The Light of the Western Stars - Zane Grey

Скачать книгу

dress and hard aspect that characterized the cowboy Stewart. Then one rider threw his bridle, leaped from the saddle, and came bounding up the porch steps. Florence met him at the door.

      “Hello, Flo. Where is she?” he called, eagerly. With that he looked over her shoulder to espy Madeline. He actually jumped at her. She hardly knew the tall form and the bronzed face, but the warm flash of blue eyes was familiar. As for him, he had no doubt of his sister, it appeared, for with broken welcome he threw his arms around her, then held her off and looked searchingly at her.

      “Well, sister,” he began, when Florence turned hurriedly from the door and interrupted him.

      “Al, I think you'd better stop the wrangling out there.” He stared at her, appeared suddenly to hear the loud voices from the street, and then, releasing Madeline, he said:

      “By George! I forgot, Flo. There is a little business to see to. Keep my sister in here, please, and don't be fussed up now.”

      He went out on the porch and called to his men:

      “Shut off your wind, Jack! And you, too, Blaze! I didn't want you fellows to come here. But as you would come, you've got to shut up. This is my business.”

      Whereupon he turned to Stewart, who was sitting on the fence.

      “Hello, Stewart!” he said.

      It was a greeting; but there was that in the voice which alarmed Madeline.

      Stewart leisurely got up and leisurely advanced to the porch.

      “Hello, Hammond!” he drawled.

      “Drunk again last night?”

      “Well, if you want to know, and if it's any of your mix, yes, I was-pretty drunk,” replied Stewart.

      It was a kind of cool speech that showed the cowboy in control of himself and master of the situation—not an easy speech to follow up with undue inquisitiveness. There was a short silence.

      “Damn it, Stewart,” said the speaker, presently, “here's the situation: It's all over town that you met my sister last night at the station and—and insulted her. Jack's got it in for you, so have these other boys. But it's my affair. Understand, I didn't fetch them here. They can see you square yourself, or else—Gene, you've been on the wrong trail for some time, drinking and all that. You're going to the bad. But Bill thinks, and I think, you're still a man. We never knew you to lie. Now what have you to say for yourself?”

      “Nobody is insinuating that I am a liar?” drawled Stewart.

      “No.”

      “Well, I'm glad to hear that. You see, Al, I was pretty drunk last night, but not drunk enough to forget the least thing I did. I told Pat Hawe so this morning when he was curious. And that's polite for me to be to Pat. Well, I found Miss Hammond waiting alone at the station. She wore a veil, but I knew she was a lady, of course. I imagine, now that I think of it, that Miss Hammond found my gallantry rather startling, and—”

      At this point Madeline, answering to unconsidered impulse, eluded Florence and walked out upon the porch.

      Sombreros flashed down and the lean horses jumped.

      “Gentlemen,” said Madeline, rather breathlessly; and it did not add to her calmness to feel a hot flush in her cheeks, “I am very new to Western ways, but I think you are laboring under a mistake, which, in justice to Mr. Stewart, I want to correct. Indeed, he was rather—rather abrupt and strange when he came up to me last night; but as I understand him now, I can attribute that to his gallantry. He was somewhat wild and sudden and—sentimental in his demand to protect me—and it was not clear whether he meant his protection for last night or forever; but I am happy to say be offered me no word that was not honorable. And he saw me safely here to Miss Kingsley's home.”

       Table of Contents

      Then Madeline returned to the little parlor with the brother whom she had hardly recognized.

      “Majesty!” he exclaimed. “To think of your being here!”

      The warmth stole back along her veins. She remembered how that pet name had sounded from the lips of this brother who had given it to her.

      “Alfred!”

      Then his words of gladness at sight of her, his chagrin at not being at the train to welcome her, were not so memorable of him as the way he clasped her, for he had held her that way the day he left home, and she had not forgotten. But now he was so much taller and bigger, so dusty and strange and different and forceful, that she could scarcely think him the same man. She even had a humorous thought that here was another cowboy bullying her, and this time it was her brother.

      “Dear old girl,” he said, more calmly, as he let her go, “you haven't changed at all, except to grow lovelier. Only you're a woman now, and you've fulfilled the name I gave you. God! how sight of you brings back home! It seems a hundred years since I left. I missed you more than all the rest.”

      Madeline seemed to feel with his every word that she was remembering him. She was so amazed at the change in him that she could not believe her eyes. She saw a bronzed, strong-jawed, eagle-eyed man, stalwart, superb of height, and, like the cowboys, belted, booted, spurred. And there was something hard as iron in his face that quivered with his words. It seemed that only in those moments when the hard lines broke and softened could she see resemblance to the face she remembered. It was his manner, the tone of his voice, and the tricks of speech that proved to her he was really Alfred. She had bidden good-by to a disgraced, disinherited, dissolute boy. Well she remembered the handsome pale face with its weakness and shadows and careless smile, with the ever-present cigarette hanging between the lips. The years had passed, and now she saw him a man—the West had made him a man. And Madeline Hammond felt a strong, passionate gladness and gratefulness, and a direct check to her suddenly inspired hatred of the West.

      “Majesty, it was good of you to come. I'm all broken up. How did you ever do it? But never mind that now. Tell me about that brother of mine.”

      And Madeline told him, and then about their sister Helen. Question after question he fired at her; and she told him of her mother; of Aunt Grace, who had died a year ago; of his old friends, married, scattered, vanished. But she did not tell him of his father, for he did not ask.

      Quite suddenly the rapid-fire questioning ceased; he choked, was silent a moment, and then burst into tears. It seemed to her that a long, stored-up bitterness was flooding away. It hurt her to see him—hurt her more to hear him. And in the succeeding few moments she grew closer to him than she had ever been in the past. Had her father and mother done right by him? Her pulse stirred with unwonted quickness. She did not speak, but she kissed him, which, for her, was an indication of unusual feeling. And when he recovered command over his emotions he made no reference to his breakdown, nor did she. But that scene struck deep into Madeline Hammond's heart. Through it she saw what he had lost and gained.

      “Alfred, why did you not answer my last letters?” asked Madeline. “I had not heard from you for two years.”

      “So long? How time flies! Well, things went bad with me about the last time I heard from you. I always intended to write some day, but I never did.”

      “Things went wrong? Tell me.”

      “Majesty, you mustn't worry yourself with my troubles. I want you to enjoy your stay and not be bothered with my difficulties.”

      “Please tell me. I suspected something had gone wrong. That is partly why I decided to come out.”

      “All right; if you must know,” he began; and it seemed to Madeline that there was a gladness in his decision to unburden himself. “You remember all about my little ranch, and that for a while I did

Скачать книгу