by Zane Grey
A shrill yell, followed by running and mounting guerrillas, roused her hope. They had sighted the cowboys and were in flight. Rapid thumping of boots on the porch told of men hurrying from the house. Several horses dashed past her, not ten feet distant. One rider saw her, for he turned to shout back. This drove Madeline into a panic. Hardly knowing what she did, she began to run away from the house. Her feet seemed leaden. She felt the same horrible powerlessness that sometimes came over her when she dreamed of being pursued. Horses with shouting riders streaked past her in the shrubbery. There was a thunder of hoofs behind her. She turned aside, but the thundering grew nearer. She was being run down.
As Madeline shut her eyes, and, staggering, was about to fall, apparently right under pounding hoofs, a rude, powerful hand clapped round her waist, clutched deep and strong, and swung her aloft. She felt a heavy blow when the shoulder of the horse struck her, and then a wrenching of her arm as she was dragged up. A sudden blighting pain made sight and feeling fade from her.
But she did not become unconscious to the extent that she lost the sense of being rapidly borne away. She seemed to hold that for a long time. When her faculties began to return the motion of the horse was no longer violent. For a few moments she could not determine her position. Apparently she was upside down. Then she saw that she was facing the ground, and must be lying across a saddle with her head hanging down. She could not move a hand; she could not tell where her hands were. Then she felt the touch of soft leather. She saw a high-topped Mexican boot, wearing a huge silver spur, and the reeking flank and legs of a horse, and a dusty narrow trail. Soon a kind of red darkness veiled her eyes, her head swam, and she felt motion and pain only dully.
After what seemed a thousand weary hours some one lifted her from the horse and laid her upon the ground, where, gradually, as the blood left her head and she could see, she began to get the right relation of things.
She lay in a sparse grove of firs, and the shadows told of late afternoon. She smelled wood smoke, and she heard the sharp crunch of horses’ teeth nipping grass. Voices caused her to turn her face. A group of men stood and sat round a camp-fire eating like wolves. The looks of her captors made Madeline close her eyes, and the fascination, the fear they roused in her made her open them again. Mostly they were thin-bodied, thin-bearded Mexicans, black and haggard and starved. Whatever they might be, they surely were hunger-stricken and squalid. Not one had a coat. A few had scarfs. Some wore belts in which were scattered cartridges. Only a few had guns, and these were of diverse patterns. Madeline could see no packs, no blankets, and only a few cooking-utensils, all battered and blackened. Her eyes fastened upon men she believed were white men; but it was from their features and not their color that she judged. Once she had seen a band of nomad robbers in the Sahara, and somehow was reminded of them by this motley outlaw troop.
They divided attention between the satisfying of ravenous appetites and a vigilant watching down the forest aisles. They expected some one, Madeline thought, and, manifestly, if it were a pursuing posse, they did not show anxiety. She could not understand more than a word here and there that they uttered. Presently, however, the name of Don Carlos revived keen curiosity in her, and realization of her situation, and then once more dread possessed her breast.
A low exclamation and a sweep of arm from one of the guerrillas caused the whole band to wheel and concentrate their attention in the opposite direction. They heard something. They saw some one. Grimy hands sought weapons, and then every man stiffened. Madeline saw what hunted men looked like at the moment of discovery, and the sight was terrible. She closed her eyes, sick with what she saw, fearful of the moment when the guns would leap out.
There were muttered curses, a short period of silence followed by whisperings, and then a clear voice rang out, “El Capitan!”
A strong shock vibrated through Madeline, and her eyelids swept open. Instantly she associated the name El Capitan with Stewart and experienced a sensation of strange regret. It was not pursuit or rescue she thought of then, but death. These men would kill Stewart. But surely he had not come alone. The lean, dark faces, corded and rigid, told her in what direction to look. She heard the slow, heavy thump of hoofs. Soon into the wide aisle between the trees moved the form of a man, arms flung high over his head. Then Madeline saw the horse, and she recognized Majesty, and she knew it was really Stewart who rode the roan. When doubt was no longer possible she felt a suffocating sense of gladness and fear and wonder.
Many of the guerrillas leaped up with drawn weapons. Still Stewart approached with his hands high, and he rode right into the camp-fire circle. Then a guerrilla, evidently the chief, waved down the threatening men and strode up to Stewart. He greeted him. There was amaze and pleasure and respect in the greeting. Madeline could tell that, though she did not know what was said. At the moment Stewart appeared to her as cool and careless as if he were dismounting at her porch steps. But when he got down she saw that his face was white. He shook hands with the guerrilla, and then his glittering eyes roved over the men and around the glade until they rested upon Madeline. Without moving from his tracks he seemed to leap, as if a powerful current had shocked him. Madeline tried to smile to assure him she was alive and well; but the intent in his eyes, the power of his controlled spirit telling her of her peril and his, froze the smile on her lips.
With that he faced the chief and spoke rapidly in the Mexican jargon Madeline had always found so difficult to translate. The chief answered, spreading wide his hands, one of which indicated Madeline as she lay there. Stewart drew the fellow a little aside and said something for his ear alone. The chief’s hands swept up in a gesture of surprise and acquiescence. Again Stewart spoke swiftly. His hearer then turned to address the band. Madeline caught the words “Don Carlos” and “pesos.” There was a brief muttering protest which the chief thundered down. Madeline guessed her release had been given by this guerrilla and bought from the others of the band.
Stewart strode to her side, leading the roan. Majesty reared and snorted when he saw his mistress prostrate. Stewart knelt, still holding the bridle.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I think so,” she replied, essaying a laugh that was rather a failure. “My feet are tied.”
Dark blood blotted out all the white from his face, and lightning shot from his eyes. She felt his hands, like steel tongs, loosening the bonds round her ankles. Without a word he lifted her upright and then upon Majesty. Madeline reeled a little in the saddle, held hard to the pommel with one hand, and tried to lean on Stewart’s shoulder with the other.
“Don’t give up,” he said.
She saw him gaze furtively into the forest on all sides. And it surprised her to see the guerrillas riding away. Putting the two facts together, Madeline formed an idea that neither Stewart nor the others desired to meet with some one evidently due shortly in the glade. Stewart guided the roan off to the right and walked beside Madeline, steadying her in the saddle. At first Madeline was so weak and dizzy that she could scarcely retain her seat. The dizziness left her presently, and then she made an effort to ride without help. Her weakness, however, and a pain in her wrenched arm made the task laborsome.
Stewart had struck off the trail, if there were one, and was keeping to denser parts of 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 want
s 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 also did it to draw all the boys away from your home. They had a deep plot, all right. I left orders for some one to stay with you. But Al and Stillwell, who’re both hot-headed, rode off this morning. Then the guerrillas came down.”
“Well, what was the idea—the plot—as you call it?”
“To get you,” he said, bluntly.
“Me! Stewart, you do not mean my capture—whatever you call it—was anything more than mere accident?”
“I do mean that. But Stillwell and your brother think the guerrillas wanted money and arms, and they just happened to make off with you because you ran under a horse’s nose.”
“You do not incline to that point of view?”
“I don’t. Neither does Nels or Nick Steele. And we know Don Carlos and the Greasers. Look how the vaqueros chased Flo for you!”
“What do you think, then?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“But, Stewart, I would like to know. If it is about me, surely I ought to know,” protested Madeline. “What reason have Nels and Nick to suspect Don Carlos of plotting to abduct me?”
“I suppose they’ve no reason you’d take. Once I heard Nels say he’d seen the Greaser look at you, and if he ever saw him do it again he’d shoot him.”
“Why, Stewart, that is ridiculous. To shoot a man for looking at a woman! This is a civilized country.”
“Well, maybe it would be ridiculous in a civilized country. There’s some things about civilization I don’t care for.”
“What, for instance?”
“For one thing, I can’t stand for the way men let other men treat women.”
“But, Stewart, this is strange talk from you, who, that night I came—”
She broke off, sorry that she had spoken. His shame was not pleasant to see. Suddenly he lifted his head, and she felt scorched by flaming eyes.
“Suppose I was drunk. Suppose I had met some ordinary girl. Suppose I had really made her marry me. Don’t you think I would have stopped being a drunkard and have been good to her?”
“Stewart, I do not know what to think about you,” replied Madeline.
Then followed a short silence. Madeline saw the last bright rays of the setting sun glide up over a distant crag. Stewart rebridled the horse and looked at the saddle-girths.
“I got off the trail. Ab
out Don Carlos I’ll say right out, not what Nels and Nick think, but what I know. Don Carlos hoped to make off with you for himself, the same as if you had been a poor peon slave-girl down in Sonora. Maybe he had a deeper plot than my rebel friend told me. Maybe he even went so far as to hope for American troops to chase him. The rebels are trying to stir up the United States. They’d welcome intervention. But, however that may be, the Greaser meant evil to you, and has meant it ever since he saw you first. That’s all.”
“Stewart, you have done me and my family a service we can never hope to repay.”
“I’ve done the service. Only don’t mention pay to me. But there’s one thing I’d like you to know, and I find it hard to say. It’s prompted, maybe, by what I know you think of me and what I imagine your family and friends would think if they knew. It’s not prompted by pride or conceit. And it’s this: Such a woman as you should never have come to this God-forsaken country, unless she meant to forget herself. But as you did come, and as you were dragged away by those devils, I want you to know that all your wealth and position and influence—all that power behind you—would never have saved you from hell to-night. Only such a man as Nels or Nick Steele or I could have done that.”
Madeline Hammond felt the great leveling force of the truth. Whatever the difference between her and Stewart, or whatever the imagined difference set up by false standards of class and culture, the truth was that here on this wild mountainside she was only a woman and he was simply a man. It was a man that she needed, and if her choice could have been considered in this extremity it would have fallen upon him who had just faced her in quiet, bitter speech. Here was food for thought.
“I reckon we’d better start now,” he said, and drew the horse close to a large rock. “Come.”
Madeline’s will greatly exceeded her strength. For the first time she acknowledged to herself that she had been hurt. Still, she did not feel much pain except when she moved her shoulder. Once in the saddle, where Stewart lifted her, she drooped weakly. The way was rough; every step the horse took hurt her; and the slope of the ground threw her forward on the pommel. Presently, as the slope grew rockier and her discomfort increased, she forgot everything except that she was suffering.