The Light of the Western Stars by Zane Grey (book club suggestions .TXT) 📖

pretext or other, imprinting the outlines of her flour-covered hands upon the back of his black coat. Castleton innocently returned to the kitchen to be greeted with a roar. That surprising act of the hostess set the pace, and there followed a merry, noisy time. Everybody helped. The miscellaneous collection of dishes so confusingly contrived made up a dinner which they all heartily enjoyed. Madeline enjoyed it herself, even with the feeling of a sword hanging suspended over her.

The hour was late when she rose from the table and told her guests to go to their rooms, don their riding-clothes, pack what they needed for the long and adventurous camping trip that she hoped would be the climax of their Western experience, and to snatch a little sleep before the cowboys roused them for the early start.

Madeline went immediately to her room, and was getting out her camping apparel when a knock interrupted her. She thought Florence had come to help her pack. But this knock was upon the door opening out in the porch. It was repeated.

“Who's there?” she questioned.

“Stewart,” came the reply.

She opened the door. He stood on the threshold. Beyond him, indistinct in the gloom, were several cowboys.

“May I speak to you?” he asked.

“Certainly.” She hesitated a moment, then asked him in and closed the door. “Is—is everything all right?”

“No. These bandits stick to cover pretty close. They must have found out we're on the watch. But I'm sure we'll get you and your friends away before anything starts. I wanted to tell you that I've talked with your servants. They were just scared. They'll come back to-morrow, soon as Bill gets rid of this gang. You need not worry about them or your property.”

“Do you have any idea who is hiding in the house?”

“I was worried some at first. Pat Hawe acted queer. I imagined he'd discovered he was trailing bandits who might turn out to be his smuggling guerrilla cronies. But talking with your servants, finding a bunch of horses upon hidden down in the mesquite behind the pond—several things have changed my mind. My idea is that a cowardly handful of riffraff outcasts from the border have hidden in your house, more by accident than design. We'll let them go—get rid of them without even a shot. If I didn't think so—well, I'd be considerably worried. It would make a different state of affairs.”

“Stewart, you are wrong,” she said.

He started, but his reply did not follow swiftly. The expression of his eyes altered. Presently he spoke:

“How so?”

“I saw one of these bandits. I distinctly recognized him.”

One long step brought him close to her.

“Who was he?” demanded Stewart.

“Don Carlos.”

He muttered low and deep, then said, “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. I saw his figure twice in the hall, then his face in the light. I could never mistake his eyes.”

“Did he know you saw him?”

“I am not positive, but I think so. Oh, he must have known! I was standing full in the light. I had entered the door, then purposely stepped out. His face showed from around a corner, and swiftly flashed out of sight.”

Madeline was tremblingly conscious that Stewart underwent a transformation. She saw as well as felt the leaping passion that changed him.

“Call your friends—get them in here!” he ordered, tersely, and wheeled toward the door.

“Stewart, wait!” she said.

He turned. His white face, his burning eyes, his presence now charged with definite, fearful meaning, influenced her strangely, weakened her.

“What will you do?” she asked.

“That needn't concern you. Get your party in here. Bar the windows and lock the doors. You'll be safe.”

“Stewart! Tell me what you intend to do.”

“I won't tell you,” he replied, and turned away again.

“But I will know,” she said. With a hand on his arm she detained him. She saw how he halted—felt the shock in him as she touched him. “Oh, I do know. You mean to fight!”

“Well, Miss Hammond, isn't it about time?” he asked. Evidently he overcame a violent passion for instant action. There was weariness, dignity, even reproof in his question. “The fact of that Mexican's presence here in your house ought to prove to you the nature of the case. These vaqueros, these guerrillas, have found out you won't stand for any fighting on the part of your men. Don Carlos is a sneak, a coward, yet he's not afraid to hide in your own house. He has learned you won't let your cowboys hurt anybody. He's taking advantage of it. He'll rob, burn, and make off with you. He'll murder, too, if it falls his way. These Greasers use knives in the dark. So I ask—isn't it about time we stop him?”

“Stewart, I forbid you to fight, unless in self-defense. I forbid you.”

“What I mean to do is self-defense. Haven't I tried to explain to you that just now we've wild times along this stretch of border? Must I tell you again that Don Carlos is hand and glove with the revolution? The rebels are crazy to stir up the United States. You are a woman of prominence. Don Carlos would make off with you. If he got you, what little matter to cross the border with you! Well, where would the hue and cry go? Through the troops along the border! To New York! To Washington! Why, it would mean what the rebels are working for—United States intervention. In other words, war!”

“Oh, surely you exaggerate!” she cried.

“Maybe so. But I'm beginning to see the Don's game. And, Miss Hammond, I—It's awful for me to think what you'd suffer if Don Carlos got you over the line. I know these low-caste Mexicans. I've been among the peons—the slaves.”

“Stewart, don't let Don Carlos get me,” replied Madeline, in sweet directness.

She saw him shake, saw his throat swell as he swallowed hard, saw the hard fierceness return to his face.

“I won't. That's why I'm going after him.”

“But I forbade you to start a fight deliberately.”

“Then I'll go ahead and start one without your permission,” he replied shortly, and again he wheeled.

This time, when Madeline caught his arm she held to it, even after he stopped.

“No,” she said, imperiously.

He shook off her hand and strode forward.

“Please don't go!” she called, beseechingly. But he kept on. “Stewart!”