A Gentleman Of The Range
From: The Light Of Western Stars
When Madeline Hammond stepped from the train at El Cajon, New Mexico, it
was nearly midnight, and her first impression was of a huge dark space
of cool, windy emptiness, strange and silent, stretching away under
great blinking white stars.
"Miss, there's no one to meet you," said the conductor, rather
"I wired my brother," she replied. "The train being so late--perhaps he
grew tired of waiting. He will be here presently. But, if he should not
come--surely I can find a hotel?"
"There's lodgings to be had. Get the station agent to show you. If
you'll excuse me--this is no place for a lady like you to be alone at
night. It's a rough little town--mostly Mexicans, miners, cowboys.
And they carouse a lot. Besides, the revolution across the border has
stirred up some excitement along the line. Miss, I guess it's safe
enough, if you--"
"Thank you. I am not in the least afraid."
As the train started to glide away Miss Hammond walked towards the dimly
lighted station. As she was about to enter she encountered a Mexican
with sombrero hiding his features and a blanket mantling his shoulders.
"Is there any one here to meet Miss Hammond?" she asked.
"No sabe, Senora," he replied from under the muffling blanket, and he
shuffled away into the shadow.
She entered the empty waiting-room. An oil-lamp gave out a thick yellow
light. The ticket window was open, and through it she saw there was
neither agent nor operator in the little compartment. A telegraph
instrument clicked faintly.
Madeline Hammond stood tapping a shapely foot on the floor, and with
some amusement contrasted her reception in El Cajon with what it was
when she left a train at the Grand Central. The only time she could
remember ever having been alone like this was once when she had missed
her maid and her train at a place outside of Versailles--an adventure
that had been a novel and delightful break in the prescribed routine of
her much-chaperoned life. She crossed the waiting-room to a window and,
holding aside her veil, looked out. At first she could descry only a few
dim lights, and these blurred in her sight. As her eyes grew accustomed
to the darkness she saw a superbly built horse standing near the window.
Beyond was a bare square. Or, if it was a street, it was the widest one
Madeline had ever seen. The dim lights shone from low, flat buildings.
She made out the dark shapes of many horses, all standing motionless
with drooping heads. Through a hole in the window-glass came a cool
breeze, and on it breathed a sound that struck coarsely upon her ear--a
discordant mingling of laughter and shout, and the tramp of boots to the
hard music of a phonograph.
"Western revelry," mused Miss Hammond, as she left the window. "Now,
what to do? I'll wait here. Perhaps the station agent will return soon,
or Alfred will come for me."
As she sat down to wait she reviewed the causes which accounted for the
remarkable situation in which she found herself. That Madeline Hammond
should be alone, at a late hour, in a dingy little Western railroad
station, was indeed extraordinary.
The close of her debutante year had been marred by the only unhappy
experience of her life--the disgrace of her brother and his leaving
home. She dated the beginning of a certain thoughtful habit of mind from
that time, and a dissatisfaction with the brilliant life society offered
her. The change had been so gradual that it was permanent before
she realized it. For a while an active outdoor life--golf, tennis,
yachting--kept this realization from becoming morbid introspection.
There came a time when even these lost charm for her, and then she
believed she was indeed ill in mind. Travel did not help her.
There had been months of unrest, of curiously painful wonderment
that her position, her wealth, her popularity no longer sufficed. She
believed she had lived through the dreams and fancies of a girl to
become a woman of the world. And she had gone on as before, a part of
the glittering show, but no longer blind to the truth--that there was
nothing in her luxurious life to make it significant.
Sometimes from the depths of her there flashed up at odd moments
intimations of a future revolt. She remembered one evening at the opera
when the curtain had risen upon a particularly well-done piece of stage
scenery--a broad space of deep desolateness, reaching away under an
infinitude of night sky, illumined by stars. The suggestion it brought
of vast wastes of lonely, rugged earth, of a great, blue-arched vault of
starry sky, pervaded her soul with a strange, sweet peace.
When the scene was changed she lost this vague new sense of peace, and
she turned away from the stage in irritation. She looked at the long,
curved tier of glittering boxes that represented her world. It was a
distinguished and splendid world--the wealth, fashion, culture, beauty,
and blood of a nation. She, Madeline Hammond, was a part of it. She
smiled, she listened, she talked to the men who from time to time
strolled into the Hammond box, and she felt that there was not a moment
when she was natural, true to herself. She wondered why these people
could not somehow, some way be different; but she could not tell what
she wanted them to be. If they had been different they would not have
fitted the place; indeed, they would not have been there at all. Yet she
thought wistfully that they lacked something for her.
And suddenly realizing she would marry one of these men if she did not
revolt, she had been assailed by a great weariness, an icy-sickening
sense that life had palled upon her. She was tired of fashionable
society. She was tired of polished, imperturbable men who sought only to
please her. She was tired of being feted, admired, loved, followed,
and importuned; tired of people; tired of houses, noise, ostentation,
luxury. She was so tired of herself!
In the lonely distances and the passionless stars of boldly painted
stage scenery she had caught a glimpse of something that stirred her
soul. The feeling did not last. She could not call it back. She imagined
that the very boldness of the scene had appealed to her; she divined
that the man who painted it had found inspiration, joy, strength,
serenity in rugged nature. And at last she knew what she needed--to be
alone, to brood for long hours, to gaze out on lonely, silent, darkening
stretches, to watch the stars, to face her soul, to find her real self.
Then it was she had first thought of visiting the brother who had gone
West to cast his fortune with the cattlemen. As it happened, she had
friends who were on the eve of starting for California, and she made
a quick decision to travel with them. When she calmly announced her
intention of going out West her mother had exclaimed in consternation;
and her father, surprised into pathetic memory of the black sheep of the
family, had stared at her with glistening eyes. "Why, Madeline! You want
to see that wild boy!" Then he had reverted to the anger he still felt
for his wayward son, and he had forbidden Madeline to go. Her mother
forgot her haughty poise and dignity. Madeline, however, had exhibited
a will she had never before been known to possess. She stood her ground
even to reminding them that she was twenty-four and her own mistress. In
the end she had prevailed, and that without betraying the real state of
Her decision to visit her brother had been too hurriedly made and acted
upon for her to write him about it, and so she had telegraphed him
from New York, and also, a day later, from Chicago, where her traveling
friends had been delayed by illness. Nothing could have turned her back
then. Madeline had planned to arrive in El Cajon on October 3d, her
brother's birthday, and she had succeeded, though her arrival occurred
at the twenty-fourth hour. Her train had been several hours late.
Whether or not the message had reached Alfred's hands she had no means
of telling, and the thing which concerned her now was the fact that she
had arrived and he was not there to meet her.
It did not take long for thought of the past to give way wholly to the
reality of the present.
"I hope nothing has happened to Alfred," she said to herself. "He was
well, doing splendidly, the last time he wrote. To be sure, that was a
good while ago; but, then, he never wrote often. He's all right. Pretty
soon he'll come, and how glad I'll be! I wonder if he has changed."
As Madeline sat waiting in the yellow gloom she heard the faint,
intermittent click of the telegraph instrument, the low hum of wires,
the occasional stamp of an iron-shod hoof, and a distant vacant laugh
rising above the sounds of the dance. These commonplace things were
new to her. She became conscious of a slight quickening of her pulse.
Madeline had only a limited knowledge of the West. Like all of her
class, she had traveled Europe and had neglected America. A few letters
from her brother had confused her already vague ideas of plains and
mountains, as well as of cowboys and cattle. She had been astounded
at the interminable distance she had traveled, and if there had been
anything attractive to look at in all that journey she had passed it in
the night. And here she sat in a dingy little station, with telegraph
wires moaning a lonely song in the wind.
A faint sound like the rattling of thin chains diverted Madeline's
attention. At first she imagined it was made by the telegraph wires.
Then she heard a step. The door swung wide; a tall man entered, and with
him came the clinking rattle. She realized then that the sound came from
his spurs. The man was a cowboy, and his entrance recalled vividly to
her that of Dustin Farnum in the first act of "The Virginian."
"Will you please direct me to a hotel?" asked Madeline, rising.
The cowboy removed his sombrero, and the sweep he made with it and the
accompanying bow, despite their exaggeration, had a kind of rude grace.
He took two long strides toward her.
"Lady, are you married?"
In the past Miss Hammond's sense of humor had often helped her to
overlook critical exactions natural to her breeding. She kept silence,
and she imagined it was just as well that her veil hid her face at the
moment. She had been prepared to find cowboys rather striking, and she
had been warned not to laugh at them.
This gentleman of the range deliberately reached down and took up her
left hand. Before she recovered from her start of amaze he had stripped
off her glove.
"Fine spark, but no wedding-ring," he drawled. "Lady, I'm glad to see
you're not married."
He released her hand and returned the glove.
"You see, the only ho-tel in this here town is against boarding married
"Indeed?" said Madeline, trying to adjust her wits to the situation.
"It sure is," he went on. "Bad business for ho-tels to have married
women. Keeps the boys away. You see, this isn't Reno."
Then he laughed rather boyishly, and from that, and the way he
slouched on his sombrero, Madeline realized he was half drunk. As
she instinctively recoiled she not only gave him a keener glance, but
stepped into a position where a better light shone on his face. It
was like red bronze, bold, raw, sharp. He laughed again, as if
good-naturedly amused with himself, and the laugh scarcely changed the
hard set of his features. Like that of all women whose beauty and charm
had brought them much before the world, Miss Hammond's intuition had
been developed until she had a delicate and exquisitely sensitive
perception of the nature of men and of her effect upon them. This crude
cowboy, under the influence of drink, had affronted her; nevertheless,
whatever was in his mind, he meant no insult.
"I shall be greatly obliged if you will show me to the hotel," she said.
"Lady, you wait here," he replied, slowly, as if his thought did not
come swiftly. "I'll go fetch the porter."
She thanked him, and as he went out, closing the door, she sat down in
considerable relief. It occurred to her that she should have mentioned
her brother's name. Then she fell to wondering what living with such
uncouth cowboys had done to Alfred. He had been wild enough in college,
and she doubted that any cowboy could have taught him much. She alone of
her family had ever believed in any latent good in Alfred Hammond, and
her faith had scarcely survived the two years of silence.
Waiting there, she again found herself listening to the moan of the wind
through the wires. The horse outside began to pound with heavy hoofs,
and once he whinnied. Then Madeline heard a rapid pattering, low
at first and growing louder, which presently she recognized as the
galloping of horses. She went to the window, thinking, hoping her
brother had arrived. But as the clatter increased to a roar, shadows
sped by--lean horses, flying manes and tails, sombreroed riders, all
strange and wild in her sight. Recalling what the conductor had said,
she was at some pains to quell her uneasiness. Dust-clouds shrouded the
dim lights in the windows. Then out of the gloom two figures appeared,
one tall, the other slight. The cowboy was returning with a porter.
Heavy footsteps sounded without, and lighter ones dragging along, and
then suddenly the door rasped open, jarring the whole room. The cowboy
entered, pulling a disheveled figure--that of a priest, a padre, whose
mantle had manifestly been disarranged by the rude grasp of his captor.
Plain it was that the padre was extremely terrified.
Madeline Hammond gazed in bewilderment at the little man, so pale and
shaken, and a protest trembled upon her lips; but it was never uttered,
for this half-drunken cowboy now appeared to be a cool, grim-smiling
devil; and stretching out a long arm, he grasped her and swung her back
to the bench.
"You stay there!" he ordered.
His voice, though neither brutal nor harsh nor cruel, had the
unaccountable effect of making her feel powerless to move. No man had
ever before addressed her in such a tone. It was the woman in her that
obeyed--not the personality of proud Madeline Hammond.
The padre lifted his clasped hands as if supplicating for his life, and
began to speak hurriedly in Spanish. Madeline did not understand the
language. The cowboy pulled out a huge gun and brandished it in the
priest's face. Then he lowered it, apparently to point it at the
priest's feet. There was a red flash, and then a thundering report that
stunned Madeline. The room filled with smoke and the smell of powder.
Madeline did not faint or even shut her eyes, but she felt as if she
were fast in a cold vise. When she could see distinctly through the
smoke she experienced a sensation of immeasurable relief that the
cowboy had not shot the padre. But he was still waving the gun, and now
appeared to be dragging his victim toward her. What possibly could be
the drunken fool's intention? This must be, this surely was a cowboy
trick. She had a vague, swiftly flashing recollection of Alfred's first
letters descriptive of the extravagant fun of cowboys. Then she vividly
remembered a moving picture she had seen--cowboys playing a monstrous
joke on a lone school-teacher. Madeline no sooner thought of it than
she made certain her brother was introducing her to a little wild West
amusement. She could scarcely believe it, yet it must be true. Alfred's
old love of teasing her might have extended even to this outrage.
Probably he stood just outside the door or window laughing at her
Anger checked her panic. She straightened up with what composure this
surprise had left her and started for the door. But the cowboy barred
her passage--grasped her arms. Then Madeline divined that her brother
could not have any knowledge of this indignity. It was no trick. It was
something that was happening, that was real, that threatened she knew
not what. She tried to wrench free, feeling hot all over at being
handled by this drunken brute. Poise, dignity, culture--all the
acquired habits of character--fled before the instinct to fight. She was
athletic. She fought. She struggled desperately. But he forced her back
with hands of iron. She had never known a man could be so strong. And
then it was the man's coolly smiling face, the paralyzing strangeness
of his manner, more than his strength, that weakened Madeline until she
sank trembling against the bench.
"What--do you--mean?" she panted.
"Dearie, ease up a little on the bridle," he replied, gaily.
Madeline thought she must be dreaming. She could not think clearly. It
had all been too swift, too terrible for her to grasp. Yet she not
only saw this man, but also felt his powerful presence. And the shaking
priest, the haze of blue smoke, the smell of powder--these were not
Then close before her eyes burst another blinding red flash, and close
at her ears bellowed another report. Unable to stand, Madeline slipped
down onto the bench. Her drifting faculties refused clearly to record
what transpired during the next few moments; presently, however, as her
mind steadied somewhat, she heard, though as in a dream, the voice of
the padre hurrying over strange words. It ceased, and then the cowboy's
voice stirred her.
"Lady, say Si--Si. Say it--quick! Say it--Si!"
From sheer suggestion, a force irresistible at this moment when her will
was clamped by panic, she spoke the word.
"And now, lady--so we can finish this properly--what's your name?"
Still obeying mechanically, she told him.
He stared for a while, as if the name had awakened associations in a
mind somewhat befogged. He leaned back unsteadily. Madeline heard the
expulsion of his breath, a kind of hard puff, not unusual in drunken
"What name?" he demanded.
"Madeline Hammond. I am Alfred Hammond's sister."
He put his hand up and brushed at an imaginary something before his
eyes. Then he loomed over her, and that hand, now shaking a little,
reached out for her veil. Before he could touch it, however, she swept
it back, revealing her face.
How strange--stranger than anything that had ever happened to her
before--was it to hear that name on the lips of this cowboy! It was a
name by which she was familiarly known, though only those nearest and
dearest to her had the privilege of using it. And now it revived her
dulled faculties, and by an effort she regained control of herself.
"You are Majesty Hammond," he replied; and this time he affirmed
wonderingly rather than questioned.
Madeline rose and faced him.
"Yes, I am."
He slammed his gun back into its holster.
"Well, I reckon we won't go on with it, then."
"With what, sir? And why did you force me to say Si to this priest?"
"I reckon that was a way I took to show him you'd be willing to get
"Oh!... You--you!..." Words failed her.
This appeared to galvanize the cowboy into action. He grasped the padre
and led him toward the door, cursing and threatening, no doubt enjoining
secrecy. Then he pushed him across the threshold and stood there
breathing hard and wrestling with himself.
"Here--wait--wait a minute, Miss--Miss Hammond," he said, huskily. "You
could fall into worse company than mine--though I reckon you sure
think not. I'm pretty drunk, but I'm--all right otherwise. Just wait--a
She stood quivering and blazing with wrath, and watched this savage
fight his drunkenness. He acted like a man who had been suddenly shocked
into a rational state of mind, and he was now battling with himself to
hold on to it. Madeline saw the dark, damp hair lift from his brows as
he held it up to the cool wind. Above him she saw the white stars in the
deep-blue sky, and they seemed as unreal to her as any other thing
in this strange night. They were cold, brilliant, aloof, distant; and
looking at them, she felt her wrath lessen and die and leave her calm.
The cowboy turned and began to talk.
"You see--I was pretty drunk," he labored. "There was a fiesta--and a
wedding. I do fool things when I'm drunk. I made a fool bet I'd marry
the first girl who came to town.... If you hadn't worn that veil--the
fellows were joshing me--and Ed Linton was getting married--and
everybody always wants to gamble.... I must have been pretty drunk."
After the one look at her when she had first put aside her veil he had
not raised his eyes to her face. The cool audacity had vanished in what
was either excessive emotion or the maudlin condition peculiar to some
men when drunk. He could not stand still; perspiration collected in
beads upon his forehead; he kept wiping his face with his scarf, and he
breathed like a man after violent exertions.
"You see--I was pretty--" he began.
"Explanations are not necessary," she interrupted. "I am very
tired--distressed. The hour is late. Have you the slightest idea 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?"
He took hold of her. "I heard--somebody got shot. Was it Danny?"
"Did Danny do the shooting? Tell me, girl."
"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."
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
"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."
Next: A Secret Kept