It was with a feeling of some reluctance that Dave drove up to Las
Palmas shortly after the lunch hour, for he had no desire to meet
"Young Ed." However, to his relief, Austin did not appear, and inasmuch
as Alaire did not refer to her husband in any way, Dave decided that he
must be absent, perhaps on one of his notorious sprees.
The mistress of the big ranch was in her harness, having at once
assumed her neglected duties. She came to welcome her caller in a short
khaki riding-suit; her feet were encased in tan boots; she wore a
mannish felt hat and gauntlet gloves, showing that she had spent the
morning in the saddle. Dave thought she looked exceedingly capable and
business-like, and not less beautiful in these clothes; he feasted his
eyes covertly upon her.
"I expected you for luncheon," she smiled; and Dave could have kicked
himself. "I'm just going out now. If you're not in too great a hurry to
go home you may go with me."
"That would be fine," he agreed.
"Come, then I have a horse for you." As she led the way back toward the
farm buildings she explained: "I'm selling off a bunch of cattle.
Benito is rounding them up and cutting out the best ones."
"You keep them, I reckon."
"Always. That's how I improve the grade. You will see a splendid herd
of animals, Mr. Law--the best in South Texas. I suppose you're
interested in such things."
"I'd rather watch a good herd of stock than the best show in New York,"
he told her.
When they came to the corrals, an intricate series of pens and chutes
at the rear of the outbuildings, Law beheld two thoroughbred horses
standing at the hitching-rail.
"I'm proud of my horses, too," said Alaire.
"You have reason to be." With his eyes alight Dave examined the fine
points of both animals. He ran a caressing hand over them, and they
recognized in him a friend.
"These beauties were raised on Kentucky blue grass. Brother and sister,
aren't they?"
"Yes. Montrose and Montrosa are their names. The horse is mine, the
mare is yours." Seeing that Dave did not comprehend the full import of
her words, she added: "Yours to keep, I mean. You must make another
Bessie Belle out of her."
"MINE? Oh--ma'am'" Law turned his eyes from Alaire to the mare, then
back again. "You're too kind. I can't take her."
"You must."
Dave made as if to say something, but was too deeply embarrassed.
Unable to tear himself away from the mare's side, he continued to
stroke her shining coat while she turned an intelligent face to him,
showing a solitary white star in the center of her forehead.
"See! She is nearly the same color as Bessie Belle."
"Yes'm! I--I want her, ma'am; I'm just sick from wanting her,
but--won't you let me buy her?"
"Oh, I wouldn't sell her." Then, as Dave continued to yearn over the
animal, like a small boy tempted beyond his strength, Alaire laughed.
"I owe you something, Mr. Law, and a horse more or less means very
little to me."
He yielded; he could not possibly continue his resistance, and in his
happy face Alaire took her reward.
The mare meanwhile was doubtfully nosing her new master, deciding
whether or not she liked him; but when he offered her a cube of sugar
her uncertainties disappeared and they became friends then and there.
He talked to her, too, in a way that would have won any female heart,
and it was plain to any one who knew horses that she began to consider
him wholly delightful. Now, Montrosa was a sad coquette, but this man
seemed to say, "Rosa, you rogue, if you try your airs with me I will
out-flirt you." Who could resist such a person? Why, the touch of his
hands was positively thrilling. He was gentle, but masterful, and--he
had a delicious smell. Rosa felt that she understood him perfectly, and
was enraptured to discover that he understood her. There was some
satisfaction in knowing such a man.
"You DO speak their language," Alaire said, after she had watched them
for a few minutes. "You have bewitched the creature." Dave nodded
silently, and his face was young. Then half to herself the woman
murmured, "Yes, you have a heart."
"I beg pardon?"
"Nothing. I'm glad you like her."
"Do you mind if I call her something else than Rosa, just to myself?"
"Why, she's yours! Don't you like the name?"
"Oh yes! But--see!" Dave laid a finger upon Montrosa's forehead. "She
wears a lone star, and I'd like to call her that--The Lone Star."
Alaire smiled in tacit assent; then when the two friends had completely
established their intimacy she mounted her own horse and led the way to
the round-up.
Dave's unbounded delight filled the mistress of Las Palmas with the
keenest pleasure. He laughed, he hummed snatches of songs, he kept up a
chatter addressed as much to the mare as to his companion, and under it
Montrosa romped like a tomboy. It was gratifying to meet with such
appreciation as this; Alaire felt warm and friendly to the whole world,
and decided that out of her abundance she must do more for other people.
Of course Dave had to tell of Don Ricardo's thoughtful gift, and
concluded by saying, "I think this must be my birthday, although it
doesn't fit in with the calendar."
"Don Ricardo has his enemies, but he is a good-hearted old man."
"Yes," Dave agreed. Then more gravely: "I'm sorry I let him go across
the river." There was a pause. "If anybody harms him I reckon I'll have
a feud on my hands, for I'm a grateful person."
"I believe it. I can see that you are loyal."
"I was starved on sentiment when I was little, but it's in me bigger
than a skinned ox. They say gratitude is an elemental, primitive
emotion--"
"Perhaps that's why it is so rare nowadays," said Alaire, not more than
half in jest.
"You find it rare?" Dave looked up keenly. "Well, you have certainly
laid up a store of it to-day."
Benito and his men had rounded up perhaps three thousand head of cattle
when Alaire and her companion appeared, and they were in the process of
"cutting out." Assembled near a flowing well which gave life to a
shallow pond, the herd was held together by a half-dozen horsemen who
rode its outskirts, heading off and driving back the strays. Other men,
under Benito's personal direction, were isolating the best animals and
sending them back to the pasture. It was an animated scene, one fitted
to rouse enthusiasm in any plainsman, for the stock was fat and
healthy; there were many calves, and the incessant, rumbling complaint
of the herd was blood-stirring. The Las Palmas cowboys rode like
centaurs, doubling, dodging, yelling, and whirling their ropes like
lashes; the air was drumming to swift hoof-beats, and over all was the
hoarse, unceasing undertone from countless bovine throats. Out near the
grub-wagon the remuda was grazing, and thither at intervals came the
perspiring horsemen to change their mounts.
Benito, wet, dusty, and tired, rode up to his employer to report
progress.
"Dios! This is hot work for an old man. We will never finish by dark,"
said he, whereupon Law promptly volunteered his services.
"Lend me your rope, Benito, till I get another caballo."
"Eh? That Montrosa is the best cutting horse on Las Palmas."
But Dave shook his head vigorously. "I wouldn't risk her among those
gopher-holes." He slid out of his seat and, with an arm around the
mare's neck, whispered into her ear, "We won't have any broken legs and
broken hearts, will we, honey girl?" Rosa answered by nosing the
speaker over with brazen familiarity; then when he had removed her
equipment and turned away, dragging her saddle, she followed at his
heels like a dog.
"Diablo! He has a way with horses, hasn't he?" Benito grinned, "Now
that Montrosa is wilder than a deer."
Alaire rode into the herd with her foreman, while Dave settled his loop
over a buckskin, preparatory to joining the cowboys.
The giant herd milled and eddied, revolving like a vast pool of deep,
swift water. The bulls were quarrelsome, the steers were stubborn, and
the wet cows were distracted. Motherless calves dodged about in
bewilderment. In and out of this confusion the cowboys rode, following
the animals selected for separation, forcing them out with devious
turnings and twistings, and then running them madly in a series of
breakneck crescent dashes over flats and hummocks, through dust and
brush, until they had joined the smaller herd of choice animals which
were to remain on the ranch. It was swift, sweaty, exhausting work, the
kind these Mexicans loved, for it was not only spectacular, but held an
element of danger. Once he had secured a pony Dave Law made himself one
of them.
Alaire sat her horse in the heart of the crowding herd, with a sea of
rolling eyes, lolling tongues, and clashing horns all about her, and
watched the Ranger. Good riding she was accustomed to; the horses of
Las Palmas were trained to this work as bird dogs are trained to
theirs; they knew how to follow a steer and, as Ed Austin boasted,
"turn on a dime with a nickel to spare." But Law, it appeared, was a
born horseman, and seemed to inspire his mount with an exceptional
eagerness and intelligence. In spite of the man's unusual size, he rode
like a feather; he was grace and life and youth personified. Now he sat
as erect in his saddle as a swaying reed; again he stretched himself
out like a whip-lash. Once he had begun the work he would not stop.
All that afternoon the cowboys labored, and toward sundown the depleted
herd was driven to the water. It moved thither in a restless, thirsty
mass; it churned the shallow pond to milk, and from a high knoll, where
Alaire had taken her stand, she looked down upon a vast undulating
carpet many acres in extent formed by the backs of living creatures.
The voice of these cattle was like the bass rumble of the sea, steady,
heavy-droning, ceaseless.
Then through the cool twilight came the drive to the next pasture, and
here the patience of the cowboys was taxed to the utmost, for as the
stronger members of the herd forged ahead, the wearied, worried,
littlest members fell behind. Their joints were limber, and their legs
unsteady; one and all were orphaned, too, for in that babel of sound no
untrained ears could catch a mother's low. A mile of this and the whole
rear guard was composed of plaintive, wet-eyed little calves who made
slower and slower progress. Some of them were stubborn and risked all
upon a spirited dash back toward the homes they were leaving and toward
the mothers who would not answer. It took hard, sharp riding to run
them down, for they fled like rabbits, bolting through prickly-pear and
scrub, their tails bravely aloft, their stiff legs flying. Others, too
tired and thirsty to go farther, lay down and refused to budge, and
these had to be carried over the saddlehorn until they had rested. Some
hid themselves cunningly in the mesquite clumps or burrowed into the
coarse sagauista grass.
But now those swarthy, dare-devil riders were as gentle as women; they
urged the tiny youngsters onward with harmless switches or with
painless blows from loose-coiled riatas; they picked them up in their
arms and rode with them.
Once through the gate and safe inside the restraining pasture fence,
the herd was allowed to settle down. Then began a patient search by
outraged mothers, a series of mournful quests that were destined to
continue far into the night; endless nosings and sniffings and
caressings, which would keep up until each cow had found her own, until
each calf was butting its head against maternal ribs and gaining that
consolation which it craved.
A new moon was swinging in the sky as Alaire and Dave rode back toward
Las Palmas. The dry, gray grass was beginning to jewel with dew; the
paths were ribbons of silver between dark blots of ink where the bushes
grew. Behind rose the jingle of spurs and bridles, the creak of
leather, the voices of men. It was an hour in which to talk freely, an
environment suited to confidences, and Dave Law was happier than he had
been for years. He closed his eyes to the future, he stopped his ears
to misgivings; with a song in his heart he rode at the stirrup of the
woman he adored.
How or when Alaire Austin came to feel that this man loved her she
never knew. Certainly he gave no voice to his feeling, save, perhaps,
by some unconscious tone or trick of speech; rather, the knowledge came
to her intuitively as the result of some subconscious interchange of
thought, some responsive vibration, which only a psychologist could
analyze. However it was, Alaire knew to-night that she was dear to her
companion, and, strange to say, this certainty did not disturb her.
Inasmuch as the thing existed, why deny its right to exist? she asked
herself. Since it was in no wise dishonorable, how could it be wrong,
provided it went no further? Alaire had been repelled by Luis
Longorio's evident love for her, but a similar emotion in this man's
breast had quite the opposite effect. She was eager for friendship,
hungry for affection, starved for that worship which every woman lives
upon. Having a wholesome confidence in her own strength of character,
and complete faith in Law's sense of honor, she was neither alarmed nor
offended.
For the first time in years she allowed her intimate thoughts free
expression, and spoke of her hopes, her interests, and her efforts;
under the spell of the moonlight she even confided something about
those dreams that kept her company and robbed her world of its
sordidness. Dave Law discovered that she lived in a fanciful land of
unrealities, and the glimpse he gained of it was delightful.
Supper was waiting when they arrived at Las Palmas, and Dolores
announced that "Young Ed" had telephoned from the Lewis ranch that he
would not be home. Yielding to a sudden impulse, Alaire said to her
companion:
"You must dine with me. Dolores will show you to a room. I will be
ready in half an hour."
Dave hesitated, but it was not in human nature to refuse. Later, as he
washed himself and combed his hair, he had a moment of misgivings; but
the next instant he asked himself wherein he was doing wrong. Surely
there was no law which denied him the right to love, provided he kept
that love a secret. The inner voice did not argue with him; yet he was
disquieted and restless as he paced the big living-room, waiting for
his hostess.
The Austin ranch-house offered a contrast to the majority of Texas
country homes. "Young Ed" had built almost a mansion for his bride, and
in the latter years Alaire had remodeled and changed it to suit her own
ideas. The verandas were wide, the rooms large and cool and open;
polished floors, brilliant grass mats, and easy wicker furniture gave
it a further airiness. The place was comfortable, luxurious; yet it was
a home and it had an atmosphere.
Not for many years had Dave Law been a guest amid such surroundings,
and as the moments dragged on he began to feel more and more out of
place. With growing discomfort he realized that the mistress of this
residence was the richest woman in all this part of Texas, and that he
was little better than a tramp. His free life, his lack of care and
responsibility, had bred in him a certain contempt for money;
nevertheless, when through the door to the dining-room he saw Alaire
pause to give a final touch to the table, he was tempted to beat an
ignominious retreat, for she was a radiant vision in evening dress. She
was stately, beautiful; her hair was worn high, her arms were bare
underneath a shimmer of lace, her gown exposed a throat round and
smooth and adorable. In reality, she was simply clad; but to the
Ranger's untrained eye she seemed regal, and his own rough clothes
became painfully conspicuous by contrast.
Alaire knew how to be a gracious and winning hostess; of course she did
not appear to notice her guest's embarrassment. She had rather welcomed
the thought that this man cared for her, and yet, had she deliberately
planned to dampen his feeling, she could hardly have succeeded better
than by showing him the wide disparity in their lives and situations.
Dave was dismayed; he felt very poor and ridiculous. Alaire was no
longer the woman he had ridden with through the solitudes; her very
friendliness seemed to be a condescension.
He did not linger long after they had dined, for he wished to be alone,
where he could reach an understanding with himself. On the steps he
waited just a moment for Alaire to mention, if she chose, that subject
which they had still left open on the night before. Reading his
thought, she said:
"You are expecting me to say something about Panfilo Sanchez."
"Yes."
"I have thought it over; in fact, I have been thinking about it all
day; but even yet I don't know what to tell you. One moment I think the
truth would merely provoke another act of violence; the next I feel
that it must be made public regardless of consequences. As for its
effect upon myself--you know I care very little what people say or
think."
"I'm sorry I killed the fellow--I shouldn't have done it, but--one sees
things differently out in the rough and here in the settled country.
Laws don't work alike in all places; they depend a good deal
upon--geography. There are times when the theft of a crust of bread
would warrant the punishment I gave Panfilo. I can't help but feel that
his conduct, under the circumstances, called for--what he got. He
wasn't a good man, in spite of what José says; Anto confessed to me
that they were planning all sorts of deviltry together."
"That is hardly an excuse." Alaire smiled faintly.
"Oh, I know!" Dave agreed. "But, you see, I don't feel the need of one.
The sentimental side of the affair, which bothers you, doesn't affect
me in the least."
Alaire nodded. "You have made me understand how you look at things, and
I must confess that I tolerate actions that would have shocked me
before I came to know this country. Panfilo is dead and gone--rightly
or wrongly, I don't know. What I dread now is further consequences."
"Don't weaken on my account."
"No! I'm not thinking of the consequences to you or to me. You are the
kind of man who can protect himself, I'm sure; your very ability in
that direction frightens me a little on José's account. But"--she
sighed and lifted her round shoulders in a shrug--"perhaps time will
decide this question for us."
Dave laughed with some relief. "I think you've worried yourself enough
over it, ma'am," he said; "splitting hairs as to what's right and
what's wrong, when it doesn't matter much, in either case. Suppose you
continue to think it over at your leisure."
"Perhaps I'd better. And now"--Alaire extended her hand--"won't you and
Montrosa come to see me once in a while? I'm very lonesome."
"We'd love to," Dave declared. He had it on his lips to say more, but
at that moment an eager whinny and an impatient rattle of a bridle-bit
came from the driveway, and he smiled. "There's her acceptance now."
"Oh no! She merely heard your voice, the fickle creature."
Alaire watched her guest until he had disappeared into the shadows,
then she heard him talking to the mare. Benito's words at the rodeo
recurred to her, and she wondered if this Ranger might not also have a
way with women.
The house was very still and empty when she re-entered it.