A Band Of Guerrillas

: The Light Of Western Stars

Madeline bolted the door, and, flying into the kitchen, she told the

scared servants to shut themselves in. Then she ran to her own rooms.

It was only a matter of a few moments for her to close and bar the heavy

shutters, yet even as she was fastening the last one in the room she

used as an office a clattering roar of hoofs seemed to swell up to the

front of the house. She caught a glimpse of wild, shaggy horses and

ra ged, dusty men. She had never seen any vaqueros that resembled these

horsemen. Vaqueros had grace and style; they were fond of lace and

glitter and fringe; they dressed their horses in silvered trappings. But

the riders now trampling into the driveway were uncouth, lean, savage.

They were guerrillas, a band of the raiders who had been harassing the

border since the beginning of the revolution. A second glimpse assured

Madeline that they were not all Mexicans.



The presence of outlaws in that band brought home to Madeline her real

danger. She remembered what Stillwell had told her about recent outlaw

raids along the Rio Grande. These flying bands, operating under the

excitement of the revolution, appeared here and there, everywhere, in

remote places, and were gone as quickly as they came. Mostly they wanted

money and arms, but they would steal anything, and unprotected women had

suffered at their hands.



Madeline, hurriedly collecting her securities and the considerable money

she had in her desk, ran out, closed and locked the door, crossed the

patio to the opposite side of the house, and, entering again, went down

a long corridor, trying to decide which of the many unused rooms would

be best to hide in. And before she made up her mind she came to the last

room. Just then a battering on door or window in the direction of the

kitchen and shrill screams from the servant women increased Madeline's

alarm.



She entered the last room. There was no lock or bar upon the door. But

the room was large and dark, and it was half full of bales of alfalfa

hay. Probably it was the safest place in the house; at least time would

be necessary to find any one hidden there. She dropped her valuables in

a dark corner and covered them with loose hay. That done, she felt

her way down a narrow aisle between the piled-up bales and presently

crouched in a niche.



With the necessity of action over for the immediate present, Madeline

became conscious that she was quivering and almost breathless. Her skin

felt tight and cold. There was a weight on her chest; her mouth was dry,

and she had a strange tendency to swallow. Her listening faculty seemed

most acute. Dull sounds came from parts of the house remote from her.

In the intervals of silence between these sounds she heard the squeaking

and rustling of mice in the hay. A mouse ran over her hand.



She listened, waiting, hoping yet dreading to hear the clattering

approach of her cowboys. There would be fighting--blood--men injured,

perhaps killed. Even the thought of violence of any kind hurt her. But

perhaps the guerrillas would run in time to avoid a clash with her men.

She hoped for that, prayed for it. Through her mind flitted what she

knew of Nels, of Monty, of Nick Steele; and she experienced a sensation

that left her somewhat chilled and sick. Then she thought of the

dark-browed, fire-eyed Stewart. She felt a thrill drive away the cold

nausea. And her excitement augmented.



Waiting, listening increased all her emotions. Nothing appeared to

be happening. Yet hours seemed to pass while she crouched there. Had

Florence been overtaken? Could any of those lean horses outrun Majesty?

She doubted it; she knew it could not be true. Nevertheless, the strain

of uncertainty was torturing.



Suddenly the bang of the corridor door pierced her through and through

with the dread of uncertainty. Some of the guerrillas had entered the

east wing of the house. She heard a babel of jabbering voices, the

shuffling of boots and clinking of spurs, the slamming of doors and

ransacking of rooms.



Madeline lost faith in her hiding-place. Moreover, she found it

impossible to take the chance. The idea of being caught in that dark

room by those ruffians filled her with horror. She must get out into the

light. Swiftly she rose and went to the window. It was rather more of a

door than window, being a large aperture closed by two wooden doors on

hinges. The iron hook yielded readily to her grasp, and one door stuck

fast, while the other opened a few inches. She looked out upon a green

slope covered with flowers and bunches of sage and bushes. Neither man

nor horse showed in the narrow field of her vision. She believed she

would be safer hidden out there in the shrubbery than in the house. The

jump from the window would be easy for her. And with her quick decision

came a rush and stir of spirit that warded off her weakness.



She pulled at the door. It did not budge. It had caught at the bottom.

Pulling with all her might proved to be in vain. Pausing, with palms hot

and bruised, she heard a louder, closer approach of the invaders of her

home. Fear, wrath, and impotence contested for supremacy over her and

drove her to desperation. She was alone here, and she must rely on

herself. And as she strained every muscle to move that obstinate door

and heard the quick, harsh voices of men and the sounds of a hurried

search she suddenly felt sure that they were hunting for her. She

knew it. She did not wonder at it. But she wondered if she were really

Madeline Hammond, and if it were possible that brutal men would harm

her. Then the tramping of heavy feet on the floor of the adjoining room

lent her the last strength of fear. Pushing with hands and shoulders,

she moved the door far enough to permit the passage of her body. Then

she stepped up on the sill and slipped through the aperture. She saw no

one. Lightly she jumped down and ran in among the bushes. But these

did not afford her the cover she needed. She stole from one clump to

another, finding too late that she had chosen with poor judgment. The

position of the bushes had drawn her closer to the front of the house

rather than away from it, and just before her were horses, and beyond

a group of excited men. With her heart in her throat Madeline crouched

down.



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 wants 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 nor 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. About 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 mountain-side 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.



"Here is the trail," said Stewart, at length.



Not far from that point Madeline swayed, and but for Stewart's support

would have fallen from the saddle. She heard him swear under his breath.



"Here, this won't do," he said. "Throw your leg over the pommel. The

other one--there."



Then, mounting, he slipped behind her and lifted and turned her, and

then held her with his left arm so that she lay across the saddle and

his knees, her head against his shoulder.



As the horse started into a rapid walk Madeline gradually lost all pain

and discomfort when she relaxed her muscles. Presently she let herself

go and lay inert, greatly to her relief. For a little while she seemed

to be half drunk with the gentle swaying of a hammock. Her mind became

at once dreamy and active, as if it thoughtfully recorded the slow, soft

impressions pouring in from all her senses.



A red glow faded in the west. She could see out over the foothills,

where twilight was settling gray on the crests, dark in the hollows.

Cedar and pinyon trees lined the trail, and there were no more firs. At

intervals huge drab-colored rocks loomed over her. The sky was clear

and steely. A faint star twinkled. And lastly, close to her, she saw

Stewart's face, once more dark and impassive, with the inscrutable eyes

fixed on the trail.



His arm, like a band of iron, held her, yet it was flexible and yielded

her to the motion of the horse. One instant she felt the brawn,

the bone, heavy and powerful; the next the stretch and ripple, the

elasticity of muscles. He held her as easily as if she were a child. The

roughness of his flannel shirt rubbed her cheek, and beneath that she

felt the dampness of the scarf he had used to bathe her arm, and deeper

still the regular pound of his heart. Against her ear, filling it with

strong, vibrant beat, his heart seemed a mighty engine deep within a

great cavern. Her head had never before rested on a man's breast, and

she had no liking for it there; but she felt more than the physical

contact. The position was mysterious and fascinating, and something

natural in it made her think of life. Then as the cool wind blew down

from the heights, loosening her tumbled hair, she was compelled to see

strands of it curl softly into Stewart's face, before his eyes, across

his lips. She was unable to reach it with her free hand, and therefore

could not refasten it. And when she shut her eyes she felt those

loosened strands playing against his cheeks.



In the keener press of such sensations she caught the smell of dust and

a faint, wild, sweet tang on the air. There was a low, rustling sigh of

wind in the brush along the trail. Suddenly the silence ripped apart to

the sharp bark of a coyote, and then, from far away, came a long wail.

And then Majesty's metal-rimmed hoof rang on a stone.



These later things lent probability to that ride for Madeline. Otherwise

it would have seemed like a dream. Even so it was hard to believe. Again

she wondered if this woman who had begun to think and feel so much was

Madeline Hammond. Nothing had ever happened to her. And here, playing

about her like her hair played about Stewart's face, was adventure,

perhaps death, and surely life. She could not believe the evidence of

the day's happenings. Would any of her people, her friends, ever believe

it? Could she tell it? How impossible to think that a cunning Mexican

might have used her to further the interests of a forlorn revolution.

She remembered the ghoulish visages of those starved rebels, and

marveled at her blessed fortune in escaping them. She was safe, and now

self-preservation had some meaning for her. Stewart's arrival in the

glade, the courage with which he had faced the outlawed men, grew

as real to her now as the iron arm that clasped her. Had it been an

instinct which had importuned her to save this man when he lay ill and

hopeless in the shack at Chiricahua? In helping him had she hedged round

her forces that had just operated to save her life, or if not that, more

than life was to her? She believed so.



Madeline opened her eyes after a while and found that night had fallen.

The sky was a dark, velvety blue blazing with white stars. The cool

wind tugged at her hair, and through waving strands she saw Stewart's

profile, bold and sharp against the sky.



Then, as her mind succumbed to her bodily fatigue, again her situation

became unreal and wild. A heavy languor, like a blanket, began to steal

upon her. She wavered and drifted. With the last half-conscious sense

of a muffled throb at her ear, a something intangibly sweet, deep-toned,

and strange, like a distant calling bell, she fell asleep with her head

on Stewart's breast.