Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 236
“We, Robert Burton and Jonas Warren, give half of this gold claim to the man who finds it and half to Nell Burton, daughter and granddaughter.”
Gasping, with a bursting heart, overwhelmed by an unutterable joy of divination, Gale fumbled with the paper until he got it open.
It was a certificate twenty-one years old, and recorded the marriage of Robert Burton and Nellie Warren.
CHAPTER XX
DESERT GOLD
A SUMMER DAY dawned on Forlorn River, a beautiful, still, hot, golden day with huge sail clouds of white motionless over No Name Peaks and the purple of clear air in the distance along the desert horizon.
Mrs. Belding returned that day to find her daughter happy and the past buried forever in two lonely graves. The haunting shadow left her eyes. Gale believed he would never forget the sweetness, the wonder, the passion of her embrace when she called him her boy and gave him her blessing.
The little wrinkled padre who married Gale and Nell performed the ceremony as he told his beads, without interest or penetration, and went his way, leaving happiness behind.
“Shore I was a sick man,” Ladd said, “an’ darn near a dead one, but I’m agoin’ to get well. Mebbe I’ll be able to ride again someday. Nell, I lay it to you. An’ I’m agoin’ to kiss you an’ wish you all the joy there is in this world. An’, Dick, as Yaqui says, she’s shore your Shower of Gold.”
He spoke of Gale’s finding love — spoke of it with the deep and wistful feeling of the lonely ranger who had always yearned for love and had never known it. Belding, once more practical, and important as never before with mining projects and water claims to manage, spoke of Gale’s great good fortune in finding of gold — he called it desert gold.
“Ah, yes. Desert Gold!” exclaimed Dick’s father, softly, with eyes of pride. Perhaps he was glad Dick had found the rich claim; surely he was happy that Dick had won the girl he loved. But it seemed to Dick himself that his father meant something very different from love and fortune in his allusion to desert gold.
That beautiful happy day, like life or love itself, could not be wholly perfect.
Yaqui came to Dick to say good-by. Dick was startled, grieved, and in his impulsiveness forgot for a moment the nature of the Indian. Yaqui was not to be changed.
Belding tried to overload him with gifts. The Indian packed a bag of food, a blanket, a gun, a knife, a canteen, and no more. The whole household went out with him to the corrals and fields from which Belding bade him choose a horse — any horse, even the loved Blanco Diablo. Gale’s heart was in his throat for fear the Indian might choose Blanco Sol, and Gale hated himself for a selfishness he could not help. But without a word he would have parted with the treasured Sol.
Yaqui whistled the horses up — for the last time. Did he care for them? It would have been hard to say. He never looked at the fierce and haughty Diablo, nor at Blanco Sol as he raised his noble head and rang his piercing blast. The Indian did not choose one of Belding’s whites. He caught a lean and wiry broncho, strapped a blanket on him, and fastened on the pack.
Then he turned to these friends, the same emotionless, inscrutable dark and silent Indian that he had always been. This parting was nothing to him. He had stayed to pay a debt, and now he was going home.
He shook hands with the men, swept a dark fleeting glance over Nell, and rested his strange eyes upon Mercedes’s beautiful and agitated face. It must have been a moment of intense feeling for the Spanish girl. She owed it to him that she had life and love and happiness. She held out those speaking slender hands. But Yaqui did not touch them. Turning away, he mounted the broncho and rode down the trail toward the river.
“He’s going home,” said Belding.
“Home!” whispered Ladd; and Dick knew the ranger felt the resurging tide of memory. Home — across the cactus and lava, through solemn lonely days, the silent, lonely nights, into the vast and red-hazed world of desolation.
“Thorne, Mercedes, Nell, let’s climb the foothill yonder and watch him out of sight,” said Dick.
They climbed while the others returned to the house. When they reached the summit of the hill Yaqui was riding up the far bank of the river.
“He will turn to look — to wave good-by?” asked Nell.
“Dear he is an Indian,” replied Gale.
From that height they watched him ride through the mesquites, up over the river bank to enter the cactus. His mount showed dark against the green and white, and for a long time he was plainly in sight. The sun hung red in a golden sky. The last the watchers saw of Yaqui was when he rode across a ridge and stood silhouetted against the gold of desert sky — a wild, lonely, beautiful picture. Then he was gone.
Strangely it came to Gale then that he was glad. Yaqui had returned to his own — the great spaces, the desolation, the solitude — to the trails he had trodden when a child, trails haunted now by ghosts of his people, and ever by his gods. Gale realized that in the Yaqui he had known the spirit of the desert, that this spirit had claimed all which was wild and primitive in him.
Tears glistened in Mercedes’s magnificent black eyes, and Thorne kissed them away — kissed the fire back to them and the flame to her cheeks.
That action recalled Gale’s earlier mood, the joy of the present, and he turned to Nell’s sweet face. The desert was there, wonderful, constructive, ennobling, beautiful, terrible, but it was not for him as it was for the Indian. In the light of Nell’s tremulous returning smile that strange, deep, clutching shadow faded, lost its hold forever; and he leaned close to her, whispering: “Lluvia d’oro”— “Shower of Gold.”
The Light of Western Stars
CONTENTS
I. A Gentleman of the Range
II. A Secret Kept
III. Sister and Brother
IV. A Ride From Sunrise To Sunset
V. The Round-Up
VI. A Gift and A Purchase
VII. Her Majesty’s Rancho
VIII. El Capitan
IX. The New Foreman
X. Don Carlos’s Vaqueros
XI. A Band of Guerrillas
XII. Friends from the East
XIII. Cowboy Golf
XIV. Bandits
XV. The Mountain Trail
XVI. The Crags
XVII. The Lost Mine of the Padres
XVIII. Bonita
XIX. Don Carlos
XX. The Sheriff of El Cajon
XXI. Unbridled
XXII. The Secret Told
XXIII. The Light of Western Stars
XXIV. The Ride
XXV. At the End of the Road
I. A Gentleman of the Range
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 anxiously.
“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 women.”
“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.”
