ee
Baus
ney
i a
“i
If there were no movies with their cap-
able actors to picture the stirring side of
western life; ir
there were no other
writers than Zane
Grey to present the
romance and thrill
of the West, past
and present, he
alone could furnish
a vivid and color-
ful history—a his-
tory no less au-
thentic, even if
stripped of chro-
nology, and no less
appealing because
he has chosen to
garb its inaidents
in the form of fic-
tion. His = »
i}
Zane Grey.
while they enlarge
upon the dramatic
phase of a life that
certainly has been
dramatic, nevel ca.
less give a very generous idea and a very
real picture of the West as it was and
as it is.
‘Without the breeding and the pioneer
instinct which he inherited, he probably
would not have been the great writer of
great western stories which he is today;
but one may say that the spirit of the
‘West and the spirit of the pioneer was
Dy Lemay
ous e m whic I
largely in frontier Rg SA Ly
Place, Zanesville, Ohio, takes its name
man ancestor on his mother's side.
Always an out-of-doors man, he has im-
Jrobved an opportunity to visit and spend
ong periods of residence in practically all
portions of the West. And he has gone
into the out-of-way places, into the des-
erts, into the more remote mountains and
to the difficult spotc which the average
traveler does not reach, He has lived the
life and found it charming and has pre-
sented it with an intimacy and accuracy
touched by few writers of either fiction
or facts.
While gathering material for delightful
novels, Mr. Grey has not overlooked the
chance to familiarize himself with the
charms of nature in its various mani-
festations. Best known to the general
public for his romances, he is known to
& great coterie of hunters, fishers and
nature lovers for his books treating of
the game, the fishing, the trees and other
flora, the Indians, etc., of western Amer-
ica. Had he been raised on a cattle
ranch, in a mining camp, among the In-
dians or with trappers and then sent
Fwy to school, he could hardly have
n more efficient in presenting the
charm of the West. As stated above, the
reason lies In the fact that the love of it
and the spirit of it were born in him.
CHAPTER |
A Gentleman of the Range.
When Madeline Hammond stepped
from the train at El Cajon, New Mex-
ico, 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 anxiously.
“I wired my brother,” she replied.
“He will be here presently. But, i"
should not come—surely I can find
hotel 7”
“There's lodgings to be had. [i
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 Mex-
icans, miners, cowboys. And they
carouse a lot. Besides, the revolu-
tion 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 toward the
dimly lighted station. She entered
the empty waiting-room. An oil-lamp
gave out a thick yellow light. A tele-
graph instrument clicked faintly.
Madeline Hammond crossed the
waiting-room to a window and, hold-
Ing aside her veil, looked out. At first
she could descry only a few dim lights,
and these biurred in her sight. As
her eyes grew accustomed to the dark-
ness she saw a superbly built horse
standing near the window. Beyond
was a bare square. Through a hole
‘n 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 re-
viewed 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 rail-
road station, was Indeed extraordi-
nary.
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.
There had been months of unrest,
of curiously painful wonderment that
her position, her wealth, her pop-
ularity no longer sufficed. She be-
lieved she had lived through the
dreams and fancies of a girl te be
come a woman of rhe world. And she
had gone on as hefore, a part of the
glittering show, hut no longer blind
to the truth—that there was nothing
in her luxurious life to make it sig-
nificant. And at last she knew what
she needed—to be alone, to brood for
long hours, to gaze out on lonely, si-
lent, darkening stretches, to watch
20DCOHN
the stars, to race 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 start-
ing for California, and she made a
quick decision to travel with them.
© When she calmly announced her inten-
| “Why, Madeline!
tion 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.
You want to see
that wild boy!” Then he had re-
verted to the anger he still felt for
his wayward son, and he had for-
bidden Madeline to go. Her mother
forgot her haughty poise and dignity.
Madeline stood her ground, even to
reminding them that she was twenty-
four and her own mistress. In the
end she had prevailed.
Madeline had planned to arrive in
El Cajon on October 3, 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.
As Madeline sat waiting in the yel-
low gloom she heard the faint, inter-
mittent click of the telegraph instru-
ment, the low hum of wires, the occa-
giondl stamp of an iron-shod hoof, and
a distant vacant laugh rising above
the sounds of the dance. She became
Je ¢
Aes | il
fn i 0
i
i
/
iid
(0
)
{J
A
Mi jh
i
|,
wa
Hi
(
She Became Conscious of a Slight
Quickening of Her Pulse.
conscious of a slight quickening of
her pulse. Madeline had only a lim-
ited knowledge of the West. Like all
of her class, she had traveled Europe
and had neglected Amerlca.
heen astounded at the interminable
distanr~e she had traveled, and if there
had been anything attractive to look
at in all that journey she had passed
it in the night.
A faint sound like the rattling of
thin chains diverted Madeline's at-
tention. 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.
“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 thelr
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 over-
look 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 delib-
erately 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 hotel in this here
town is against boarding married
women, Bad business for hotels 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
Seen
She had |
face,
renlized he was aa is sue
‘=stinctively reco.ici she not onty
rave him a keener glance. but stepped
into a position where a better light
ghone on his face. It was like red
bronze, bold, raw, sharp. 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 per-
ception of the nature of men and of
her effect upon them. This crude cow-
boy, under the influence of drink, had
affronted her; nevertheless, whatever
was in his mind, he meant no insult.
“I shall be greatly obliged to you
if vou 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 un-
couth cowboys had done to Alfred.
She alone of her family had ever bhe-
lieved in any latent good in Alfred
Hammond, and her faith had scarcely
survived the two years of silence,
Waiting there, she again found her-
self listening to the moan of the wind
through the wires. 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 ar-
rived.
to a roar, shadows sped by—Ilean
horses, flying manes and tails, som-
breroed riders, all strange and wild
in her sight. Recalling what the con-
ductor had said, she was at some
pains to quell her uneasiness. Then
out of the gloom c¢wo figures appeared,
one tall, the other slight. The cow-
boy entered, pulling a disheveled
figure—that of a priest, a padre, whose
mantle had manifestly been dis«
arranged by the rude grasp of his
captor. Plain it was that the padre
was extremely terrified.
Madeline Hammond gazed in bewil-
derment 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 unaccount-
able effect of making her feel power-
less to move. No man had ever
before addressed her in such a tone.
It was the woman in her that obeyed
line Hammond.
The padre lifted his clasped hands
as If supplicating for his: life, aifd
began to speak hurriedly in Spanish.
Madeline did not understand the lan-
guar. The cowboy pulled out a huge
gun id brandished it in the priest’s
to point it at the priest's feet. There
But as the clatter increased !
Then he lowered it, apparently |
was a red flash, and then a thunder-
i ing report that stunned Madeline. The
» room filled with smoke and the smell
of powder. When she could see dis-
| tinctly through the smoke she expe- |
‘ rienced a sensation of immeasurable
i relief that the cowboy had not shot
| the padre.
Jut he was still waving
“Aadeline Hammond, 1 am Alfred
Hammond's sister.”
He put us hand up and brushed at
sn imaginary something before hls
eves. “You're upot—hajesty Hua-
mond?”
How strange-—stranger than any-
thing that had ever happened to her
before—was it to hear that name on
the lips of this cowboy! It was u
pame by which she was familiarly
known, though oniy those nearest and
dearest to ler had the privilege orf
using it. And now it revived her
dulled faculties, and by an effort she
regained control of herself.
“You are Majesty Hammond,” and
Th
Ly AL
1
Re
iA Nar
if
She Fought. She Struggled Desper
ately.
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?”
“T reckon that was a way I took
to show him you'd be willing to get
married.”
“Oh! . . . You—you! . . .” Words
failed her,
This appeared to galvanize the cow-
boy 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 breath-
—not the personality of proud Made- |
ing hard and wrestling with himself.
“Here—wait—wait a minute, 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 min-
ute”
She stood quivering and blazing |
with wrath, and watched this savage
fight his drunkenness.
the dark, damp hair
brows as he held it
wind.
The cowboy turned and began to
lift from his
up to the cool
"talk.
. the gun, and now appeared to be drag-
ging his victim toward her. What
| possibly could he the drunken fool's
intention? This must be, this surely
was a cowboy trick. Madeline no
sooner thought of it than she made
certain her brother was introducing
her to a Wild West amusement. She
could scarcely believe it, vet it must
be true. Probably he stood just out-
. side the door or window laughing at
her embarrassment.
Anger checked her panic.
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 :.ny knowledge of this
indignity. It was no trick. 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 fron. She had never known a man
could be so strong.
“What—~@e you-—mean?” she panted.
“Dearie, ease up a little on the
bridle,” he replied, gally.
Madeline thought she must be
dreaming. She could not think clearly.
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
unreal.
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 drecm, the voice of the
padre hurrying cer strange words,
It ceased, and then the cowboy's voice
stirred her.
“Lady, say Si—SI.
Say it—sSi!”
From sheer suggestion, a force irre-
sistible 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 g
mind somewhat befogged. He leaned
back unsteadily.
“What name?” he demanded.
Say it—quick!
“Youn see—I was pretty drunk,” he !
“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 fel-
lahoreda
“lows were joshing me—and Ed Lin-
She
voice,
ton was getting married—and every-
body always wants to gamble. .
I must have been pretty drunk.”
“Explanations are not necessary,”
she mterrupted. “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 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 tomorrow. 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. Then the woman’s
hurried and broken, rising
higher, was eloquent of vain appeal.
The cowboy’s demeanor startled
Madeline into anticipation of some-
thing 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
flushed 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.
“Senor—Gene!” she exclaimed; and
hraathless glad recognition made a
smlden break In her terror.
“fonita!” The cowboy leaped to
ber. “Girl! Are you hurt?”
“No, senor.”
tte took hold of her, “I heard—
s.apehody. got shot. Was it Danny?”
“No, senor.”
“id Danny do the shooting? Tell
me, girl”
Madeline saw |
|
“Nn. senor.” :
“I'm sure glad. Y thought Dannv
was mixed up in that. He bad Stiil-
well’s roney for the boys—I wus
afraid. . , . Say, Bonita, hut you't
get in trouble. Who was with you?
What did you do?”
“Senor Genc—they Don Carus
vaqueros—they quarrel over me. |
only dance a leetle, smile a leerie,
and they quarrel. T beg they be good
—watch out for Sheriff Hawe .
and now Sheriff Hawe put me in jail,
I so frighten; he try make leetle iuve
to Bonita once, and now he hate me
lke he hate Senor Gene.”
“Pat Hawe won’t put you in fail.
Take my horse and hit the Peloncilio
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-. . .
whit Lo eutof town: Lh,
mountain trail now
ride!”
A moment’s silence ensued, and was
broken by a pounding of hoofs, a pat-
tering 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
iow down in the saddle. The horse
was outlined in black against the line |
There was something |
of dim lights.
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.
Suddenly aware that she had been
led beyond the line of houses, she
snoke :
“Where are you taking me?”
“To Florence Kingsley,” he replied.
“Who is she?”
“I reckon she's your brother's best
friend out here.” J
Madeline kept pace with the cow-
hoy 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. 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 fal-
tered. “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.”
CHAPTER 11
A Secret Kept.
Because of that singular reply Made-
line found faith to go farther with
the cowboy. But at thé moment she
really did not think about what he
had said. Any answer to her would
have served if it had been kind.
As she walked on into the windy
darkness,
began to grasp the deeper significance
of them. There was a revival of pride
that made her feel that she ought to
scorn to think
man.
Presently
oft the walk and rapped at a door of |
a low-roofed house,
“Hullo—who's there?’ a deep voice
answered.
“Gene Stewart,” said the cowboy.
“Call Florence—quick!”
Thump of footsteps followed, a tap
on a door, and voices. Madeline heard
a woman exclaim: “Gene! here when
there’s a dance in town! Something
wrong out on the range.” A light
flared up and shone bright through a
window. In another moment there
came a patter of soft steps, and the
door opened to disclose a woman hold- |
ing a lamp.
“Gene! Al's not—"
“Al is all right,” interrupted the
cowboy.
Madeline had two sensations then
—one of wonder ai the note of alarm
and love in the woman’s voice, and
the other of unutterable relief to be
safe with a friend of her brother’s.
“It's Al's sister—-came on tonight's
train,” the cowboy was saying. “I
happened to be a+ the station, and
T've fetched her up to you.”
Madeline came Jorward out of the
shadow,
“Not—not really Majesty Ham-
mond!” exclaimed Florence Kingsley.
She nearly dropped the lamp, and she
looked, astounded beyond belief.
“Yes, I am really she,” replied
Madeline. “My train was late and
for some reason A'fred did not meet
me. Mr.—Mr. Stewart saw fit to bring
me to you instead of taking me to a
hotel.”
“Oh, Pm so glad to meet you,” re-
plied Florence, warmly. “Do come in,
I'm so surprised, I forget my manners.
Why, you are white as a sheet. You
must be tired. What a long wait you
had at the station! If I had known
you were coming! Indeed, you are
very pale. Are you ill?”
“No. Only I am very tired. Travel-
ing so far by rail is harder than I
imagined. I did have rather a long
wait after arriving at the station, but
1 can’t say that it was lonely.”
Florence Kingsley searched Made-
line's face with keen eyes, and then
took a long, significant look at the
silent Stewart. With that she de-
Mberately and quietly closed a door
seading into another room,
“Miss Hammond, what has hap
pened?” She had lowered her volce.
“I do not wish to vecall all that has
happened,” replied Madeline. “I shali
tell Alfred, however, that I would
rather have met a hostile Apache than
a cowboy.”
little form !
much relieved that he had |
answered as he had. reflecting that he
had yet to prove his words true, she
at all about such a
Madeline's guide turned
“Please don’t tell Al that!” cried
Florence. Then she grasped Stewart
and pulled him close to the light.
“iene, you're drunk!”
“Now, see here, Flo, I only—"
“I don’t want to know. I'd tell it.
(Gene, aren’t you ever going to learn
decency? Aren't you ever going to
stop drinking? You'll lose all your
| triends. Molly and I have pleaded
| with you, and now you've gone ana
| done—Gaod knows what!”
“What do women want to wear veils
: for?” he growled. “I'd have known
| her but for that veil.”
“And you wouldn't have insulted
her. But you would the next girl who
lf
vy
7)
\
“Gene, Aren't You Ever Going to
Learn Decency?”
came along. Gene, you are hopeless.
Now, you get out of here and don’t
ever come back.”
“Flo!” he entreated.
“I mean it.”
“I reckon then I'll come back to-
morrow and take my medicine,” he
replied.
“Don’t you dare!” she cried.
Stewart went out and closed the
door.
“Miss Hammond, you—you don't
know how this hurts me,” sald
Florence, “What you must think of
us! It's so unlucky that you should
have had this happen right at first.
Now, maybe you won't have the heart
to stay. Oh, I've known more than
one eastern girl to go home without
ever learning what we really are out
here. Miss Hammond, Gene Stewart
is a fiend when he’s drunk. All the
i same I know, whatever he did, he
meant no shame to you, Come now,
don’t think about it again tonight.”
She took up the lamp and led Made-
line into a little room, “Won't you
let me help you undress--can’'t I do
anything for you?”
“You are very kind, thank you, but
‘ T ean manage,” replied Madeline.
“Well, then, good night. The sooner
I go the sooner you'll rest. Just for-
cet what happened and think how fine
a surprise you're to give your brother
| tomorrow.”
| With that she slipped out and softly
shut the door.
As Madeline laid her watch on the
. bureau she noticed that the time was
| past two o'clock. It seemed long since
she had gotten off the train. When
she had turned cut the lamp and
' crept wearily into hed she knew what
it was to be utterly spent. She was
too tired to move 2 finger.
When she awakened the room was
bright with sunlight. She was lazily
and dreamily contemplating the mud
walls of this little room when she
remembered where she was and how
she had come there,
How great a shock she had been
subjected to was manifest In a sen-
sation of disgust that overwhelmed
her. She even shut her eyes to try
and blot out the recollection. She felt
that she had been contaminated.
{| Presently Madeline Hammond again
awoke to the fact she had learned
the preceding night—that there were
emotions to which she had heretofore
been a stranger. She scarcely remem-
bered when she had found it neces-
gary to control her emotions. There
had been no trouble, no excitement,
no unpleasantness in her life. It had
been ordered for her—tranquil, luxu-
rious, brilliant, varied, yet always the
same.
Then Madeline heard Florence rap
on the door and call softly:
“Miss Hammond. Are you awake?”
“Awake and dressed, Miss Kings-
ley.” :
Presently there were slow, reluctant
steps outside the front door, then a
pause, and the door opened. Stewart
stood bareheaded in the sunlight. Mad-
eline’'s glance ran over him swift
as lightning. But as she saw his face
now she did not recognize it. The
man’s presence roused In her a revolt.
Yet something in her, the incompre-
hensible side of her nature, thrilled In
the look of this splendid dark-faced
barbarian.
“Mr. Stewart, wiil you please come
in?’ she asked, after that long pause.
“I reckon not,” he sald. The hope-
lessness of his tone meant that he
knew he was not fit to enter a room
with her, and did not care or cared
too much,
Madeline went to the door. The
man's face was hard, yet it was sad,
too. And it touched her,
“1 shall not tell my brother of your
~—your rudeness to me,” she began.
¢4 was Impossible for her to keep ths
& 1 out of her volce, to speak with
er than the pride and aloofness of
fer class. Nevertheless, despite her
jouthing, when she hdd spoken so far
it seemed that kindness and pity fol-
(Continued on page 6, Col. 1).