“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 well raising stock? I wrote you all that. Majesty, a man makes enemies anywhere. Perhaps an Eastern man in the West can make, if not so many, certainly more bitter ones. At any rate, I made several. There was a cattleman, Ward by name — he’s gone now — and he and I had trouble over cattle. That gave me a back-set. Pat Hawe, the sheriff here, has been instrumental in hurting my business. He’s not so much of a rancher, but he has influence at Santa Fe and El Paso and Douglas. I made an enemy of him. I never did anything to him. He hates Gene Stewart, and upon one occasion I spoiled a little plot of his to get Gene in his clutches. The real reason for his animosity toward me is that he loves Florence, and Florence is going to marry me.”

  “Alfred!”

  “What’s the matter, Majesty? Didn’t Florence impress you favorably?” he asked, with a keen glance.

  “Why — yes, indeed. I like her. But I did not think of her in relation to you — that way. I am greatly surprised. Alfred, is she well born? What connections?”

  “Florence is just a girl of ordinary people. She was born in Kentucky, was brought up in Texas. My aristocratic and wealthy family would scorn—”

  “Alfred, you are still a Hammond,” said Madeline, with uplifted head.

  Alfred laughed. “We won’t quarrel, Majesty. I remember you, and in spite of your pride you’ve got a heart. If you stay here a month you’ll love Florence Kingsley. I want you to know she’s had a great deal to do with straightening me up.... Well, to go on with my story. There’s Don Carlos, a Mexican rancher, and he’s my worst enemy. For that matter, he’s as bad an enemy of Bill Stillwell and other ranchers. Stillwell, by the way, is my friend and one of the finest men on earth. I got in debt to Don Carlos before I knew he was so mean. In the first place I lost money at faro — I gambled some when I came West — and then I made unwise cattle deals. Don Carlos is a wily Greaser, he knows the ranges, he has the water, and he is dishonest. So he outfigured me. And now I am practically ruined. He has not gotten possession of my ranch, but that’s only a matter of time, pending lawsuits at Santa Fe. At present I have a few hundred cattle running on Stillwell’s range, and I am his foreman.”

  “Foreman?” queried Madeline.

  “I am simply boss of Stillwell’s cowboys, and right glad of my job.”

  Madeline was conscious of an inward burning. It required an effort for her to retain her outward tranquillity. Annoying consciousness she had also of the returning sense of new disturbing emotions. She began to see just how walled in from unusual thought-provoking incident and sensation had been her exclusive life.

  “Cannot your property be reclaimed?” she asked. “How much do you owe?”

  “Ten thousand dollars would clear me and give me another start. But, Majesty, in this country that’s a good deal of money, and I haven’t been able to raise it. Stillwell’s in worse shape than I am.”

  Madeline went over to Alfred and put her hands on his shoulders.

  “We must not be in debt.”

  He stared at her as if her words had recalled something long forgotten. Then he smiled.

  “How imperious you are! I’d forgotten just who my beautiful sister really is. Majesty, you’re not going to ask me to take money from you?”

  “I am.”

  “Well, I’ll not do it. I never did, even when I was in college, and then there wasn’t much beyond me.”

  “Listen, Alfred,” she went on, earnestly, “this is entirely different. I had only an allowance then. You had no way to know that since I last wrote you I had come into my inheritance from Aunt Grace. It was — well, that doesn’t matter. Only, I haven’t been able to spend half the income. It’s mine. It’s not father’s money. You will make me very happy if you’ll consent. Alfred, I’m so — so amazed at the change in you. I’m so happy. You must never take a backward step from now on. What is ten thousand dollars to me? Sometimes I spend that in a month. I throw money away. If you let me help you it will be doing me good as well as you. Please, Alfred.”

  He kissed her, evidently surprised at her earnestness. And indeed Madeline was surprised herself. Once started, her speech had flowed.

  “You always were the best of fellows, Majesty. And if you really care — if you really want to help me I’ll be only too glad to accept. It will be fine. Florence will go wild. And that Greaser won’t harass me any more. Majesty, pretty soon some titled fellow will be spending your money; I may as well take a little before he gets it all,” he finished, jokingly.

  “What do you know about me?” she asked, lightly.

  “More than you think. Even if we are lost out here in the woolly West we get news. Everybody knows about Anglesbury. And that Dago duke who chased you all over Europe, that Lord Castleton has the running now and seems about to win. How about it, Majesty?”

  Madeline detected a hint that suggested scorn in his gay speech. And deep in his searching glance she saw a flame. She became thoughtful. She had forgotten Castleton, New York, society.

  “Alfred,” she began, seriously, “I don’t believe any titled gentleman will ever spend my money, as you elegantly express it.”

  “I don’t care for that. It’s you!” he cried, passionately, and he grasped her with a violence that startled her. He was white; his eyes were now like fire. “You are so splendid — so wonderful. People called you the American Beauty, but you’re more than that. You’re the American Girl! Majesty, marry no man unless you love him, and love an American. Stay away from Europe long enough to learn to know the men — the real men of your own country.”

  “Alfred, I’m afraid there are not always real men and real love for American girls in international marriages. But Helen knows this. It’ll be her choice. She’ll be miserable if she marries Anglesbury.”

  “It’ll serve her just right,” declared her brother. “Helen was always crazy for glitter, adulation, fame. I’ll gamble she never saw more of Anglesbury than the gold and ribbons on his breast.”

  “I am sorry. Anglesbury is a gentleman; but it is the money he wanted, I think. Alfred, tell me how you came to know about me, ‘way out here? You may be assured I was astonished to find that Miss Kingsley knew me as Majesty Hammond.”

  “I imagine it was a surprise,” he replied, with a laugh, “I told Florence about you — gave her a picture of you. And, of course, being a woman, she showed the picture and talked. She’s in love with you. Then, my dear sister, we do get New York papers out here occasionally, and we can see and read. You may not be aware that you and your society friends are objects of intense interest in the U. S. in general, and the West in particular. The papers are full of you, and perhaps a lot of things you never did.”

  “That Mr. Stewart knew, too. He said, ‘You’re not Majesty Hammond?’”

  “Never mind his impudence!” exclaimed Alfred; and then again he laughed. “Gene is all right, only you’ve got to know him. I’ll tell you what he did. He got hold of one of those newspaper pictures of you — the one in the Times; he took it away from here, and in spite of Florence he wouldn’t fetch it back. It was a picture of you in riding-habit with your blue-ribbon horse, White Stockings — remember? It was taken at Newport. Well, Stewart tacked the picture up in his bunk-house and named his beautiful horse Majesty. All the cowboys knew it. They would see the picture and tease him unmercifully. But he didn’t care. One day I happened to drop in on him and found him just recovering from a carouse. I saw the picture, too, and I said to him, ‘Gene, if my sister knew you were a drunkard she’d not be proud of having her picture stuck up in your room.’ Majesty, he did not touch a drop for a month, and when he did drink again he took the picture down, and he has never put it back.”

  Madeline smiled at her brother’s amusement, but she did not reply. She simply could not adjust herself to these queer free Western’ ways. Her brother had eloquently pleaded for her to keep herself above a sordid and brilliant marriage, yet he not only allowed a cowboy to keep her picture in his room, but actually spoke of her and used her name in a temperance lecture. Madeline just escaped feeling disgust. She was saved from this, however, by nothing less than her brother’s naive gladness that through subtle suggestion Stewart had been persuaded to be good for a month. Something made up of Stewart’s effrontery to her; of Florence Kingsley meeting her, frankly as it were, as an equal; of the elder sister’s slow, quiet, easy acceptance of this visitor who had been honored at the courts of royalty; of that faint hint of scorn in Alfred’s voice, and his amused statement in regard to her picture and the name Majesty — something made up of all these stung Madeline Hammond’s pride, alienated her for an instant, and then stimulated her intelligence, excited her interest, and made her resolve to learn a little about this incomprehensible West.

  “Majesty, I must run down to the siding,” he said, consulting his watch. “We’re loading a shipment of cattle. I’ll be back by supper-time and bring Stillwell with me. You’ll like him. Give me the check for your trunk.”

  She went into the little bedroom and, taking up her bag, she got out a number of checks.

  “Six! Six trunks!” he exclaimed. “Well, I’m very glad you intend to stay awhile. Say, Majesty, it will take me as long to realize who you really are as it’ll take to break you of being a tenderfoot. I hope you packed a riding-suit. If not you’ll have to wear trousers! You’ll have to do that, anyway, when we go up in the mountains.”

  “No!”

  “You sure will, as Florence says.”

  “We shall see about that. I don’t know what’s in the trunks. I never pack anything. My dear brother, what do I have maids for?”

  “How did it come that you didn’t travel with a maid?”

  “I wanted to be alone. But don’t you worry. I shall be able to look after myself. I dare say it will be good for me.”

  She went to the gate with him.

  “What a shaggy, dusty horse! He’s wild, too. Do you let him stand that way without being haltered? I should think he would run off.”

  “Tenderfoot! You’ll be great fun, Majesty, especially for the cowboys.”

  “Oh, will I?” she asked, constrainedly.

  “Yes, and in three days they will be fighting one another over you. That’s going to worry me. Cowboys fall in love with a plain woman, an ugly woman, any woman, so long as she’s young. And you! Good Lord! They’ll go out of their heads.”

  “You are pleased to be facetious, Alfred. I think I have had quite enough of cowboys, and I haven’t been here twenty-four hours.”

  “Don’t think too much of first impressions. That was my mistake when I arrived here. Good-by. I’ll go now. Better rest awhile. You look tired.”

  The horse started as Alfred put his foot in the stirrup and was running when the rider slipped his leg over the saddle. Madeline watched him in admiration. He seemed to be loosely fitted to the saddle, moving with the horse.

  “I suppose that’s a cowboy’s style. It pleases me,” she said. “How different from the seat of Eastern riders!”

  Then Madeline sat upon the porch and fell to interested observation of her surrounding. Near at hand it was decidedly not prepossessing. The street was deep in dust, and the cool wind whipped up little puffs. The houses along this street were all low, square, flat-roofed structures made of some kind of red cement. It occurred to her suddenly that this building-material must be the adobe she had read about. There was no person in sight. The long street appeared to have no end, though the line of houses did not extend far. Once she heard a horse trotting at some distance, and several times the ringing of a locomotive bell. Where were the mountains, wondered Madeline. Soon low over the house-roofs she saw a dim, dark-blue, rugged outline. It seemed to charm her eyes and fix her gaze. She knew the Adirondacks, she had seen the Alps from the summit of Mont Blanc, and had stood under the great black, white-tipped shadow of the Himalayas. But they had not drawn her as these remote Rockies. This dim horizon line boldly cutting the blue sky fascinated her. Florence Kingsley’s expression “beckoning mountains” returned to Madeline. She could not see or feel so much as that. Her impression was rather that these mountains were aloof, unattainable, that if approached they would recede or vanish like the desert mirage.

  Madeline went to her room, intending to rest awhile, and she fell asleep. She was aroused by Florence’s knock and call.

  “Miss Hammond, your brother has come back with Stillwell.”

  “Why, how I have slept!” exclaimed Madeline. “It’s nearly six o’clock.”

  “I’m sure glad. You were tired. And the air here makes strangers sleepy. Come, we want you to meet old Bill. He calls himself the last of the cattlemen. He has lived in Texas and here all his life.”

  Madeline accompanied Florence to the porch. Her brother, who was sitting near the door, jumped up and said:

  “Hello, Majesty!” And as he put his arm around her he turned toward a massive man whose broad, craggy face began to ripple and wrinkle. “I want to introduce my friend Stillwell to you. Bill, this is my sister, the sister I’ve so often told you about — Majesty.”

  “Wal, wal, Al, this’s the proudest meetin’ of my life,” replied Stillwell, in a booming voice. He extended a huge hand. “Miss — Miss Majesty, sight of you is as welcome as the rain an’ the flowers to an old desert cattleman.”

  Madeline greeted him, and it was all she could do to repress a cry at the way he crunched her hand in a grasp of iron. He was old, white-haired, weather-beaten, with long furrows down his checks and with gray eyes almost hidden in wrinkles. If he was smiling she fancied it a most extraordinary smile. The next instant she realized that it had been a smile, for his face appeared to stop rippling, the light died, and suddenly it was like rudely chiseled stone. The quality of hardness she had seen in Stewart was immeasurably intensified in this old man’s face.

  “Miss Majesty, it’s plumb humiliatin’ to all of us thet we wasn’t on hand to meet you,” Stillwell said. “Me an’ Al stepped into the P. O. an’ said a few mild an’ cheerful things. Them messages ought to hev been sent out to the ranch. I’m sure afraid it was a bit unpleasant fer you last night at the station.”

  “I was rather anxious at first and perhaps frightened,” replied Madeline.

  “Wal, I’m some glad to tell you thet there’s no man in these parts except your brother thet I’d as lief hev met you as Gene Stewart.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes, an’ thet’s takin’ into consideration Gene’s weakness, too. I’m allus fond of sayin’ of myself thet I’m the last of the old cattlemen. Wal, Stewart’s not a native Westerner, but he’s my pick of the last of the cowboys. Sure, he’s young, but he’s the last of the old style — the picturesque — an’ chivalrous, too, I make bold to say, Miss Majesty, as well as the old hard-ridin’ kind. Folks are down on Stewart. An’ I’m only sayin’ a good word for him because he is down, an’ mebbe last night he might hev scared you, you bein’ fresh from the East.”