“What’s wrong?” asked Alfred, rather stupidly. The change of mood had been too rapid for him. Suddenly he awakened, thoroughly aroused at the interruption. “I’m going to see who’s butted in here to spoil our dinner,” he said, and strode out.
He returned before any one at the table had spoken or moved, and now the dull red of anger mottled his forehead.
“It’s the sheriff of El Cajon!” he exclaimed, contemptuously. “Pat Hawe with some of his tough deputies come to arrest Gene Stewart. They’ve got that poor little Mexican girl out there tied on a horse. Confound that sheriff!”
Madeline calmly rose from the table, eluding Florence’s entreating hand, and started for the door. The cowboys jumped up. Alfred barred her progress.
“Alfred, I am going out,” she said.
“No, I guess not,” he replied. “That’s no place for you.”
“I am going.” She looked straight at him.
“Madeline! Why, what is it? You look—Dear, there’s pretty sure to be trouble outside. Maybe there’ll be a fight. You can do nothing. You must not go.”
“Perhaps I can prevent trouble,” she replied.
As she left the patio she was aware that Alfred, with Florence at his side and the cowboys behind, were starting to follow her. When she got out of her room upon the porch she heard several men in loud, angry discussion. Then, at sight of Bonita helplessly and cruelly bound upon a horse, pale and disheveled and suffering, Madeline experienced the thrill that sight or mention of this girl always gave her. It yielded to a hot pang in her breast—that live pain which so shamed her. But almost instantly, as a second glance showed an agony in Bonita’s face, her bruised arms where the rope bit deep into the flesh, her little brown hands stained with blood, Madeline was overcome by pity for the unfortunate girl and a woman’s righteous passion at such barbarous treatment of one of her own sex.