The Light of the Western Stars. Zane GreyЧитать онлайн книгу.
what it means to be a gentleman?”
His bronzed face burned to a flaming crimson.
“Is my brother here—in town to-night?” Madeline went on.
“No. He's at his ranch.”
“But I wired him.”
“Like as not the message is over in his box at the P.O. He'll be in town to-morrow. He's shipping cattle for Stillwell.”
“Meanwhile I must go to a hotel. Will you please—”
If he heard her last words he showed no evidence of it. A noise outside had attracted his attention. Madeline listened. Low voices of men, the softer liquid tones of a woman, drifted in through the open door. They spoke in Spanish, and the voices grew louder. Evidently the speakers were approaching the station. Footsteps crunching on gravel attested to this, and quicker steps, coming with deep tones of men in anger, told of a quarrel. Then the woman's voice, hurried and broken, rising higher, was eloquent of vain appeal.
The cowboy's demeanor startled Madeline into anticipation of something dreadful. She was not deceived. From outside came the sound of a scuffle—a muffled shot, a groan, the thud of a falling body, a woman's low cry, and footsteps padding away in rapid retreat.
Madeline Hammond leaned weakly back in her seat, cold and sick, and for a moment her ears throbbed to the tramp of the dancers across the way and the rhythm of the cheap music. Then into the open door-place flashed a girl's tragic face, lighted by dark eyes and framed by dusky hair. The girl reached a slim brown hand round the side of the door and held on as if to support herself. A long black scarf accentuated her gaudy attire.
“Senor—Gene!” she exclaimed; and breathless glad recognition made a sudden break in her terror.
“Bonita!” The cowboy leaped to her. “Girl! Are you hurt?”
“No, Senor.”
He took hold of her. “I heard—somebody got shot. Was it Danny?”
“No, Senor.”
“Did Danny do the shooting? Tell me, girl.”
“No, Senor.”
“I'm sure glad. I thought Danny was mixed up in that. He had Stillwell's money for the boys—I was afraid. … Say, Bonita, but you'll get in trouble. Who was with you? What did you do?”
“Senor Gene—they Don Carlos vaqueros—they quarrel over me. I only dance a leetle, smile a leetle, and they quarrel. I beg they be good—watch out for Sheriff Hawe … and now Sheriff Hawe put me in jail. I so frighten; he try make leetle love to Bonita once, and now he hate me like he hate Senor Gene.”
“Pat Hawe won't put you in jail. Take my horse and hit the Peloncillo trail. Bonita, promise to stay away from El Cajon.”
“Si, Senor.”
He led her outside. Madeline heard the horse snort and champ his bit. The cowboy spoke low; only a few words were intelligible—“stirrups … wait … out of town … mountain … trail … now ride!”
A moment's silence ensued, and was broken by a pounding of hoofs, a pattering of gravel. Then Madeline saw a big, dark horse run into the wide space. She caught a glimpse of wind-swept scarf and hair, a little form low down in the saddle. The horse was outlined in black against the line of dim lights. There was something wild and splendid in his flight.
Directly the cowboy appeared again in the doorway.
“Miss Hammond, I reckon we want to rustle out of here. Been bad goings-on. And there's a train due.”
She hurried into the open air, not daring to look back or to either side. Her guide strode swiftly. She had almost to run to keep up with him. Many conflicting emotions confused her. She had a strange sense of this stalking giant beside her, silent except for his jangling spurs. She had a strange feeling of the cool, sweet wind and the white stars. Was it only her disordered fancy, or did these wonderful stars open and shut? She had a queer, disembodied thought that somewhere in ages back, in another life, she had seen these stars. The night seemed dark, yet there was a pale, luminous light—a light from the stars—and she fancied it would always haunt her.
Suddenly aware that she had been led beyond the line of houses, she spoke:
“Where are you taking me?”
“To Florence Kingsley,” he replied.
“Who is she?”
“I reckon she's your brother's best friend out here.” Madeline kept pace with the cowboy for a few moments longer, and then she stopped. It was as much from necessity to catch her breath as it was from recurring fear. All at once she realized what little use her training had been for such an experience as this. The cowboy, missing her, came back the few intervening steps. Then he waited, still silent, looming beside her.
“It's so dark, so lonely,” she faltered. “How do I know … what warrant can you give me that you—that no harm will befall me if I go farther?”
“None, Miss Hammond, except that I've seen your face.”
II. A Secret Kept
Because of that singular reply Madeline found faith to go farther with the cowboy. But at the moment she really did not think about what he had said. Any answer to her would have served if it had been kind. His silence had augmented her nervousness, compelling her to voice her fear. Still, even if he had not replied at all she would have gone on with him. She shuddered at the idea of returning to the station, where she believed there had been murder; she could hardly have forced herself to go back to those dim lights in the street; she did not want to wander around alone in the dark.
And as she walked on into the windy darkness, much relieved that he had answered as he had, reflecting that he had yet to prove his words true, she began to grasp the deeper significance of them. There was a revival of pride that made her feel that she ought to scorn to think at all about such a man. But Madeline Hammond discovered that thought was involuntary, that there were feelings in her never dreamed of before this night.
Presently Madeline's guide turned off the walk and rapped at a door of a low-roofed house.
“Hullo—who's there?” a deep voice answered.
“Gene Stewart,” said the cowboy. “Call Florence—quick!”
Thump of footsteps followed, a tap on a door, and voices. Madeline heard a woman exclaim: “Gene! here when there's a dance in town! Something wrong out on the range.” A light flared up and shone bright through a window. In another moment there came a patter of soft steps, and the door opened to disclose a woman holding a lamp.
“Gene! Al's not—”
“Al is all right,” interrupted the cowboy.
Madeline had two sensations then—one of wonder at the note of alarm and love in the woman's voice, and the other of unutterable relief to be safe with a friend of her brother's.
“It's Al's sister—came on to-night's train,” the cowboy was saying. “I happened to be at the station, and I've fetched her up to you.”
Madeline came forward out of the shadow.
“Not—not really Majesty Hammond!” exclaimed Florence Kingsley. She nearly dropped the lamp, and she looked and looked, astounded beyond belief.
“Yes, I am really she,” replied Madeline. “My train was late, and for some reason Alfred did not meet me. Mr.—Mr. Stewart saw fit to bring me to you instead of taking me to a hotel.”
“Oh, I'm so glad to meet