A Gentleman Of The Range

: 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 mind.

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.

"You're--not--Majesty Hammond?"

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?"

"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


"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."