' back there. Chase 'em, quick!"
These men, the two deputies who had remained in the background with thepack-horses, did not wait for Nels. They spurred their mounts, wheeled,and galloped away.
"Now, Nels, cut the gurl loose," ordered Monty.
Nels ran forward, jerked the halter out of Sneed's hand, and pulledBonita's horse in close to the porch. As he slit the rope which boundher she fell into his arms.
"Hawe, git down!" went on Monty. "Face front an' stiff!"
The sheriff swung his leg, and, never moving his hands, with his facenow a deathly, sickening white, he slid to the ground.
"Line up there beside your guerrilla pard. There! You two make a damnfine pictoor, a damn fine team of pizened coyote an' a cross between awild mule an' a Greaser. Now listen!"
Monty made a long pause, in which his breathing was plainly audible.
Madeline's eyes were riveted upon Monty. Her mind, swift as lightning,had gathered the subtleties in action and word succeeding his dominationof the men. Violence, terrible violence, the thing she had felt, thething she had feared, the thing she had sought to eliminate from amongher cowboys, was, after many months, about to be enacted beforeher eyes. It had come at last. She had softened Stillwell, she hadinfluenced Nels, she had changed Stewart; but this little black-faced,terrible Monty Price now rose, as it were, out of his past wild years,and no power on earth or in heaven could stay his hand. It was the hardlife of wild men in a wild country that was about to strike this blow ather. She did not shudder; she did not wish to blot out from sight thislittle man, terrible in his mood of wild justice. She suffered a flashof horror that Monty, blind and dead to her authority, cold as steeltoward her presence, understood the deeps of a woman's soul. For inthis moment of strife, of insult to her, of torture to the man shehad uplifted and then broken, the passion of her reached deep towardprimitive hate. With eyes slowly hazing red, she watched Monty Price;she listened with thrumming ears; she waited, slowly sagging againstStillwell.
"Hawe, if you an' your dirty pard hev loved the sound of human voice,then listen an' listen hard," said Monty. "Fer I've been goin' contraryto my ole style jest to hev a talk with you. You all but got away onyour nerve, didn't you? 'Cause why? You roll in here like a mad steeran' flash yer badge an' talk mean, then almost bluff away with it.You heerd all about Miss Hammond's cowboy outfit stoppin' drinkin' an'cussin' an' packin' guns. They've took on religion an' decent livin',an' sure they'll be easy to hobble an' drive to jail. Hawe, listen.There was a good an' noble an be-ootiful woman come out of the Eastsomewheres, an' she brought a lot of sunshine an' happiness an' newidees into the tough lives of cowboys. I reckon it's beyond you to knowwhat she come to mean to them. Wal, I'll tell you. They-all went cleanout of their heads. They-all got soft an' easy an' sweet-tempered. Theygot so they couldn't kill a coyote, a crippled calf in a mud-hole. Theytook to books, an' writin' home to mother an' sister, an' to savin'money, an' to gittin' married. Onct they was only a lot of poor cowboys,an' then sudden-like they was human bein's, livin' in a big worldthet hed somethin' sweet even fer them. Even fer me--an ole, worn-out,hobble-legged, burned-up cowman like me! Do you git thet? An' you,Mister Hawe, you come along, not satisfied with ropin' an' beatin', an'Gaw knows what else, of thet friendless little Bonita; you comealong an' face the lady we fellers honor an' love an' reverence, an'you--you--Hell's fire!"
With whistling breath, foaming at the mouth, Monty Price crouched lower,hands at his hips, and he edged inch by inch farther out from the porch,closer to Hawe and Sneed. Madeline saw them only in the blurred fringeof her sight. They resembled specters. She heard the shrill whistle of ahorse and recognized Majesty calling her from the corral.
"Thet's all!" roared Monty, in a voice now strangling. Lower and lowerhe bent, a terrible figure of ferocity. "Now, both you armed ocifers ofthe law, come on! Flash your guns! Throw 'em, an' be quick! Monty Priceis done! There'll be daylight through you both before you fan a hammer!But I'm givin' you a chanst to sting me. You holler law, an' my way isthe ole law."
His breath came quicker, his voice grew hoarser, and he crouched lower.All his body except his rigid arms quivered with a wonderful muscularconvulsion.
"Dogs! Skunks! Buzzards! Flash them guns, er I'll flash mine! Aha!"
To Madeline it seemed the three stiff, crouching men leaped into instantand united action. She saw streaks of fire--streaks of smoke. Then acrashing volley deafened her. It ceased as quickly. Smoke veiled thescene. Slowly it drifted away to disclose three fallen men, one of whom,Monty, leaned on his left hand, a smoking gun in his right. He watchedfor a movement from the other two. It did not come. Then, with aterrible smile, he slid back and stretched out.