Title: The Man of the Forest
Author: Grey, Zane
Language: English
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THE MAN OF THE FOREST

by Zane Grey


Harper and Brothers

New York

1920

Published: 1919



CHAPTER I

At sunset hour the forest was still, lonely, sweet with tang of fir and
spruce, blazing in gold and red and green; and the man who glided on
under the great trees seemed to blend with the colors and, disappearing,
to have become a part of the wild woodland.

Old Baldy, highest of the White Mountains, stood up round and bare,
rimmed bright gold in the last glow of the setting sun. Then, as the
fire dropped behind the domed peak, a change, a cold and darkening
blight, passed down the black spear-pointed slopes over all that
mountain world.

It was a wild, richly timbered, and abundantly watered region of dark
forests and grassy parks, ten thousand feet above sea-level, isolated
on all sides by the southern Arizona desert--the virgin home of elk and
deer, of bear and lion, of wolf and fox, and the birthplace as well as
the hiding-place of the fierce Apache.

September in that latitude was marked by the sudden cool night breeze
following shortly after sundown. Twilight appeared to come on its wings,
as did faint sounds, not distinguishable before in the stillness.

Milt Dale, man of the forest, halted at the edge of a timbered ridge, to
listen and to watch. Beneath him lay a narrow valley, open and grassy,
from which rose a faint murmur of running water. Its music was pierced
by the wild staccato yelp of a hunting coyote. From overhead in the
giant fir came a twittering and rustling of grouse settling for the
night; and from across the valley drifted the last low calls of wild
turkeys going to roost.

To Dale’s keen ear these sounds were all they should have been,
betokening an unchanged serenity of forestland. He was glad, for he had
expected to hear the clipclop of white men’s horses--which to hear up
in those fastnesses was hateful to him. He and the Indian were friends.
That fierce foe had no enmity toward the lone hunter. But there hid
somewhere in the forest a gang of bad men, sheep-thieves, whom Dale did
not want to meet.

As he started out upon the slope, a sudden flaring of the afterglow of
sunset flooded down from Old Baldy, filling the valley with lights and
shadows, yellow and blue, like the radiance of the sky. The pools in the
curves of the brook shone darkly bright. Dale’s gaze swept up and down
the valley, and then tried to pierce the black shadows across the brook
where the wall of spruce stood up, its speared and spiked crest against
the pale clouds. The wind began to moan in the trees and there was a
feeling of rain in the air. Dale, striking a trail, turned his back to
the fading afterglow and strode down the valley.

With night at hand and a rain-storm brewing, he did not head for his
own camp, some miles distant, but directed his steps toward an old log
cabin. When he reached it darkness had almost set in. He approached with
caution. This cabin, like the few others scattered in the valleys, might
harbor Indians or a bear or a panther. Nothing, however, appeared to be
there. Then Dale studied the clouds driving across the sky, and he felt
the cool dampness of a fine, misty rain on his face. It would rain off
and on during the night. Whereupon he entered the cabin.

And the next moment he heard quick hoof-beats of trotting horses.
Peering out, he saw dim, moving forms in the darkness, quite close
at hand. They had approached against the wind so that sound had been
deadened. Five horses with riders, Dale made out--saw them loom close.
Then he heard rough voices. Quickly he turned to feel in the dark for a
ladder he knew led to a loft; and finding it, he quickly mounted, taking
care not to make a noise with his rifle, and lay down upon the floor
of brush and poles. Scarcely had he done so when heavy steps, with
accompaniment of clinking spurs, passed through the door below into the
cabin.

“Wal, Beasley, are you here?” queried a loud voice.

There was no reply. The man below growled under his breath, and again
the spurs jingled.

“Fellars, Beasley ain’t here yet,” he called. “Put the hosses under the
shed. We’ll wait.”

“Wait, huh!” came a harsh reply. “Mebbe all night--an’ we got nuthin’ to
eat.”

“Shut up, Moze. Reckon you’re no good for anythin’ but eatin’. Put them
hosses away an’ some of you rustle fire-wood in here.”

Low, muttered curses, then mingled with dull thuds of hoofs and strain
of leather and heaves of tired horses.

Another shuffling, clinking footstep entered the cabin.

“Snake, it’d been sense to fetch a pack along,” drawled this newcomer.

“Reckon so, Jim. But we didn’t, an’ what’s the use hollerin’? Beasley
won’t keep us waitin’ long.”

Dale, lying still and prone, felt a slow start in all his blood--a
thrilling wave. That deep-voiced man below was Snake Anson, the worst
and most dangerous character of the region; and the others, undoubtedly,
composed his gang, long notorious in that sparsely settled country.
And the Beasley mentioned--he was one of the two biggest ranchers and
sheep-raisers of the White Mountain ranges. What was the meaning of
a rendezvous between Snake Anson and Beasley? Milt Dale answered that
question to Beasley’s discredit; and many strange matters pertaining to
sheep and herders, always a mystery to the little village of Pine, now
became as clear as daylight.

Other men entered the cabin.

“It ain’t a-goin’ to rain much,” said one. Then came a crash of wood
thrown to the ground.

“Jim, hyar’s a chunk of pine log, dry as punk,” said another.

Rustlings and slow footsteps, and then heavy thuds attested to the
probability that Jim was knocking the end of a log upon the ground to
split off a corner whereby a handful of dry splinters could be procured.

“Snake, lemme your pipe, an’ I’ll hev a fire in a jiffy.”

“Wal, I want my terbacco an’ I ain’t carin’ about no fire,” replied
Snake.

“Reckon you’re the meanest cuss in these woods,” drawled Jim.

Sharp click of steel on flint--many times--and then a sound of hard
blowing and sputtering told of Jim’s efforts to start a fire. Presently
the pitchy blackness of the cabin changed; there came a little crackling
of wood and the rustle of flame, and then a steady growing roar.

As it chanced, Dale lay face down upon the floor of the loft, and right
near his eyes there were cracks between the boughs. When the fire blazed
up he was fairly well able to see the men below. The only one he had
ever seen was Jim Wilson, who had been well known at Pine before Snake
Anson had ever been heard of. Jim was the best of a bad lot, and he had
friends among the honest people. It was rumored that he and Snake did
not pull well together.

“Fire feels good,” said the burly Moze, who appeared as broad as he was
black-visaged. “Fall’s sure a-comin’... Now if only we had some grub!”

“Moze, there’s a hunk of deer meat in my saddle-bag, an’ if you git it
you can have half,” spoke up another voice.

Moze shuffled out with alacrity.

In the firelight Snake Anson’s face looked lean and serpent-like, his
eyes glittered, and his long neck and all of his long length carried out
the analogy of his name.

“Snake, what’s this here deal with Beasley?” inquired Jim.

“Reckon you’ll l’arn when I do,” replied the leader. He appeared tired
and thoughtful.

“Ain’t we done away with enough of them poor greaser herders--for
nothin’?” queried the youngest of the gang, a boy in years, whose hard,
bitter lips and hungry eyes somehow set him apart from his comrades.

“You’re dead right, Burt--an’ that’s my stand,” replied the man who
had sent Moze out. “Snake, snow ‘ll be flyin’ round these woods before
long,” said Jim Wilson. “Are we goin’ to winter down in the Tonto Basin
or over on the Gila?”

“Reckon we’ll do some tall ridin’ before we strike south,” replied
Snake, gruffly.

At the juncture Moze returned.

“Boss, I heerd a hoss comin’ up the trail,” he said.

Snake rose and stood at the door, listening. Outside the wind moaned
fitfully and scattering raindrops pattered upon the cabin.

“A-huh!” exclaimed Snake, in relief.

Silence ensued then for a moment, at the end of which interval Dale
heard a rapid clip-clop on the rocky trail outside. The men below
shuffled uneasily, but none of them spoke. The fire cracked cheerily.
Snake Anson stepped back from before the door with an action that
expressed both doubt and caution.

The trotting horse had halted out there somewhere.

“Ho there, inside!” called a voice from the darkness.

“Ho yourself!” replied Anson.

“That you, Snake?” quickly followed the query.

“Reckon so,” returned Anson, showing himself.

The newcomer entered. He was a large man, wearing a slicker that shone
wet in the firelight. His sombrero, pulled well down, shadowed his face,
so that the upper half of his features might as well have been masked.
He had a black, drooping mustache, and a chin like a rock. A potential
force, matured and powerful, seemed to be wrapped in his movements.

“Hullo, Snake! Hullo, Wilson!” he said. “I’ve backed out on the other
deal. Sent for you on--on another little matter... particular private.”

Here he indicated with a significant gesture that Snake’s men were to
leave the cabin.

“A-huh! ejaculated Anson, dubiously. Then he turned abruptly. Moze,
you an’ Shady an’ Burt go wait outside. Reckon this ain’t the deal I
expected.... An’ you can saddle the hosses.”

The three members of the gang filed out, all glancing keenly at the
stranger, who had moved back into the shadow.

“All right now, Beasley,” said Anson, low-voiced. “What’s your game?
Jim, here, is in on my deals.”

Then Beasley came forward to the fire, stretching his hands to the
blaze.

“Nothin’ to do with sheep,” replied he.

“Wal, I reckoned not,” assented the other. “An’ say--whatever your game
is, I ain’t likin’ the way you kept me waitin’ an’ ridin’ around. We
waited near all day at Big Spring. Then thet greaser rode up an’ sent us
here. We’re a long way from camp with no grub an’ no blankets.”

“I won’t keep you long,” said Beasley. “But even if I did you’d not
mind--when I tell you this deal concerns Al Auchincloss--the man who
made an outlaw of you!”

Anson’s sudden action then seemed a leap of his whole frame. Wilson,
likewise, bent forward eagerly. Beasley glanced at the door--then began
to whisper.

“Old Auchincloss is on his last legs. He’s goin’ to croak. He’s sent
back to Missouri for a niece--a young girl--an’ he means to leave his
ranches an’ sheep--all his stock to her. Seems he has no one else....
Them ranches--an’ all them sheep an’ hosses! You know me an’ Al were
pardners in sheep-raisin’ for years. He swore I cheated him an’ he threw
me out. An’ all these years I’ve been swearin’ he did me dirt--owed me
sheep an’ money. I’ve got as many friends in Pine--an’ all the way down
the trail--as Auchincloss has.... An’ Snake, see here--”

He paused to draw a deep breath and his big hands trembled over the
blaze. Anson leaned forward, like a serpent ready to strike, and Jim
Wilson was as tense with his divination of the plot at hand.

“See here,” panted Beasley. “The girl’s due to arrive at Magdalena on
the sixteenth. That’s a week from to-morrow. She’ll take the stage to
Snowdrop, where some of Auchincloss’s men will meet her with a team.”

“A-huh!” grunted Anson as Beasley halted again. “An’ what of all thet?”

“She mustn’t never get as far as Snowdrop!”

“You want me to hold up the stage--an’ get the girl?”

“Exactly.”

“Wal--an’ what then?”

“Make off with her.... She disappears. That’s your affair. ... I’ll
press my claims on Auchincloss--hound him--an’ be ready when he croaks
to take over his property. Then the girl can come back, for all I
care.... You an’ Wilson fix up the deal between you. If you have to let
the gang in on it don’t give them any hunch as to who an’ what. This ‘ll
make you a rich stake. An’ providin’, when it’s paid, you strike for new
territory.”

“Thet might be wise,” muttered Snake Anson. “Beasley, the weak point in
your game is the uncertainty of life. Old Al is tough. He may fool you.”

“Auchincloss is a dyin’ man,” declared Beasley, with such positiveness
that it could not be doubted.

“Wal, he sure wasn’t plumb hearty when I last seen him.... Beasley, in
case I play your game--how’m I to know that girl?”

“Her name’s Helen Rayner,” replied Beasley, eagerly. “She’s twenty
years old. All of them Auchinclosses was handsome an’ they say she’s the
handsomest.”

“A-huh!... Beasley, this ‘s sure a bigger deal--an’ one I ain’t
fancyin’.... But I never doubted your word.... Come on--an’ talk out.
What’s in it for me?”

“Don’t let any one in on this. You two can hold up the stage. Why, it
was never held up.... But you want to mask.... How about ten thousand
sheep--or what they bring at Phenix in gold?”

Jim Wilson whistled low.

“An’ leave for new territory?” repeated Snake Anson, under his breath.

“You’ve said it.”

“Wal, I ain’t fancyin’ the girl end of this deal, but you can count on
me.... September sixteenth at Magdalena--an’ her name’s Helen--an’ she’s
handsome?”

“Yes. My herders will begin drivin’ south in about two weeks. Later, if
the weather holds good, send me word by one of them an’ I’ll meet you.”

Beasley spread his hands once more over the blaze, pulled on his gloves
and pulled down his sombrero, and with an abrupt word of parting strode
out into the night.

“Jim, what do you make of him?” queried Snake Anson.

“Pard, he’s got us beat two ways for Sunday,” replied Wilson.

“A-huh!... Wal, let’s get back to camp.” And he led the way out.

Low voices drifted into the cabin, then came snorts of horses and
striking hoofs, and after that a steady trot, gradually ceasing.
Once more the moan of wind and soft patter of rain filled the forest
stillness.



CHAPTER II

Milt Dale quietly sat up to gaze, with thoughtful eyes, into the gloom.

He was thirty years old. As a boy of fourteen he had run off from his
school and home in Iowa and, joining a wagon-train of pioneers, he was
one of the first to see log cabins built on the slopes of the White
Mountains. But he had not taken kindly to farming or sheep-raising or
monotonous home toil, and for twelve years he had lived in the forest,
with only infrequent visits to Pine and Show Down and Snowdrop. This
wandering forest life of his did not indicate that he did not care for
the villagers, for he did care, and he was welcome everywhere, but
that he loved wild life and solitude and beauty with the primitive
instinctive force of a savage.

And on this night he had stumbled upon a dark plot against the only one
of all the honest white people in that region whom he could not call a
friend.

“That man Beasley!” he soliloquized. “Beasley--in cahoots with Snake
Anson!... Well, he was right. Al Auchincloss is on his last legs. Poor
old man! When I tell him he’ll never believe ME, that’s sure!”

Discovery of the plot meant to Dale that he must hurry down to Pine.

“A girl--Helen Rayner--twenty years old,” he mused. “Beasley wants her
made off with.... That means--worse than killed!”

Dale accepted facts of life with that equanimity and fatality acquired
by one long versed in the cruel annals of forest lore. Bad men worked
their evil just as savage wolves relayed a deer. He had shot wolves for
that trick. With men, good or bad, he had not clashed. Old women and
children appealed to him, but he had never had any interest in girls.
The image, then, of this Helen Rayner came strangely to Dale; and he
suddenly realized that he had meant somehow to circumvent Beasley, not
to befriend old Al Auchincloss, but for the sake of the girl. Probably
she was already on her way West, alone, eager, hopeful of a future home.
How little people guessed what awaited them at a journey’s end! Many
trails ended abruptly in the forest--and only trained woodsmen could
read the tragedy.

“Strange how I cut across country to-day from Spruce Swamp,” reflected
Dale. Circumstances, movements, usually were not strange to him. His
methods and habits were seldom changed by chance. The matter, then, of
his turning off a course out of his way for no apparent reason, and
of his having overheard a plot singularly involving a young girl, was
indeed an adventure to provoke thought. It provoked more, for Dale grew
conscious of an unfamiliar smoldering heat along his veins. He who had
little to do with the strife of men, and nothing to do with anger, felt
his blood grow hot at the cowardly trap laid for an innocent girl.

“Old Al won’t listen to me,” pondered Dale. “An’ even if he did, he
wouldn’t believe me. Maybe nobody will.... All the same, Snake Anson
won’t get that girl.”

With these last words Dale satisfied himself of his own position, and
his pondering ceased. Taking his rifle, he descended from the loft and
peered out of the door. The night had grown darker, windier, cooler;
broken clouds were scudding across the sky; only a few stars showed;
fine rain was blowing from the northwest; and the forest seemed full of
a low, dull roar.

“Reckon I’d better hang up here,” he said, and turned to the fire. The
coals were red now. From the depths of his hunting-coat he procured a
little bag of salt and some strips of dried meat. These strips he laid
for a moment on the hot embers, until they began to sizzle and curl;
then with a sharpened stick he removed them and ate like a hungry hunter
grateful for little.

He sat on a block of wood with his palms spread to the dying warmth of
the fire and his eyes fixed upon the changing, glowing, golden embers.
Outside, the wind continued to rise and the moan of the forest increased
to a roar. Dale felt the comfortable warmth stealing over him, drowsily
lulling; and he heard the storm-wind in the trees, now like a waterfall,
and anon like a retreating army, and again low and sad; and he saw
pictures in the glowing embers, strange as dreams.

Presently he rose and, climbing to the loft, he stretched himself out,
and soon fell asleep.


When the gray dawn broke he was on his way, ‘cross-country, to the
village of Pine.

During the night the wind had shifted and the rain had ceased. A
suspicion of frost shone on the grass in open places. All was gray--the
parks, the glades--and deeper, darker gray marked the aisles of the
forest. Shadows lurked under the trees and the silence seemed consistent
with spectral forms. Then the east kindled, the gray lightened, the
dreaming woodland awoke to the far-reaching rays of a bursting red sun.

This was always the happiest moment of Dale’s lonely days, as sunset
was his saddest. He responded, and there was something in his blood that
answered the whistle of a stag from a near-by ridge. His strides were
long, noiseless, and they left dark trace where his feet brushed the
dew-laden grass.

Dale pursued a zigzag course over the ridges to escape the hardest
climbing, but the “senacas”--those parklike meadows so named by Mexican
sheep-herders--were as round and level as if they had been made by man
in beautiful contrast to the dark-green, rough, and rugged ridges. Both
open senaca and dense wooded ridge showed to his quick eye an abundance
of game. The cracking of twigs and disappearing flash of gray among the
spruces, a round black lumbering object, a twittering in the brush,
and stealthy steps, were all easy signs for Dale to read. Once, as he
noiselessly emerged into a little glade, he espied a red fox stalking
some quarry, which, as he advanced, proved to be a flock of partridges.
They whirred up, brushing the branches, and the fox trotted away. In
every senaca Dale encountered wild turkeys feeding on the seeds of the
high grass.

It had always been his custom, on his visits to Pine, to kill and
pack fresh meat down to several old friends, who were glad to give him
lodging. And, hurried though he was now, he did not intend to make an
exception of this trip.

At length he got down into the pine belt, where the great, gnarled,
yellow trees soared aloft, stately, and aloof from one another, and the
ground was a brown, odorous, springy mat of pine-needles, level as a
floor. Squirrels watched him from all around, scurrying away at his
near approach--tiny, brown, light-striped squirrels, and larger ones,
russet-colored, and the splendid dark-grays with their white bushy tails
and plumed ears.

This belt of pine ended abruptly upon wide, gray, rolling, open land,
almost like a prairie, with foot-hills lifting near and far, and the
red-gold blaze of aspen thickets catching the morning sun. Here Dale
flushed a flock of wild turkeys, upward of forty in number, and their
subdued color of gray flecked with white, and graceful, sleek build,
showed them to be hens. There was not a gobbler in the flock. They began
to run pell-mell out into the grass, until only their heads appeared
bobbing along, and finally disappeared. Dale caught a glimpse of
skulking coyotes that evidently had been stalking the turkeys, and as
they saw him and darted into the timber he took a quick shot at the
hindmost. His bullet struck low, as he had meant it to, but too low, and
the coyote got only a dusting of earth and pine-needles thrown up into
his face. This frightened him so that he leaped aside blindly to butt
into a tree, rolled over, gained his feet, and then the cover of the
forest. Dale was amused at this. His hand was against all the predatory
beasts of the forest, though he had learned that lion and bear and wolf
and fox were all as necessary to the great scheme of nature as were the
gentle, beautiful wild creatures upon which they preyed. But some he
loved better than others, and so he deplored the inexplicable cruelty.

He crossed the wide, grassy plain and struck another gradual descent
where aspens and pines crowded a shallow ravine and warm, sun-lighted
glades bordered along a sparkling brook. Here he heard a turkey gobble,
and that was a signal for him to change his course and make a crouching,
silent detour around a clump of aspens. In a sunny patch of grass
a dozen or more big gobblers stood, all suspiciously facing in his
direction, heads erect, with that wild aspect peculiar to their species.
Old wild turkey gobblers were the most difficult game to stalk. Dale
shot two of them. The others began to run like ostriches, thudding over
the ground, spreading their wings, and with that running start launched
their heavy bodies into whirring flight. They flew low, at about the
height of a man from the grass, and vanished in the woods.

Dale threw the two turkeys over his shoulder and went on his way. Soon
he came to a break in the forest level, from which he gazed down a
league-long slope of pine and cedar, out upon the bare, glistening
desert, stretching away, endlessly rolling out to the dim, dark horizon
line.

The little hamlet of Pine lay on the last level of sparsely timbered
forest. A road, running parallel with a dark-watered, swift-flowing
stream, divided the cluster of log cabins from which columns of blue
smoke drifted lazily aloft. Fields of corn and fields of oats, yellow
in the sunlight, surrounded the village; and green pastures, dotted
with horses and cattle, reached away to the denser woodland. This site
appeared to be a natural clearing, for there was no evidence of cut
timber. The scene was rather too wild to be pastoral, but it was serene,
tranquil, giving the impression of a remote community, prosperous and
happy, drifting along the peaceful tenor of sequestered lives.

Dale halted before a neat little log cabin and a little patch of garden
bordered with sunflowers. His call was answered by an old woman, gray
and bent, but remarkably spry, who appeared at the door.

“Why, land’s sakes, if it ain’t Milt Dale!” she exclaimed, in welcome.

“Reckon it’s me, Mrs. Cass,” he replied. “An’ I’ve brought you a
turkey.”

“Milt, you’re that good boy who never forgits old Widow Cass.... What
a gobbler! First one I’ve seen this fall. My man Tom used to fetch home
gobblers like that.... An’ mebbe he’ll come home again sometime.”

Her husband, Tom Cass, had gone into the forest years before and had
never returned. But the old woman always looked for him and never gave
up hope.

“Men have been lost in the forest an’ yet come back,” replied Dale, as
he had said to her many a time.

“Come right in. You air hungry, I know. Now, son, when last did you eat
a fresh egg or a flapjack?”

“You should remember,” he answered, laughing, as he followed her into a
small, clean kitchen.

“Laws-a’-me! An’ thet’s months ago,” she replied, shaking her gray head.
“Milt, you should give up that wild life--an’ marry--an’ have a home.”

“You always tell me that.”

“Yes, an’ I’ll see you do it yet.... Now you set there, an’ pretty soon
I’ll give you thet to eat which ‘ll make your mouth water.”

“What’s the news, Auntie?” he asked.

“Nary news in this dead place. Why, nobody’s been to Snowdrop in two
weeks!... Sary Jones died, poor old soul--she’s better off--an’ one of
my cows run away. Milt, she’s wild when she gits loose in the woods.
An’ you’ll have to track her, ‘cause nobody else can. An’ John Dakker’s
heifer was killed by a lion, an’ Lem Harden’s fast hoss--you know his
favorite--was stole by hoss-thieves. Lem is jest crazy. An’ that reminds
me, Milt, where’s your big ranger, thet you’d never sell or lend?”

“My horses are up in the woods, Auntie; safe, I reckon, from
horse-thieves.”

“Well, that’s a blessin’. We’ve had some stock stole this summer, Milt,
an’ no mistake.”

Thus, while preparing a meal for Dale, the old woman went on recounting
all that had happened in the little village since his last visit. Dale
enjoyed her gossip and quaint philosophy, and it was exceedingly good
to sit at her table. In his opinion, nowhere else could there have been
such butter and cream, such ham and eggs. Besides, she always had apple
pie, it seemed, at any time he happened in; and apple pie was one of
Dale’s few regrets while up in the lonely forest.

“How’s old Al Auchincloss?” presently inquired Dale.

“Poorly--poorly,” sighed Mrs. Cass. “But he tramps an’ rides around
same as ever. Al’s not long for this world.... An’, Milt, that reminds
me--there’s the biggest news you ever heard.”

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Dale, to encourage the excited old woman.

“Al has sent back to Saint Joe for his niece, Helen Rayner. She’s to
inherit all his property. We’ve heard much of her--a purty lass, they
say.... Now, Milt Dale, here’s your chance. Stay out of the woods an’ go
to work.... You can marry that girl!”

“No chance for me, Auntie,” replied Dale, smiling.

The old woman snorted. “Much you know! Any girl would have you, Milt
Dale, if you’d only throw a kerchief.”

“Me!... An’ why, Auntie?” he queried, half amused, half thoughtful. When
he got back to civilization he always had to adjust his thoughts to the
ideas of people.

“Why? I declare, Milt, you live so in the woods you’re like a boy of
ten--an’ then sometimes as old as the hills.... There’s no young man to
compare with you, hereabouts. An’ this girl--she’ll have all the spunk
of the Auchinclosses.”

“Then maybe she’d not be such a catch, after all,” replied Dale.

“Wal, you’ve no cause to love them, that’s sure. But, Milt, the
Auchincloss women are always good wives.”

“Dear Auntie, you’re dreamin’,” said Dale, soberly. “I want no wife. I’m
happy in the woods.”

“Air you goin’ to live like an Injun all your days, Milt Dale?” she
queried, sharply.

“I hope so.”

“You ought to be ashamed. But some lass will change you, boy, an’ mebbe
it’ll be this Helen Rayner. I hope an’ pray so to thet.”

“Auntie, supposin’ she did change me. She’d never change old Al. He
hates me, you know.”

“Wal, I ain’t so sure, Milt. I met Al the other day. He inquired for
you, an’ said you was wild, but he reckoned men like you was good for
pioneer settlements. Lord knows the good turns you’ve done this village!
Milt, old Al doesn’t approve of your wild life, but he never had no hard
feelin’s till thet tame lion of yours killed so many of his sheep.”

“Auntie, I don’t believe Tom ever killed Al’s sheep,” declared Dale,
positively.

“Wal, Al thinks so, an’ many other people,” replied Mrs. Cass, shaking
her gray head doubtfully. “You never swore he didn’t. An’ there was them
two sheep-herders who did swear they seen him.”

“They only saw a cougar. An’ they were so scared they ran.”

“Who wouldn’t? Thet big beast is enough to scare any one. For land’s
sakes, don’t ever fetch him down here again! I’ll never forgit the time
you did. All the folks an’ children an’ hosses in Pine broke an’ run
thet day.”

“Yes; but Tom wasn’t to blame. Auntie, he’s the tamest of my pets.
Didn’t he try to put his head on your lap an’ lick your hand?”

“Wal, Milt, I ain’t gainsayin’ your cougar pet didn’t act better ‘n a
lot of people I know. Fer he did. But the looks of him an’ what’s been
said was enough for me.”

“An’ what’s all that, Auntie?”

“They say he’s wild when out of your sight. An’ thet he’d trail an’ kill
anythin’ you put him after.”

“I trained him to be just that way.”

“Wal, leave Tom to home up in the woods--when you visit us.”

Dale finished his hearty meal, and listened awhile longer to the old
woman’s talk; then, taking his rifle and the other turkey, he bade her
good-by. She followed him out.

“Now, Milt, you’ll come soon again, won’t you--jest to see Al’s
niece--who’ll be here in a week?”

“I reckon I’ll drop in some day.... Auntie, have you seen my friends,
the Mormon boys?”

“No, I ‘ain’t seen them an’ don’t want to,” she retorted. “Milt Dale, if
any one ever corrals you it’ll be Mormons.”

“Don’t worry, Auntie. I like those boys. They often see me up in the
woods an’ ask me to help them track a hoss or help kill some fresh
meat.”

“They’re workin’ for Beasley now.”

“Is that so?” rejoined Dale, with a sudden start. “An’ what doin’?”

“Beasley is gettin’ so rich he’s buildin’ a fence, an’ didn’t have
enough help, so I hear.”

“Beasley gettin’ rich!” repeated Dale, thoughtfully. “More sheep an’
horses an’ cattle than ever, I reckon?”

“Laws-a’-me! Why, Milt, Beasley ‘ain’t any idea what he owns. Yes, he’s
the biggest man in these parts, since poor old Al’s took to failin’. I
reckon Al’s health ain’t none improved by Beasley’s success. They’ve bad
some bitter quarrels lately--so I hear. Al ain’t what he was.”

Dale bade good-by again to his old friend and strode away, thoughtful
and serious. Beasley would not only be difficult to circumvent, but he
would be dangerous to oppose. There did not appear much doubt of his
driving his way rough-shod to the dominance of affairs there in Pine.
Dale, passing down the road, began to meet acquaintances who had
hearty welcome for his presence and interest in his doings, so that his
pondering was interrupted for the time being. He carried the turkey to
another old friend, and when he left her house he went on to the village
store. This was a large log cabin, roughly covered with clapboards, with
a wide plank platform in front and a hitching-rail in the road. Several
horses were standing there, and a group of lazy, shirt-sleeved loungers.

“I’ll be doggoned if it ain’t Milt Dale!” exclaimed one.

“Howdy, Milt, old buckskin! Right down glad to see you,” greeted
another.

“Hello, Dale! You air shore good for sore eyes,” drawled still another.

After a long period of absence Dale always experienced a singular warmth
of feeling when he met these acquaintances. It faded quickly when he got
back to the intimacy of his woodland, and that was because the people of
Pine, with few exceptions--though they liked him and greatly admired his
outdoor wisdom--regarded him as a sort of nonentity. Because he loved
the wild and preferred it to village and range life, they had classed
him as not one of them. Some believed him lazy; others believed him
shiftless; others thought him an Indian in mind and habits; and there
were many who called him slow-witted. Then there was another side to
their regard for him, which always afforded him good-natured amusement.
Two of this group asked him to bring in some turkey or venison; another
wanted to hunt with him. Lem Harden came out of the store and appealed
to Dale to recover his stolen horse. Lem’s brother wanted a wild-running
mare tracked and brought home. Jesse Lyons wanted a colt broken, and
broken with patience, not violence, as was the method of the hard-riding
boys at Pine. So one and all they besieged Dale with their selfish
needs, all unconscious of the flattering nature of these overtures. And
on the moment there happened by two women whose remarks, as they entered
the store, bore strong testimony to Dale’s personality.

“If there ain’t Milt Dale!” exclaimed the older of the two. “How lucky!
My cow’s sick, an’ the men are no good doctorin’. I’ll jest ask Milt
over.”

“No one like Milt!” responded the other woman, heartily.

“Good day there--you Milt Dale!” called the first speaker. “When you git
away from these lazy men come over.”

Dale never refused a service, and that was why his infrequent visits to
Pine were wont to be prolonged beyond his own pleasure.

Presently Beasley strode down the street, and when about to enter the
store he espied Dale.

“Hullo there, Milt!” he called, cordially, as he came forward with
extended hand. His greeting was sincere, but the lightning glance he
shot over Dale was not born of his pleasure. Seen in daylight, Beasley
was a big, bold, bluff man, with strong, dark features. His aggressive
presence suggested that he was a good friend and a bad enemy.

Dale shook hands with him.

“How are you, Beasley?”

“Ain’t complainin’, Milt, though I got more work than I can rustle.
Reckon you wouldn’t take a job bossin’ my sheep-herders?”

“Reckon I wouldn’t,” replied Dale. “Thanks all the same.”

“What’s goin’ on up in the woods?”

“Plenty of turkey an’ deer. Lots of bear, too. The Indians have worked
back on the south side early this fall. But I reckon winter will come
late an’ be mild.”

“Good! An’ where ‘re you headin’ from?”

“‘Cross-country from my camp,” replied Dale, rather evasively.

“Your camp! Nobody ever found that yet,” declared Beasley, gruffly.

“It’s up there,” said Dale.

“Reckon you’ve got that cougar chained in your cabin door?” queried
Beasley, and there was a barely distinguishable shudder of his muscular
frame. Also the pupils dilated in his hard brown eyes.

“Tom ain’t chained. An’ I haven’t no cabin, Beasley.”

“You mean to tell me that big brute stays in your camp without bein’
hog-tied or corralled!” demanded Beasley.

“Sure he does.”

“Beats me! But, then, I’m queer on cougars. Have had many a cougar trail
me at night. Ain’t sayin’ I was scared. But I don’t care for that brand
of varmint.... Milt, you goin’ to stay down awhile?”

“Yes, I’ll hang around some.”

“Come over to the ranch. Glad to see you any time. Some old huntin’
pards of yours are workin’ for me.”

“Thanks, Beasley. I reckon I’ll come over.”

Beasley turned away and took a step, and then, as if with an
after-thought, he wheeled again.

“Suppose you’ve heard about old Al Auchincloss bein’ near petered out?”
 queried Beasley. A strong, ponderous cast of thought seemed to emanate
from his features. Dale divined that Beasley’s next step would be to
further his advancement by some word or hint.

“Widow Cass was tellin’ me all the news. Too bad about old Al,” replied
Dale.

“Sure is. He’s done for. An’ I’m sorry--though Al’s never been square--”

“Beasley,” interrupted Dale, quickly, “you can’t say that to me. Al
Auchincloss always was the whitest an’ squarest man in this sheep
country.”

Beasley gave Dale a fleeting, dark glance.

“Dale, what you think ain’t goin’ to influence feelin’ on this range,”
 returned Beasley, deliberately. “You live in the woods an’--”

“Reckon livin’ in the woods I might think--an’ know a whole lot,”
 interposed Dale, just as deliberately. The group of men exchanged
surprised glances. This was Milt Dale in different aspect. And Beasley
did not conceal a puzzled surprise.

“About what--now?” he asked, bluntly.

“Why, about what’s goin’ on in Pine,” replied Dale.

Some of the men laughed.

“Shore lots goin’ on--an’ no mistake,” put in Lem Harden.

Probably the keen Beasley had never before considered Milt Dale as a
responsible person; certainly never one in any way to cross his trail.
But on the instant, perhaps, some instinct was born, or he divined an
antagonism in Dale that was both surprising and perplexing.

“Dale, I’ve differences with Al Auchincloss--have had them for years,”
 said Beasley. “Much of what he owns is mine. An’ it’s goin’ to come to
me. Now I reckon people will be takin’ sides--some for me an’ some for
Al. Most are for me.... Where do you stand? Al Auchincloss never had no
use for you, an’ besides he’s a dyin’ man. Are you goin’ on his side?”

“Yes, I reckon I am.”

“Wal, I’m glad you’ve declared yourself,” rejoined Beasley, shortly,
and he strode away with the ponderous gait of a man who would brush any
obstacle from his path.

“Milt, thet’s bad--makin’ Beasley sore at you,” said Lem Harden. “He’s
on the way to boss this outfit.”

“He’s sure goin’ to step into Al’s boots,” said another.

“Thet was white of Milt to stick up fer poor old Al,” declared Lem’s
brother.

Dale broke away from them and wended a thoughtful way down the road. The
burden of what he knew about Beasley weighed less heavily upon him, and
the close-lipped course he had decided upon appeared wisest. He needed
to think before undertaking to call upon old Al Auchincloss; and to that
end he sought an hour’s seclusion under the pines.



CHAPTER III

In the afternoon, Dale, having accomplished some tasks imposed upon him
by his old friends at Pine, directed slow steps toward the Auchincloss
ranch.

The flat, square stone and log cabin of unusually large size stood upon
a little hill half a mile out of the village. A home as well as a fort,
it had been the first structure erected in that region, and the process
of building had more than once been interrupted by Indian attacks.
The Apaches had for some time, however, confined their fierce raids to
points south of the White Mountain range. Auchincloss’s house looked
down upon barns and sheds and corrals of all sizes and shapes, and
hundreds of acres of well-cultivated soil. Fields of oats waved gray and
yellow in the afternoon sun; an immense green pasture was divided by a
willow-bordered brook, and here were droves of horses, and out on the
rolling bare flats were straggling herds of cattle.

The whole ranch showed many years of toil and the perseverance of
man. The brook irrigated the verdant valley between the ranch and the
village. Water for the house, however, came down from the high, wooded
slope of the mountain, and had been brought there by a simple expedient.
Pine logs of uniform size had been laid end to end, with a deep trough
cut in them, and they made a shining line down the slope, across the
valley, and up the little hill to the Auchincloss home. Near the house
the hollowed halves of logs had been bound together, making a crude
pipe. Water ran uphill in this case, one of the facts that made the
ranch famous, as it had always been a wonder and delight to the small
boys of Pine. The two good women who managed Auchincloss’s large
household were often shocked by the strange things that floated into
their kitchen with the ever-flowing stream of clear, cold mountain
water.

As it happened this day Dale encountered Al Auchincloss sitting in the
shade of a porch, talking to some of his sheep-herders and stockmen.
Auchincloss was a short man of extremely powerful build and great width
of shoulder. He had no gray hairs, and he did not look old, yet there
was in his face a certain weariness, something that resembled sloping
lines of distress, dim and pale, that told of age and the ebb-tide of
vitality. His features, cast in large mold, were clean-cut and comely,
and he had frank blue eyes, somewhat sad, yet still full of spirit.

Dale had no idea how his visit would be taken, and he certainly would
not have been surprised to be ordered off the place. He had not set foot
there for years. Therefore it was with surprise that he saw Auchincloss
wave away the herders and take his entrance without any particular
expression.

“Howdy, Al! How are you?” greeted Dale, easily, as he leaned his rifle
against the log wall.

Auchincloss did not rise, but he offered his hand.

“Wal, Milt Dale, I reckon this is the first time I ever seen you that I
couldn’t lay you flat on your back,” replied the rancher. His tone was
both testy and full of pathos.

“I take it you mean you ain’t very well,” replied Dale. “I’m sorry, Al.”

“No, it ain’t thet. Never was sick in my life. I’m just played out, like
a hoss thet had been strong an’ willin’, an’ did too much.... Wal, you
don’t look a day older, Milt. Livin’ in the woods rolls over a man’s
head.”

“Yes, I’m feelin’ fine, an’ time never bothers me.”

“Wal, mebbe you ain’t such a fool, after all. I’ve wondered
lately--since I had time to think.... But, Milt, you don’t git no
richer.”

“Al, I have all I want an’ need.”

“Wal, then, you don’t support anybody; you don’t do any good in the
world.”

“We don’t agree, Al,” replied Dale, with his slow smile.

“Reckon we never did.... An’ you jest come over to pay your respects to
me, eh?”

“Not altogether,” answered Dale, ponderingly. “First off, I’d like to
say I’ll pay back them sheep you always claimed my tame cougar killed.”

“You will! An’ how’d you go about that?”

“Wasn’t very many sheep, was there?

“A matter of fifty head.”

“So many! Al, do you still think old Tom killed them sheep?”

“Humph! Milt, I know damn well he did.”

“Al, now how could you know somethin’ I don’t? Be reasonable, now. Let’s
don’t fall out about this again. I’ll pay back the sheep. Work it out--”

“Milt Dale, you’ll come down here an’ work out that fifty head of
sheep!” ejaculated the old rancher, incredulously.

“Sure.”

“Wal, I’ll be damned!” He sat back and gazed with shrewd eyes at Dale.
“What’s got into you, Milt? Hev you heard about my niece thet’s comin’,
an’ think you’ll shine up to her?”

“Yes, Al, her comin’ has a good deal to do with my deal,” replied Dale,
soberly. “But I never thought to shine up to her, as you hint.”

“Haw! Haw! You’re just like all the other colts hereabouts. Reckon it’s
a good sign, too. It’ll take a woman to fetch you out of the woods. But,
boy, this niece of mine, Helen Rayner, will stand you on your head.
I never seen her. They say she’s jest like her mother. An’ Nell
Auchincloss--what a girl she was!”

Dale felt his face grow red. Indeed, this was strange conversation for
him.

“Honest, Al--” he began.

“Son, don’t lie to an old man.”

“Lie! I wouldn’t lie to any one. Al, it’s only men who live in towns an’
are always makin’ deals. I live in the forest, where there’s nothin’ to
make me lie.”

“Wal, no offense meant, I’m sure,” responded Auchincloss. “An’ mebbe
there’s somethin’ in what you say... We was talkin’ about them sheep
your big cat killed. Wal, Milt, I can’t prove it, that’s sure. An’ mebbe
you’ll think me doddery when I tell you my reason. It wasn’t what them
greaser herders said about seein’ a cougar in the herd.”

“What was it, then?” queried Dale, much interested.

“Wal, thet day a year ago I seen your pet. He was lyin’ in front of the
store an’ you was inside tradin’, fer supplies, I reckon. It was like
meetin’ an enemy face to face. Because, damn me if I didn’t know that
cougar was guilty when he looked in my eyes! There!”

The old rancher expected to be laughed at. But Dale was grave.

“Al, I know how you felt,” he replied, as if they were discussing an
action of a human being. “Sure I’d hate to doubt old Tom. But he’s a
cougar. An’ the ways of animals are strange... Anyway, Al, I’ll make
good the loss of your sheep.”

“No, you won’t,” rejoined Auchincloss, quickly. “We’ll call it off. I’m
takin’ it square of you to make the offer. Thet’s enough. So forget your
worry about work, if you had any.”

“There’s somethin’ else, Al, I wanted to say,” began Dale, with
hesitation. “An’ it’s about Beasley.”

Auchincloss started violently, and a flame of red shot into his face.
Then he raised a big hand that shook. Dale saw in a flash how the old
man’s nerves had gone.

“Don’t mention--thet--thet greaser--to me!” burst out the rancher. “It
makes me see--red.... Dale, I ain’t overlookin’ that you spoke up fer
me to-day--stood fer my side. Lem Harden told me. I was glad. An’ thet’s
why--to-day--I forgot our old quarrel.... But not a word about thet
sheep-thief--or I’ll drive you off the place!”

“But, Al--be reasonable,” remonstrated Dale. “It’s necessary thet I
speak of--of Beasley.”

“It ain’t. Not to me. I won’t listen.”

“Reckon you’ll have to, Al,” returned Dale. “Beasley’s after your
property. He’s made a deal--”

“By Heaven! I know that!” shouted Auchincloss, tottering up, with his
face now black-red. “Do you think thet’s new to me? Shut up, Dale! I
can’t stand it.”

“But Al--there’s worse,” went on Dale, hurriedly. “Worse! Your life’s
threatened--an’ your niece, Helen--she’s to be--”

“Shut up--an’ clear out!” roared Auchincloss, waving his huge fists.

He seemed on the verge of a collapse as, shaking all over, he backed
into the door. A few seconds of rage had transformed him into a pitiful
old man.

“But, Al--I’m your friend--” began Dale, appealingly.

“Friend, hey?” returned the rancher, with grim, bitter passion. “Then
you’re the only one.... Milt Dale, I’m rich an’ I’m a dyin’ man. I trust
nobody... But, you wild hunter--if you’re my friend--prove it!... Go
kill thet greaser sheep-thief! DO somethin’--an’ then come talk to me!”

With that he lurched, half falling, into the house, and slammed the
door.

Dale stood there for a blank moment, and then, taking up his rifle, he
strode away.

Toward sunset Dale located the camp of his four Mormon friends, and
reached it in time for supper.

John, Roy, Joe, and Hal Beeman were sons of a pioneer Mormon who had
settled the little community of Snowdrop. They were young men in years,
but hard labor and hard life in the open had made them look matured.
Only a year’s difference in age stood between John and Roy, and between
Roy and Joe, and likewise Joe and Hal. When it came to appearance they
were difficult to distinguish from one another. Horsemen, sheep-herders,
cattle-raisers, hunters--they all possessed long, wiry, powerful frames,
lean, bronzed, still faces, and the quiet, keen eyes of men used to the
open.

Their camp was situated beside a spring in a cove surrounded by aspens,
some three miles from Pine; and, though working for Beasley, near
the village, they had ridden to and fro from camp, after the habit of
seclusion peculiar to their kind.

Dale and the brothers had much in common, and a warm regard had sprang
up. But their exchange of confidences had wholly concerned things
pertaining to the forest. Dale ate supper with them, and talked as usual
when he met them, without giving any hint of the purpose forming in his
mind. After the meal he helped Joe round up the horses, hobble them for
the night, and drive them into a grassy glade among the pines. Later,
when the shadows stole through the forest on the cool wind, and the
camp-fire glowed comfortably, Dale broached the subject that possessed
him.

“An’ so you’re working for Beasley?” he queried, by way of starting
conversation.

“We was,” drawled John. “But to-day, bein’ the end of our month, we got
our pay an’ quit. Beasley sure was sore.”

“Why’d you knock off?”

John essayed no reply, and his brothers all had that quiet, suppressed
look of knowledge under restraint.

“Listen to what I come to tell you, then you’ll talk,” went on Dale. And
hurriedly he told of Beasley’s plot to abduct Al Auchincloss’s niece and
claim the dying man’s property.

When Dale ended, rather breathlessly, the Mormon boys sat without any
show of surprise or feeling. John, the eldest, took up a stick and
slowly poked the red embers of the fire, making the white sparks fly.

“Now, Milt, why’d you tell us thet?” he asked, guardedly.

“You’re the only friends I’ve got,” replied Dale. “It didn’t seem safe
for me to talk down in the village. I thought of you boys right off. I
ain’t goin’ to let Snake Anson get that girl. An’ I need help, so I come
to you.”

“Beasley’s strong around Pine, an’ old Al’s weakenin’. Beasley will git
the property, girl or no girl,” said John.

“Things don’t always turn out as they look. But no matter about that.
The girl deal is what riled me.... She’s to arrive at Magdalena on
the sixteenth, an’ take stage for Snowdrop.... Now what to do? If she
travels on that stage I’ll be on it, you bet. But she oughtn’t to be in
it at all. ... Boys, somehow I’m goin’ to save her. Will you help me? I
reckon I’ve been in some tight corners for you. Sure, this ‘s different.
But are you my friends? You know now what Beasley is. An’ you’re all
lost at the hands of Snake Anson’s gang. You’ve got fast hosses, eyes
for trackin’, an’ you can handle a rifle. You’re the kind of fellows I’d
want in a tight pinch with a bad gang. Will you stand by me or see me go
alone?”

Then John Beeman, silently, and with pale face, gave Dale’s hand a
powerful grip, and one by one the other brothers rose to do likewise.
Their eyes flashed with hard glint and a strange bitterness hovered
around their thin lips.

“Milt, mebbe we know what Beasley is better ‘n you,” said John, at
length. “He ruined my father. He’s cheated other Mormons. We boys have
proved to ourselves thet he gets the sheep Anson’s gang steals.... An’
drives the herds to Phenix! Our people won’t let us accuse Beasley. So
we’ve suffered in silence. My father always said, let some one else say
the first word against Beasley, an’ you’ve come to us!”

Roy Beeman put a hand on Dale’s shoulder. He, perhaps, was the keenest
of the brothers and the one to whom adventure and peril called most.
He had been oftenest with Dale, on many a long trail, and he was the
hardest rider and the most relentless tracker in all that range country.

“An’ we’re goin’ with you,” he said, in a strong and rolling voice.

They resumed their seats before the fire. John threw on more wood, and
with a crackling and sparkling the blaze curled up, fanned by the wind.
As twilight deepened into night the moan in the pines increased to a
roar. A pack of coyotes commenced to pierce the air in staccato cries.

The five young men conversed long and earnestly, considering, planning,
rejecting ideas advanced by each. Dale and Roy Beeman suggested most of
what became acceptable to all. Hunters of their type resembled explorers
in slow and deliberate attention to details. What they had to deal with
here was a situation of unlimited possibilities; the horses and outfit
needed; a long detour to reach Magdalena unobserved; the rescue of a
strange girl who would no doubt be self-willed and determined to ride
on the stage--the rescue forcible, if necessary; the fight and the
inevitable pursuit; the flight into the forest, and the safe delivery of
the girl to Auchincloss.

“Then, Milt, will we go after Beasley?” queried Roy Beeman,
significantly.

Dale was silent and thoughtful.

“Sufficient unto the day!” said John. “An’ fellars, let’s go to bed.”

They rolled out their tarpaulins, Dale sharing Roy’s blankets, and soon
were asleep, while the red embers slowly faded, and the great roar of
wind died down, and the forest stillness set in.



CHAPTER IV

Helen Rayner had been on the westbound overland train fully twenty-four
hours before she made an alarming discovery.

Accompanied by her sister Bo, a precocious girl of sixteen, Helen had
left St. Joseph with a heart saddened by farewells to loved ones at
home, yet full of thrilling and vivid anticipations of the strange life
in the Far West. All her people had the pioneer spirit; love of change,
action, adventure, was in her blood. Then duty to a widowed mother
with a large and growing family had called to Helen to accept this rich
uncle’s offer. She had taught school and also her little brothers and
sisters; she had helped along in other ways. And now, though the
tearing up of the roots of old loved ties was hard, this opportunity was
irresistible in its call. The prayer of her dreams had been answered. To
bring good fortune to her family; to take care of this beautiful, wild
little sister; to leave the yellow, sordid, humdrum towns for the great,
rolling, boundless open; to live on a wonderful ranch that was some day
to be her own; to have fulfilled a deep, instinctive, and undeveloped
love of horses, cattle, sheep, of desert and mountain, of trees and
brooks and wild flowers--all this was the sum of her most passionate
longings, now in some marvelous, fairylike way to come true.

A check to her happy anticipations, a blank, sickening dash of cold
water upon her warm and intimate dreams, had been the discovery
that Harve Riggs was on the train. His presence could mean only one
thing--that he had followed her. Riggs had been the worst of many
sore trials back there in St. Joseph. He had possessed some claim or
influence upon her mother, who favored his offer of marriage to Helen;
he was neither attractive, nor good, nor industrious, nor anything that
interested her; he was the boastful, strutting adventurer, not genuinely
Western, and he affected long hair and guns and notoriety. Helen had
suspected the veracity of the many fights he claimed had been his,
and also she suspected that he was not really big enough to be bad--as
Western men were bad. But on the train, in the station at La Junta, one
glimpse of him, manifestly spying upon her while trying to keep out of
her sight, warned Helen that she now might have a problem on her hands.

The recognition sobered her. All was not to be a road of roses to this
new home in the West. Riggs would follow her, if he could not accompany
her, and to gain his own ends he would stoop to anything. Helen felt the
startling realization of being cast upon her own resources, and then
a numbing discouragement and loneliness and helplessness. But these
feelings did not long persist in the quick pride and flash of her
temper. Opportunity knocked at her door and she meant to be at home to
it. She would not have been Al Auchincloss’s niece if she had faltered.
And, when temper was succeeded by genuine anger, she could have laughed
to scorn this Harve Riggs and his schemes, whatever they were. Once
and for all she dismissed fear of him. When she left St. Joseph she had
faced the West with a beating heart and a high resolve to be worthy of
that West. Homes had to be made out there in that far country, so Uncle
Al had written, and women were needed to make homes. She meant to be one
of these women and to make of her sister another. And with the thought
that she would know definitely what to say to Riggs when he approached
her, sooner or later, Helen dismissed him from mind.

While the train was in motion, enabling Helen to watch the ever-changing
scenery, and resting her from the strenuous task of keeping Bo well in
hand at stations, she lapsed again into dreamy gaze at the pine forests
and the red, rocky gullies and the dim, bold mountains. She saw the sun
set over distant ranges of New Mexico--a golden blaze of glory, as new
to her as the strange fancies born in her, thrilling and fleeting by.
Bo’s raptures were not silent, and the instant the sun sank and the
color faded she just as rapturously importuned Helen to get out the huge
basket of food they had brought from home.

They had two seats, facing each other, at the end of the coach, and
piled there, with the basket on top, was luggage that constituted all
the girls owned in the world. Indeed, it was very much more than they
had ever owned before, because their mother, in her care for them and
desire to have them look well in the eyes of this rich uncle, had spent
money and pains to give them pretty and serviceable clothes.

The girls sat together, with the heavy basket on their knees, and ate
while they gazed out at the cool, dark ridges. The train clattered
slowly on, apparently over a road that was all curves. And it was
supper-time for everybody in that crowded coach. If Helen had not been
so absorbed by the great, wild mountain-land she would have had more
interest in the passengers. As it was she saw them, and was amused
and thoughtful at the men and women and a few children in the car, all
middle-class people, poor and hopeful, traveling out there to the New
West to find homes. It was splendid and beautiful, this fact, yet it
inspired a brief and inexplicable sadness. From the train window, that
world of forest and crag, with its long bare reaches between, seemed so
lonely, so wild, so unlivable. How endless the distance! For hours and
miles upon miles no house, no hut, no Indian tepee! It was amazing, the
length and breadth of this beautiful land. And Helen, who loved brooks
and running streams, saw no water at all.

Then darkness settled down over the slow-moving panorama; a cool night
wind blew in at the window; white stars began to blink out of the blue.
The sisters, with hands clasped and heads nestled together, went to
sleep under a heavy cloak.


Early the next morning, while the girls were again delving into their
apparently bottomless basket, the train stopped at Las Vegas.

“Look! Look!” cried Bo, in thrilling voice. “Cowboys! Oh, Nell, look!”

Helen, laughing, looked first at her sister, and thought how most of all
she was good to look at. Bo was little, instinct with pulsating life,
and she had chestnut hair and dark-blue eyes. These eyes were flashing,
roguish, and they drew like magnets.

Outside on the rude station platform were railroad men, Mexicans, and
a group of lounging cowboys. Long, lean, bow-legged fellows they were,
with young, frank faces and intent eyes. One of them seemed particularly
attractive with his superb build, his red-bronze face and bright-red
scarf, his swinging gun, and the huge, long, curved spurs. Evidently
he caught Bo’s admiring gaze, for, with a word to his companions, he
sauntered toward the window where the girls sat. His gait was singular,
almost awkward, as if he was not accustomed to walking. The long spurs
jingled musically. He removed his sombrero and stood at ease, frank,
cool, smiling. Helen liked him on sight, and, looking to see what effect
he had upon Bo, she found that young lady staring, frightened stiff.

“Good mawnin’,” drawled the cowboy, with slow, good-humored smile. “Now
where might you-all be travelin’?”

The sound of his voice, the clean-cut and droll geniality; seemed new
and delightful to Helen.

“We go to Magdalena--then take stage for the White Mountains,” replied
Helen.

The cowboy’s still, intent eyes showed surprise.

“Apache country, miss,” he said. “I reckon I’m sorry. Thet’s shore no
place for you-all... Beggin’ your pawdin--you ain’t Mormons?”

“No. We’re nieces of Al Auchincloss,” rejoined Helen.

“Wal, you don’t say! I’ve been down Magdalena way an’ heerd of Al....
Reckon you’re goin’ a-visitin’?”

“It’s to be home for us.”

“Shore thet’s fine. The West needs girls.... Yes, I’ve heerd of Al.
An old Arizona cattle-man in a sheep country! Thet’s bad.... Now I’m
wonderin’--if I’d drift down there an’ ask him for a job ridin’ for
him--would I get it?”

His lazy smile was infectious and his meaning was as clear as crystal
water. The gaze he bent upon Bo somehow pleased Helen. The last year or
two, since Bo had grown prettier all the time, she had been a magnet for
admiring glances. This one of the cowboy’s inspired respect and liking,
as well as amusement. It certainly was not lost upon Bo.

“My uncle once said in a letter that he never had enough men to run his
ranch,” replied Helen, smiling.

“Shore I’ll go. I reckon I’d jest naturally drift that way--now.”

He seemed so laconic, so easy, so nice, that he could not have been
taken seriously, yet Helen’s quick perceptions registered a daring, a
something that was both sudden and inevitable in him. His last word was
as clear as the soft look he fixed upon Bo.

Helen had a mischievous trait, which, subdue it as she would,
occasionally cropped out; and Bo, who once in her wilful life had been
rendered speechless, offered such a temptation.

“Maybe my little sister will put in a good word for you--to Uncle Al,”
 said Helen. Just then the train jerked, and started slowly. The cowboy
took two long strides beside the car, his heated boyish face almost on a
level with the window, his eyes, now shy and a little wistful, yet bold,
too, fixed upon Bo.

“Good-by--Sweetheart!” he called.

He halted--was lost to view.

“Well!” ejaculated Helen, contritely, half sorry, half amused. “What a
sudden young gentleman!”

Bo had blushed beautifully.

“Nell, wasn’t he glorious!” she burst out, with eyes shining.

“I’d hardly call him that, but he was--nice,” replied Helen, much
relieved that Bo had apparently not taken offense at her.

It appeared plain that Bo resisted a frantic desire to look out of the
window and to wave her hand. But she only peeped out, manifestly to her
disappointment.

“Do you think he--he’ll come to Uncle Al’s?” asked Bo.

“Child, he was only in fun.”

“Nell, I’ll bet you he comes. Oh, it’d be great! I’m going to love
cowboys. They don’t look like that Harve Riggs who ran after you so.”

Helen sighed, partly because of the reminder of her odious suitor, and
partly because Bo’s future already called mysteriously to the child.
Helen had to be at once a mother and a protector to a girl of intense
and wilful spirit.

One of the trainmen directed the girls’ attention to a green, sloping
mountain rising to a bold, blunt bluff of bare rock; and, calling
it Starvation Peak, he told a story of how Indians had once driven
Spaniards up there and starved them. Bo was intensely interested, and
thereafter she watched more keenly than ever, and always had a question
for a passing trainman. The adobe houses of the Mexicans pleased her,
and, then the train got out into Indian country, where pueblos appeared
near the track and Indians with their bright colors and shaggy wild
mustangs--then she was enraptured.

“But these Indians are peaceful!” she exclaimed once, regretfully.

“Gracious, child! You don’t want to see hostile Indians, do you?”
 queried Helen.

“I do, you bet,” was the frank rejoinder.

“Well, I’LL bet that I’ll be sorry I didn’t leave you with mother.”

“Nell--you never will!”


They reached Albuquerque about noon, and this important station, where
they had to change trains, had been the first dreaded anticipation of
the journey. It certainly was a busy place--full of jabbering Mexicans,
stalking, red-faced, wicked-looking cowboys, lolling Indians. In the
confusion Helen would have been hard put to it to preserve calmness,
with Bo to watch, and all that baggage to carry, and the other train to
find; but the kindly brakeman who had been attentive to them now helped
them off the train into the other--a service for which Helen was very
grateful.

“Albuquerque’s a hard place,” confided the trainman. “Better stay in the
car--and don’t hang out the windows.... Good luck to you!”

Only a few passengers were in the car and they were Mexicans at the
forward end. This branch train consisted of one passenger-coach, with a
baggage-car, attached to a string of freight-cars. Helen told herself,
somewhat grimly, that soon she would know surely whether or not her
suspicions of Harve Riggs had warrant. If he was going on to Magdalena
on that day he must go in this coach. Presently Bo, who was not obeying
admonitions, drew her head out of the window. Her eyes were wide in
amaze, her mouth open.

“Nell! I saw that man Riggs!” she whispered. “He’s going to get on this
train.”

“Bo, I saw him yesterday,” replied Helen, soberly.

“He’s followed you--the--the--”

“Now, Bo, don’t get excited,” remonstrated Helen. “We’ve left home now.
We’ve got to take things as they come. Never mind if Riggs has followed
me. I’ll settle him.”

“Oh! Then you won’t speak--have anything to do with him?”

“I won’t if I can help it.”

Other passengers boarded the train, dusty, uncouth, ragged men, and
some hard-featured, poorly clad women, marked by toil, and several more
Mexicans. With bustle and loud talk they found their several seats.

Then Helen saw Harve Riggs enter, burdened with much luggage. He was a
man of about medium height, of dark, flashy appearance, cultivating long
black mustache and hair. His apparel was striking, as it consisted of
black frock-coat, black trousers stuffed in high, fancy-topped boots,
an embroidered vest, and flowing tie, and a black sombrero. His belt and
gun were prominent. It was significant that he excited comment among the
other passengers.

When he had deposited his pieces of baggage he seemed to square himself,
and, turning abruptly, approached the seat occupied by the girls. When
he reached it he sat down upon the arm of the one opposite, took off
his sombrero, and deliberately looked at Helen. His eyes were light,
glinting, with hard, restless quiver, and his mouth was coarse and
arrogant. Helen had never seen him detached from her home surroundings,
and now the difference struck cold upon her heart.

“Hello, Nell!” he said. “Surprised to see me?”

“No,” she replied, coldly.

“I’ll gamble you are.”

“Harve Riggs, I told you the day before I left home that nothing you
could do or say mattered to me.”

“Reckon that ain’t so, Nell. Any woman I keep track of has reason to
think. An’ you know it.”

“Then you followed me--out here?” demanded Helen, and her voice, despite
her control, quivered with anger.

“I sure did,” he replied, and there was as much thought of himself in
the act as there was of her.

“Why? Why? It’s useless--hopeless.”

“I swore I’d have you, or nobody else would,” he replied, and here, in
the passion of his voice there sounded egotism rather than hunger for
a woman’s love. “But I reckon I’d have struck West anyhow, sooner or
later.”

“You’re not going to--all the way--to Pine?” faltered Helen, momentarily
weakening.

“Nell, I’ll camp on your trail from now on,” he declared.

Then Bo sat bolt-upright, with pale face and flashing eyes.

“Harve Riggs, you leave Nell alone,” she burst out, in ringing, brave
young voice. “I’ll tell you what--I’ll bet--if you follow her and
nag her any more, my uncle Al or some cowboy will run you out of the
country.”

“Hello, Pepper!” replied Riggs, coolly. “I see your manners haven’t
improved an’ you’re still wild about cowboys.”

“People don’t have good manners with--with--”

“Bo, hush!” admonished Helen. It was difficult to reprove Bo just then,
for that young lady had not the slightest fear of Riggs. Indeed, she
looked as if she could slap his face. And Helen realized that however
her intelligence had grasped the possibilities of leaving home for a
wild country, and whatever her determination to be brave, the actual
beginning of self-reliance had left her spirit weak. She would rise
out of that. But just now this flashing-eyed little sister seemed a
protector. Bo would readily adapt herself to the West, Helen thought,
because she was so young, primitive, elemental.

Whereupon Bo turned her back to Riggs and looked out of the window. The
man laughed. Then he stood up and leaned over Helen.

“Nell, I’m goin’ wherever you go,” he said, steadily. “You can take that
friendly or not, just as it pleases you. But if you’ve got any sense
you’ll not give these people out here a hunch against me. I might hurt
somebody.... An’ wouldn’t it be better--to act friends? For I’m goin’ to
look after you, whether you like it or not.”

Helen had considered this man an annoyance, and later a menace, and now
she must declare open enmity with him. However disgusting the idea that
he considered himself a factor in her new life, it was the truth. He
existed, he had control over his movements. She could not change that.
She hated the need of thinking so much about him; and suddenly, with a
hot, bursting anger, she hated the man.

“You’ll not look after me. I’ll take care of myself,” she said, and
she turned her back upon him. She heard him mutter under his breath and
slowly move away down the car. Then Bo slipped a hand in hers.

“Never mind, Nell,” she whispered. “You know what old Sheriff Haines
said about Harve Riggs. ‘A four-flush would-be gun-fighter! If he ever
strikes a real Western town he’ll get run out of it.’ I just wish my
red-faced cowboy had got on this train!”

Helen felt a rush of gladness that she had yielded to Bo’s wild
importunities to take her West. The spirit which had made Bo
incorrigible at home probably would make her react happily to life out
in this free country. Yet Helen, with all her warmth and gratefulness,
had to laugh at her sister.

“Your red-faced cowboy! Why, Bo, you were scared stiff. And now you
claim him!”

“I certainly could love that fellow,” replied Bo, dreamily.

“Child, you’ve been saying that about fellows for a long time. And
you’ve never looked twice at any of them yet.”

“He was different.... Nell, I’ll bet he comes to Pine.”

“I hope he does. I wish he was on this train. I liked his looks, Bo.”

“Well, Nell dear, he looked at ME first and last--so don’t get your
hopes up.... Oh, the train’s starting!... Good-by, Albu-ker--what’s that
awful name?... Nell, let’s eat dinner. I’m starved.”

Then Helen forgot her troubles and the uncertain future, and what with
listening to Bo’s chatter, and partaking again of the endless good
things to eat in the huge basket, and watching the noble mountains, she
drew once more into happy mood.

The valley of the Rio Grande opened to view, wide near at hand in a
great gray-green gap between the bare black mountains, narrow in the
distance, where the yellow river wound away, glistening under a hot
sun. Bo squealed in glee at sight of naked little Mexican children that
darted into adobe huts as the train clattered by, and she exclaimed her
pleasure in the Indians, and the mustangs, and particularly in a group
of cowboys riding into town on spirited horses. Helen saw all Bo pointed
out, but it was to the wonderful rolling valley that her gaze clung
longest, and to the dim purple distance that seemed to hold something
from her. She had never before experienced any feeling like that; she
had never seen a tenth so far. And the sight awoke something strange
in her. The sun was burning hot, as she could tell when she put a hand
outside the window, and a strong wind blew sheets of dry dust at the
train. She gathered at once what tremendous factors in the Southwest
were the sun and the dust and the wind. And her realization made her
love them. It was there; the open, the wild, the beautiful, the lonely
land; and she felt the poignant call of blood in her--to seek, to
strive, to find, to live. One look down that yellow valley, endless
between its dark iron ramparts, had given her understanding of her
uncle. She must be like him in spirit, as it was claimed she resembled
him otherwise.

At length Bo grew tired of watching scenery that contained no life, and,
with her bright head on the faded cloak, she went to sleep. But Helen
kept steady, farseeing gaze out upon that land of rock and plain; and
during the long hours, as she watched through clouds of dust and veils
of heat, some strong and doubtful and restless sentiment seemed to
change and then to fix. It was her physical acceptance--her eyes and her
senses taking the West as she had already taken it in spirit.

A woman should love her home wherever fate placed her, Helen believed,
and not so much from duty as from delight and romance and living. How
could life ever be tedious or monotonous out here in this tremendous
vastness of bare earth and open sky, where the need to achieve made
thinking and pondering superficial?

It was with regret that she saw the last of the valley of the Rio
Grande, and then of its paralleled mountain ranges. But the miles
brought compensation in other valleys, other bold, black upheavals of
rock, and then again bare, boundless yellow plains, and sparsely cedared
ridges, and white dry washes, ghastly in the sunlight, and dazzling
beds of alkali, and then a desert space where golden and blue flowers
bloomed.

She noted, too, that the whites and yellows of earth and rock had
begun to shade to red--and this she knew meant an approach to
Arizona. Arizona, the wild, the lonely, the red desert, the green
plateau--Arizona with its thundering rivers, its unknown spaces, its
pasture-lands and timber-lands, its wild horses, cowboys, outlaws,
wolves and lions and savages! As to a boy, that name stirred and
thrilled and sang to her of nameless, sweet, intangible things,
mysterious and all of adventure. But she, being a girl of twenty, who
had accepted responsibilities, must conceal the depths of her heart and
that which her mother had complained was her misfortune in not being
born a boy.

Time passed, while Helen watched and learned and dreamed. The train
stopped, at long intervals, at wayside stations where there seemed
nothing but adobe sheds and lazy Mexicans, and dust and heat. Bo awoke
and began to chatter, and to dig into the basket. She learned from the
conductor that Magdalena was only two stations on. And she was full of
conjectures as to who would meet them, what would happen. So Helen was
drawn back to sober realities, in which there was considerable zest.
Assuredly she did not know what was going to happen. Twice Riggs passed
up and down the aisle, his dark face and light eyes and sardonic smile
deliberately forced upon her sight. But again Helen fought a growing
dread with contemptuous scorn. This fellow was not half a man. It was
not conceivable what he could do, except annoy her, until she arrived
at Pine. Her uncle was to meet her or send for her at Snowdrop, which
place, Helen knew, was distant a good long ride by stage from Magdalena.
This stage-ride was the climax and the dread of all the long journey, in
Helen’s considerations.

“Oh, Nell!” cried Bo, with delight. “We’re nearly there! Next station,
the conductor said.”

“I wonder if the stage travels at night,” said Helen, thoughtfully.

“Sure it does!” replied the irrepressible Bo.

The train, though it clattered along as usual, seemed to Helen to fly.
There the sun was setting over bleak New Mexican bluffs, Magdalena was
at hand, and night, and adventure. Helen’s heart beat fast. She
watched the yellow plains where the cattle grazed; their presence, and
irrigation ditches and cottonwood-trees told her that the railroad part
of the journey was nearly ended. Then, at Bo’s little scream, she
looked across the car and out of the window to see a line of low, flat,
red-adobe houses. The train began to slow down. Helen saw children run,
white children and Mexican together; then more houses, and high upon a
hill an immense adobe church, crude and glaring, yet somehow beautiful.

Helen told Bo to put on her bonnet, and, performing a like office for
herself, she was ashamed of the trembling of her fingers. There were
bustle and talk in the car.

The train stopped. Helen peered out to see a straggling crowd of
Mexicans and Indians, all motionless and stolid, as if trains or nothing
else mattered. Next Helen saw a white man, and that was a relief. He
stood out in front of the others. Tall and broad, somehow striking, he
drew a second glance that showed him to be a hunter clad in gray-fringed
buckskin, and carrying a rifle.



CHAPTER V

Here, there was no kindly brakeman to help the sisters with their
luggage. Helen bade Bo take her share; thus burdened, they made an
awkward and laborious shift to get off the train.

Upon the platform of the car a strong hand seized Helen’s heavy bag,
with which she was straining, and a loud voice called out:

“Girls, we’re here--sure out in the wild an’ woolly West!”

The speaker was Riggs, and he had possessed himself of part of her
baggage with action and speech meant more to impress the curious
crowd than to be really kind. In the excitement of arriving Helen
had forgotten him. The manner of sudden reminder--the insincerity of
it--made her temper flash. She almost fell, encumbered as she was, in
her hurry to descend the steps. She saw the tall hunter in gray step
forward close to her as she reached for the bag Riggs held.

“Mr. Riggs, I’ll carry my bag,” she said.

“Let me lug this. You help Bo with hers,” he replied, familiarly.

“But I want it,” she rejoined, quietly, with sharp determination. No
little force was needed to pull the bag away from Riggs.

“See here, Helen, you ain’t goin’ any farther with that joke, are you?”
 he queried, deprecatingly, and he still spoke quite loud.

“It’s no joke to me,” replied Helen. “I told you I didn’t want your
attention.”

“Sure. But that was temper. I’m your friend--from your home town. An’ I
ain’t goin’ to let a quarrel keep me from lookin’ after you till you’re
safe at your uncle’s.”

Helen turned her back upon him. The tall hunter had just helped Bo off
the car. Then Helen looked up into a smooth bronzed face and piercing
gray eyes.

“Are you Helen Rayner?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“My name’s Dale. I’ve come to meet you.”

“Ah! My uncle sent you?” added Helen, in quick relief.

“No; I can’t say Al sent me,” began the man, “but I reckon--”

He was interrupted by Riggs, who, grasping Helen by the arm, pulled her
back a step.

“Say, mister, did Auchincloss send you to meet my young friends here?”
 he demanded, arrogantly.

Dale’s glance turned from Helen to Riggs. She could not read this quiet
gray gaze, but it thrilled her.

“No. I come on my own hook,” he answered.

“You’ll understand, then--they’re in my charge,” added Riggs.

This time the steady light-gray eyes met Helen’s, and if there was not a
smile in them or behind them she was still further baffled.

“Helen, I reckon you said you didn’t want this fellow’s attention.”

“I certainly said that,” replied Helen, quickly. Just then Bo slipped
close to her and gave her arm a little squeeze. Probably Bo’s thought
was like hers--here was a real Western man. That was her first
impression, and following swiftly upon it was a sensation of eased
nerves.

Riggs swaggered closer to Dale.

“Say, Buckskin, I hail from Texas--”

“You’re wastin’ our time an’ we’ve need to hurry,” interrupted Dale. His
tone seemed friendly. “An’ if you ever lived long in Texas you wouldn’t
pester a lady an’ you sure wouldn’t talk like you do.”

“What!” shouted Riggs, hotly. He dropped his right hand significantly to
his hip.

“Don’t throw your gun. It might go off,” said Dale.

Whatever Riggs’s intention had been--and it was probably just what Dale
evidently had read it--he now flushed an angry red and jerked at his
gun.

Dale’s hand flashed too swiftly for Helen’s eye to follow it. But she
heard the thud as it struck. The gun went flying to the platform and
scattered a group of Indians and Mexicans.

“You’ll hurt yourself some day,” said Dale.

Helen had never heard a slow, cool voice like this hunter’s. Without
excitement or emotion or hurry, it yet seemed full and significant of
things the words did not mean. Bo uttered a strange little exultant cry.

Riggs’s arm had dropped limp. No doubt it was numb. He stared, and his
predominating expression was surprise. As the shuffling crowd began to
snicker and whisper, Riggs gave Dale a malignant glance, shifted it to
Helen, and then lurched away in the direction of his gun.

Dale did not pay any more attention to him. Gathering up Helen’s
baggage, he said, “Come on,” and shouldered a lane through the gaping
crowd. The girls followed close at his heels.

“Nell! what ‘d I tell you?” whispered Bo. “Oh, you’re all atremble!”

Helen was aware of her unsteadiness; anger and fear and relief in quick
succession had left her rather weak. Once through the motley crowd
of loungers, she saw an old gray stage-coach and four lean horses. A
grizzled, sunburned man sat on the driver’s seat, whip and reins in
hand. Beside him was a younger man with rifle across his knees. Another
man, young, tall, lean, dark, stood holding the coach door open. He
touched his sombrero to the girls. His eyes were sharp as he addressed
Dale.

“Milt, wasn’t you held up?”

“No. But some long-haired galoot was tryin’ to hold up the girls.
Wanted to throw his gun on me. I was sure scared,” replied Dale, as he
deposited the luggage.

Bo laughed. Her eyes, resting upon Dale, were warm and bright. The
young man at the coach door took a second look at her, and then a smile
changed the dark hardness of his face.

Dale helped the girls up the high step into the stage, and then, placing
the lighter luggage, in with them, he threw the heavier pieces on top.

“Joe, climb up,” he said.

“Wal, Milt,” drawled the driver, “let’s ooze along.”

Dale hesitated, with his hand on the door. He glanced at the crowd, now
edging close again, and then at Helen.

“I reckon I ought to tell you,” he said, and indecision appeared to
concern him.

“What?” exclaimed Helen.

“Bad news. But talkin’ takes time. An’ we mustn’t lose any.”

“There’s need of hurry?” queried Helen, sitting up sharply.

“I reckon.”

“Is this the stage to Snowdrop?

“No. That leaves in the mornin’. We rustled this old trap to get a start
to-night.”

“The sooner the better. But I--I don’t understand,” said Helen,
bewildered.

“It’ll not be safe for you to ride on the mornin’ stage,” returned Dale.

“Safe! Oh, what do you mean?” exclaimed Helen. Apprehensively she gazed
at him and then back at Bo.

“Explainin’ will take time. An’ facts may change your mind. But if you
can’t trust me--”

“Trust you!” interposed Helen, blankly. “You mean to take us to
Snowdrop?”

“I reckon we’d better go roundabout an’ not hit Snowdrop,” he replied,
shortly.

“Then to Pine--to my uncle--Al Auchincloss?

“Yes, I’m goin’ to try hard.”

Helen caught her breath. She divined that some peril menaced her. She
looked steadily, with all a woman’s keenness, into this man’s face. The
moment was one of the fateful decisions she knew the West had in store
for her. Her future and that of Bo’s were now to be dependent upon her
judgments. It was a hard moment and, though she shivered inwardly, she
welcomed the initial and inevitable step. This man Dale, by his dress of
buckskin, must be either scout or hunter. His size, his action, the tone
of his voice had been reassuring. But Helen must decide from what she
saw in his face whether or not to trust him. And that face was
clear bronze, unlined, unshadowed, like a tranquil mask, clean-cut,
strong-jawed, with eyes of wonderful transparent gray.

“Yes, I’ll trust you,” she said. “Get in, and let us hurry. Then you can
explain.”

“All ready, Bill. Send ‘em along,” called Dale.

He had to stoop to enter the stage, and, once in, he appeared to fill
that side upon which he sat. Then the driver cracked his whip; the
stage lurched and began to roll; the motley crowd was left behind. Helen
awakened to the reality, as she saw Bo staring with big eyes at the
hunter, that a stranger adventure than she had ever dreamed of had began
with the rattling roll of that old stage-coach.

Dale laid off his sombrero and leaned forward, holding his rifle between
his knees. The light shone better upon his features now that he was
bareheaded. Helen had never seen a face like that, which at first glance
appeared darkly bronzed and hard, and then became clear, cold, aloof,
still, intense. She wished she might see a smile upon it. And now that
the die was cast she could not tell why she had trusted it. There was
singular force in it, but she did not recognize what kind of force. One
instant she thought it was stern, and the next that it was sweet, and
again that it was neither.

“I’m glad you’ve got your sister,” he said, presently.

“How did you know she’s my sister?”

“I reckon she looks like you.”

“No one else ever thought so,” replied Helen, trying to smile.

Bo had no difficulty in smiling, as she said, “Wish I was half as pretty
as Nell.”

“Nell. Isn’t your name Helen?” queried Dale.

“Yes. But my--some few call me Nell.”

“I like Nell better than Helen. An’ what’s yours?” went on Dale, looking
at Bo.

“Mine’s Bo. Just plain B-o. Isn’t it silly? But I wasn’t asked when they
gave it to me,” she replied.

“Bo. It’s nice an’ short. Never heard it before. But I haven’t met many
people for years.”

“Oh! we’ve left the town!” cried Bo. “Look, Nell! How bare! It’s just
like desert.”

“It is desert. We’ve forty miles of that before we come to a hill or a
tree.”

Helen glanced out. A flat, dull-green expanse waved away from the road
on and on to a bright, dark horizon-line, where the sun was setting
rayless in a clear sky. Open, desolate, and lonely, the scene gave her a
cold thrill.

“Did your uncle Al ever write anythin’ about a man named Beasley?” asked
Dale.

“Indeed he did,” replied Helen, with a start of surprise. “Beasley! That
name is familiar to us--and detestable. My uncle complained of this man
for years. Then he grew bitter--accused Beasley. But the last year or so
not a word!”

“Well, now,” began the hunter, earnestly, “let’s get the bad news over.
I’m sorry you must be worried. But you must learn to take the West as it
is. There’s good an’ bad, maybe more bad. That’s because the country’s
young.... So to come right out with it--this Beasley hired a gang of
outlaws to meet the stage you was goin’ in to Snowdrop--to-morrow--an’
to make off with you.”

“Make off with me?” ejaculated Helen, bewildered.

“Kidnap you! Which, in that gang, would be worse than killing you!”
 declared Dale, grimly, and he closed a huge fist on his knee.

Helen was utterly astounded.

“How hor-rible!” she gasped out. “Make off with me!... What in Heaven’s
name for?”

Bo gave vent to a fierce little utterance.

“For reasons you ought to guess,” replied Dale, and he leaned forward
again. Neither his voice nor face changed in the least, but yet there
was a something about him that fascinated Helen. “I’m a hunter. I live
in the woods. A few nights ago I happened to be caught out in a storm
an’ I took to an old log cabin. Soon as I got there I heard horses.
I hid up in the loft. Some men rode up an’ come in. It was dark. They
couldn’t see me. An’ they talked. It turned out they were Snake Anson
an’ his gang of sheep-thieves. They expected to meet Beasley there.
Pretty soon he came. He told Anson how old Al, your uncle, was on his
last legs--how he had sent for you to have his property when he died.
Beasley swore he had claims on Al. An’ he made a deal with Anson to get
you out of the way. He named the day you were to reach Magdalena. With
Al dead an’ you not there, Beasley could get the property. An’ then he
wouldn’t care if you did come to claim it. It ‘d be too late.... Well,
they rode away that night. An’ next day I rustled down to Pine. They’re
all my friends at Pine, except old Al. But they think I’m queer. I
didn’t want to confide in many people. Beasley is strong in Pine, an’
for that matter I suspect Snake Anson has other friends there besides
Beasley. So I went to see your uncle. He never had any use for me
because he thought I was lazy like an Indian. Old Al hates lazy men.
Then we fell out--or he fell out--because he believed a tame lion of
mine had killed some of his sheep. An’ now I reckon that Tom might have
done it. I tried to lead up to this deal of Beasley’s about you, but
old Al wouldn’t listen. He’s cross--very cross. An’ when I tried to tell
him, why, he went right out of his head. Sent me off the ranch. Now I
reckon you begin to see what a pickle I was in. Finally I went to four
friends I could trust. They’re Mormon boys--brothers. That’s Joe out
on top, with the driver. I told them all about Beasley’s deal an’ asked
them to help me. So we planned to beat Anson an’ his gang to Magdalena.
It happens that Beasley is as strong in Magdalena as he is in Pine.
An’ we had to go careful. But the boys had a couple of friends
here--Mormons, too, who agreed to help us. They had this old stage....
An’ here you are.” Dale spread out his big hands and looked gravely at
Helen and then at Bo.

“You’re perfectly splendid!” cried Bo, ringingly. She was white; her
fingers were clenched; her eyes blazed.

Dale appeared startled out of his gravity, and surprised, then pleased.
A smile made his face like a boy’s. Helen felt her body all rigid, yet
slightly trembling. Her hands were cold. The horror of this revelation
held her speechless. But in her heart she echoed Bo’s exclamation of
admiration and gratitude.

“So far, then,” resumed Dale, with a heavy breath of relief. “No wonder
you’re upset. I’ve a blunt way of talkin’.... Now we’ve thirty miles to
ride on this Snowdrop road before we can turn off. To-day sometime the
rest of the boys--Roy, John, an’ Hal--were to leave Show Down, which’s
a town farther on from Snowdrop. They have my horses an’ packs besides
their own. Somewhere on the road we’ll meet them--to-night, maybe--or
tomorrow. I hope not to-night, because that ‘d mean Anson’s gang was
ridin’ in to Magdalena.”

Helen wrung her hands helplessly.

“Oh, have I no courage?” she whispered.

“Nell, I’m as scared as you are,” said Bo, consolingly, embracing her
sister.

“I reckon that’s natural,” said Dale, as if excusing them. “But, scared
or not, you both brace up. It’s a bad job. But I’ve done my best. An’
you’ll be safer with me an’ the Beeman boys than you’d be in Magdalena,
or anywhere else, except your uncle’s.”

“Mr.--Mr. Dale,” faltered Helen, with her tears falling, “don’t think me
a coward--or--or ungrateful. I’m neither. It’s only I’m so--so shocked.
After all we hoped and expected--this--this--is such a--a terrible
surprise.”

“Never mind, Nell dear. Let’s take what comes,” murmured Bo.

“That’s the talk,” said Dale. “You see, I’ve come right out with the
worst. Maybe we’ll get through easy. When we meet the boys we’ll take to
the horses an’ the trails. Can you ride?”

“Bo has been used to horses all her life and I ride fairly well,”
 responded Helen. The idea of riding quickened her spirit.

“Good! We may have some hard ridin’ before I get you up to Pine. Hello!
What’s that?”

Above the creaking, rattling, rolling roar of the stage Helen heard a
rapid beat of hoofs. A horse flashed by, galloping hard.

Dale opened the door and peered out. The stage rolled to a halt. He
stepped down and gazed ahead.

“Joe, who was that?” he queried.

“Nary me. An’ Bill didn’t know him, either,” replied Joe. “I seen him
‘way back. He was ridin’ some. An’ he slowed up goin’ past us. Now he’s
runnin’ again.”

Dale shook his head as if he did not like the circumstances.

“Milt, he’ll never get by Roy on this road,” said Joe.

“Maybe he’ll get by before Roy strikes in on the road.”

“It ain’t likely.”

Helen could not restrain her fears. “Mr. Dale, you think he was a
messenger--going ahead to post that--that Anson gang?”

“He might be,” replied Dale, simply.

Then the young man called Joe leaned out from the seat above and called:
“Miss Helen, don’t you worry. Thet fellar is more liable to stop lead
than anythin’ else.”

His words, meant to be kind and reassuring, were almost as sinister to
Helen as the menace to her own life. Long had she known how cheap life
was held in the West, but she had only known it abstractly, and she had
never let the fact remain before her consciousness. This cheerful young
man spoke calmly of spilling blood in her behalf. The thought it roused
was tragic--for bloodshed was insupportable to her--and then the thrills
which followed were so new, strange, bold, and tingling that they were
revolting. Helen grew conscious of unplumbed depths, of instincts at
which she was amazed and ashamed.

“Joe, hand down that basket of grub--the small one with the canteen,”
 said Dale, reaching out a long arm. Presently he placed a cloth-covered
basket inside the stage. “Girls, eat all you want an’ then some.”

“We have a basket half full yet,” replied Helen.

“You’ll need it all before we get to Pine.... Now, I’ll ride up on top
with the boys an’ eat my supper. It’ll be dark, presently, an’ we’ll
stop often to listen. But don’t be scared.”

With that he took his rifle and, closing the door, clambered up to the
driver’s seat. Then the stage lurched again and began to roll along.

Not the least thing to wonder at of this eventful evening was the way Bo
reached for the basket of food. Helen simply stared at her.

“Bo, you CAN’T EAT!” she exclaimed.

“I should smile I can,” replied that practical young lady. “And you’re
going to if I have to stuff things in your mouth. Where’s your wits,
Nell? He said we must eat. That means our strength is going to have some
pretty severe trials.... Gee! it’s all great--just like a story! The
unexpected--why, he looks like a prince turned hunter!--long, dark,
stage journey--held up--fight--escape--wild ride on horses--woods
and camps and wild places--pursued--hidden in the forest--more hard
rides--then safe at the ranch. And of course he falls madly in love with
me--no, you, for I’ll be true to my Las Vegas lover--”

“Hush, silly! Bo, tell me, aren’t you SCARED?”

“Scared! I’m scared stiff. But if Western girls stand such things, we
can. No Western girl is going to beat ME!”

That brought Helen to a realization of the brave place she had given
herself in dreams, and she was at once ashamed of herself and wildly
proud of this little sister.

“Bo, thank Heaven I brought you with me!” exclaimed Helen, fervently.
“I’ll eat if it chokes me.”

Whereupon she found herself actually hungry, and while she ate she
glanced out of the stage, first from one side and then from the other.
These windows had no glass and they let the cool night air blow in.
The sun had long since sunk. Out to the west, where a bold, black
horizon-line swept away endlessly, the sky was clear gold, shading
to yellow and blue above. Stars were out, pale and wan, but growing
brighter. The earth appeared bare and heaving, like a calm sea. The wind
bore a fragrance new to Helen, acridly sweet and clean, and it was so
cold it made her fingers numb.

“I heard some animal yelp,” said Bo, suddenly, and she listened with
head poised.

But Helen heard nothing save the steady clip-clop of hoofs, the clink of
chains, the creak and rattle of the old stage, and occasionally the low
voices of the men above.

When the girls had satisfied hunger and thirst, night had settled down
black. They pulled the cloaks up over them, and close together leaned
back in a corner of the seat and talked in whispers. Helen did not have
much to say, but Bo was talkative.

“This beats me!” she said once, after an interval. “Where are we, Nell?
Those men up there are Mormons. Maybe they are abducting us!”

“Mr. Dale isn’t a Mormon,” replied Helen.

“How do you know?”

“I could tell by the way he spoke of his friends.”

“Well, I wish it wasn’t so dark. I’m not afraid of men in daylight....
Nell, did you ever see such a wonderful looking fellow? What’d they call
him? Milt--Milt Dale. He said he lived in the woods. If I hadn’t fallen
in love with that cowboy who called me--well, I’d be a goner now.”

After an interval of silence Bo whispered, startlingly, “Wonder if Harve
Riggs is following us now?”

“Of course he is,” replied Helen, hopelessly.

“He’d better look out. Why, Nell, he never saw--he never--what did Uncle
Al used to call it?--sav--savvied--that’s it. Riggs never savvied that
hunter. But I did, you bet.”

“Savvied! What do you mean, Bo?”

“I mean that long-haired galoot never saw his real danger. But I felt
it. Something went light inside me. Dale never took him seriously at
all.”

“Riggs will turn up at Uncle Al’s, sure as I’m born,” said Helen.

“Let him turn,” replied Bo, contemptuously. “Nell, don’t you ever bother
your head again about him. I’ll bet they’re all men out here. And I
wouldn’t be in Harve Riggs’s boots for a lot.”

After that Bo talked of her uncle and his fatal illness, and from that
she drifted back to the loved ones at home, now seemingly at the other
side of the world, and then she broke down and cried, after which she
fell asleep on Helen’s shoulder.

But Helen could not have fallen asleep if she had wanted to.

She had always, since she could remember, longed for a moving, active
life; and for want of a better idea she had chosen to dream of gipsies.
And now it struck her grimly that, if these first few hours of her
advent in the West were forecasts of the future, she was destined to
have her longings more than fulfilled.

Presently the stage rolled slower and slower, until it came to a halt.
Then the horses heaved, the harnesses clinked, the men whispered.
Otherwise there was an intense quiet. She looked out, expecting to
find it pitch-dark. It was black, yet a transparent blackness. To her
surprise she could see a long way. A shooting-star electrified her.
The men were listening. She listened, too, but beyond the slight sounds
about the stage she heard nothing. Presently the driver clucked to his
horses, and travel was resumed.

For a while the stage rolled on rapidly, evidently downhill, swaying
from side to side, and rattling as if about to fall to pieces. Then it
slowed on a level, and again it halted for a few moments, and once more
in motion it began a laborsome climb. Helen imagined miles had been
covered. The desert appeared to heave into billows, growing rougher, and
dark, round bushes dimly stood out. The road grew uneven and rocky, and
when the stage began another descent its violent rocking jolted Bo out
of her sleep and in fact almost out of Helen’s arms.

“Where am I?” asked Bo, dazedly.

“Bo, you’re having your heart’s desire, but I can’t tell you where you
are,” replied Helen.

Bo awakened thoroughly, which fact was now no wonder, considering the
jostling of the old stage.

“Hold on to me, Nell!... Is it a runaway?”

“We’ve come about a thousand miles like this, I think,” replied Helen.
“I’ve not a whole bone in my body.”

Bo peered out of the window.

“Oh, how dark and lonesome! But it’d be nice if it wasn’t so cold. I’m
freezing.”

“I thought you loved cold air,” taunted Helen.

“Say, Nell, you begin to talk like yourself,” responded Bo.

It was difficult to hold on to the stage and each other and the cloak
all at once, but they succeeded, except in the roughest places, when
from time to time they were bounced around. Bo sustained a sharp rap on
the head.

“Oooooo!” she moaned. “Nell Rayner, I’ll never forgive you for fetching
me on this awful trip.”

“Just think of your handsome Las Vegas cowboy,” replied Helen.

Either this remark subdued Bo or the suggestion sufficed to reconcile
her to the hardships of the ride.

Meanwhile, as they talked and maintained silence and tried to sleep, the
driver of the stage kept at his task after the manner of Western men who
knew how to get the best out of horses and bad roads and distance.

By and by the stage halted again and remained at a standstill for so
long, with the men whispering on top, that Helen and Bo were roused to
apprehension.

Suddenly a sharp whistle came from the darkness ahead.

“Thet’s Roy,” said Joe Beeman, in a low voice.

“I reckon. An’ meetin’ us so quick looks bad,” replied Dale. “Drive on,
Bill.”

“Mebbe it seems quick to you,” muttered the driver, “but if we hain’t
come thirty mile, an’ if thet ridge thar hain’t your turnin’-off place,
why, I don’t know nothin’.”

The stage rolled on a little farther, while Helen and Bo sat clasping
each other tight, wondering with bated breath what was to be the next
thing to happen.

Then once more they were at a standstill. Helen heard the thud of boots
striking the ground, and the snorts of horses.

“Nell, I see horses,” whispered Bo, excitedly. “There, to the side of
the road... and here comes a man.... Oh, if he shouldn’t be the one
they’re expecting!”

Helen peered out to see a tall, dark form, moving silently, and beyond
it a vague outline of horses, and then pale gleams of what must have
been pack-loads.

Dale loomed up, and met the stranger in the road.

“Howdy, Milt? You got the girl sure, or you wouldn’t be here,” said a
low voice.

“Roy, I’ve got two girls--sisters,” replied Dale.

The man Roy whistled softly under his breath. Then another lean, rangy
form strode out of the darkness, and was met by Dale.

“Now, boys--how about Anson’s gang?” queried Dale.

“At Snowdrop, drinkin’ an’ quarrelin’. Reckon they’ll leave there about
daybreak,” replied Roy.

“How long have you been here?”

“Mebbe a couple of hours.”

“Any horse go by?”

“No.”

“Roy, a strange rider passed us before dark. He was hittin’ the road.
An’ he’s got by here before you came.”

“I don’t like thet news,” replied Roy, tersely. “Let’s rustle. With
girls on hossback you’ll need all the start you can get. Hey, John?”

“Snake Anson shore can foller hoss tracks,” replied the third man.

“Milt, say the word,” went on Roy, as he looked up at the stars.
“Daylight not far away. Here’s the forks of the road, an’ your hosses,
an’ our outfit. You can be in the pines by sunup.”

In the silence that ensued Helen heard the throb of her heart and
the panting little breaths of her sister. They both peered out, hands
clenched together, watching and listening in strained attention.

“It’s possible that rider last night wasn’t a messenger to Anson,” said
Dale. “In that case Anson won’t make anythin’ of our wheel tracks or
horse tracks. He’ll go right on to meet the regular stage. Bill, can you
go back an’ meet the stage comin’ before Anson does?”

“Wal, I reckon so--an’ take it easy at thet,” replied Bill.

“All right,” continued Dale, instantly. “John, you an’ Joe an’ Hal ride
back to meet the regular stage. An’ when you meet it get on an’ be on it
when Anson holds it up.”

“Thet’s shore agreeable to me,” drawled John.

“I’d like to be on it, too,” said Roy, grimly.

“No. I’ll need you till I’m safe in the woods. Bill, hand down the bags.
An’ you, Roy, help me pack them. Did you get all the supplies I wanted?”

“Shore did. If the young ladies ain’t powerful particular you can feed
them well for a couple of months.”

Dale wheeled and, striding to the stage, he opened the door.

“Girls, you’re not asleep? Come,” he called.

Bo stepped down first.

“I was asleep till this--this vehicle fell off the road back a ways,”
 she replied.

Roy Beeman’s low laugh was significant. He took off his sombrero and
stood silent. The old driver smothered a loud guffaw.

“Veehicle! Wal, I’ll be doggoned! Joe, did you hear thet? All the spunky
gurls ain’t born out West.”

As Helen followed with cloak and bag Roy assisted her, and she
encountered keen eyes upon her face. He seemed both gentle and
respectful, and she felt his solicitude. His heavy gun, swinging low,
struck her as she stepped down.

Dale reached into the stage and hauled out baskets and bags. These he
set down on the ground.

“Turn around, Bill, an’ go along with you. John an’ Hal will follow
presently,” ordered Dale.

“Wal, gurls,” said Bill, looking down upon them, “I was shore powerful
glad to meet you-all. An’ I’m ashamed of my country--offerin’ two sich
purty gurls insults an’ low-down tricks. But shore you’ll go through
safe now. You couldn’t be in better company fer ridin’ or huntin’ or
marryin’ or gittin’ religion--”

“Shut up, you old grizzly!” broke in Dale, sharply.

“Haw! Haw! Good-by, gurls, an’ good luck!” ended Bill, as he began to
whip the reins.

Bo said good-by quite distinctly, but Helen could only murmur hers. The
old driver seemed a friend.

Then the horses wheeled and stamped, the stage careened and creaked,
presently to roll out of sight in the gloom.

“You’re shiverin’,” said Dale, suddenly, looking down upon Helen. She
felt his big, hard hand clasp hers. “Cold as ice!”

“I am c-cold,” replied Helen. “I guess we’re not warmly dressed.”

“Nell, we roasted all day, and now we’re freezing,” declared Bo. “I
didn’t know it was winter at night out here.”

“Miss, haven’t you some warm gloves an’ a coat?” asked Roy, anxiously.
“It ‘ain’t begun to get cold yet.”

“Nell, we’ve heavy gloves, riding-suits and boots--all fine and new--in
this black bag,” said Bo, enthusiastically kicking a bag at her feet.

“Yes, so we have. But a lot of good they’ll do us, to-night,” returned
Helen.

“Miss, you’d do well to change right here,” said Roy, earnestly. “It’ll
save time in the long run an’ a lot of sufferin’ before sunup.”

Helen stared at the young man, absolutely amazed with his simplicity.
She was advised to change her traveling-dress for a riding-suit--out
somewhere in a cold, windy desert--in the middle of the night--among
strange young men!

“Bo, which bag is it?” asked Dale, as if she were his sister. And when
she indicated the one, he picked it up. “Come off the road.”

Bo followed him, and Helen found herself mechanically at their heels.
Dale led them a few paces off the road behind some low bushes.

“Hurry an’ change here,” he said. “We’ll make a pack of your outfit an’
leave room for this bag.”

Then he stalked away and in a few strides disappeared.

Bo sat down to begin unlacing her shoes. Helen could just see her pale,
pretty face and big, gleaming eyes by the light of the stars. It struck
her then that Bo was going to make eminently more of a success of
Western life than she was.

“Nell, those fellows are n-nice,” said Bo, reflectively. “Aren’t you
c-cold? Say, he said hurry!”

It was beyond Helen’s comprehension how she ever began to disrobe out
there in that open, windy desert, but after she had gotten launched on
the task she found that it required more fortitude than courage. The
cold wind pierced right through her. Almost she could have laughed at
the way Bo made things fly.

“G-g-g-gee!” chattered Bo. “I n-never w-was so c-c-cold in all my life.
Nell Rayner, m-may the g-good Lord forgive y-you!”

Helen was too intent on her own troubles to take breath to talk. She was
a strong, healthy girl, swift and efficient with her hands, yet this,
the hardest physical ordeal she had ever experienced, almost overcame
her. Bo outdistanced her by moments, helped her with buttons, and laced
one whole boot for her. Then, with hands that stung, Helen packed the
traveling-suits in the bag.

“There! But what an awful mess!” exclaimed Helen. “Oh, Bo, our pretty
traveling-dresses!”

“We’ll press them t-to-morrow--on a l-log,” replied Bo, and she giggled.

They started for the road. Bo, strange to note, did not carry her share
of the burden, and she seemed unsteady on her feet.

The men were waiting beside a group of horses, one of which carried a
pack.

“Nothin’ slow about you,” said Dale, relieving Helen of the grip. “Roy,
put them up while I sling on this bag.”

Roy led out two of the horses.

“Get up,” he said, indicating Bo. “The stirrups are short on this
saddle.”

Bo was an adept at mounting, but she made such awkward and slow work of
it in this instance that Helen could not believe her eyes.

“Haw ‘re the stirrups?” asked Roy. “Stand in them. Guess they’re about
right.... Careful now! Thet hoss is skittish. Hold him in.”

Bo was not living up to the reputation with which Helen had credited
her.

“Now, miss, you get up,” said Roy to Helen. And in another instant she
found herself astride a black, spirited horse. Numb with cold as she
was, she yet felt the coursing thrills along her veins.

Roy was at the stirrups with swift hands.

“You’re taller ‘n I guessed,” he said. “Stay up, but lift your foot....
Shore now, I’m glad you have them thick, soft boots. Mebbe we’ll ride
all over the White Mountains.”

“Bo, do you hear that?” called Helen.

But Bo did not answer. She was leaning rather unnaturally in her saddle.
Helen became anxious. Just then Dale strode back to them.

“All cinched up, Roy?”

“Jest ready,” replied Roy.

Then Dale stood beside Helen. How tall he was! His wide shoulders seemed
on a level with the pommel of her saddle. He put an affectionate hand on
the horse.

“His name’s Ranger an’ he’s the fastest an’ finest horse in this
country.”

“I reckon he shore is--along with my bay,” corroborated Roy.

“Roy, if you rode Ranger he’d beat your pet,” said Dale. “We can start
now. Roy, you drive the pack-horses.”

He took another look at Helen’s saddle and then moved to do likewise
with Bo’s.

“Are you--all right?” he asked, quickly.

Bo reeled in her seat.

“I’m n-near froze,” she replied, in a faint voice. Her face shone white
in the starlight. Helen recognized that Bo was more than cold.

“Oh, Bo!” she called, in distress.

“Nell, don’t you worry, now.”

“Let me carry you,” suggested Dale.

“No. I’ll s-s-stick on this horse or d-die,” fiercely retorted Bo.

The two men looked up at her white face and then at each other. Then Roy
walked away toward the dark bunch of horses off the road and Dale swung
astride the one horse left.

“Keep close to me,” he said.

Bo fell in line and Helen brought up the rear.

Helen imagined she was near the end of a dream. Presently she would
awaken with a start and see the pale walls of her little room at
home, and hear the cherry branches brushing her window, and the old
clarion-voiced cock proclaim the hour of dawn.



CHAPTER VI

The horses trotted. And the exercise soon warmed Helen, until she was
fairly comfortable except in her fingers. In mind, however, she grew
more miserable as she more fully realized her situation. The night now
became so dark that, although the head of her horse was alongside the
flank of Bo’s, she could scarcely see Bo. From time to time Helen’s
anxious query brought from her sister the answer that she was all right.

Helen had not ridden a horse for more than a year, and for several
years she had not ridden with any regularity. Despite her thrills
upon mounting, she had entertained misgivings. But she was agreeably
surprised, for the horse, Ranger, had an easy gait, and she found she
had not forgotten how to ride. Bo, having been used to riding on a farm
near home, might be expected to acquit herself admirably. It occurred
to Helen what a plight they would have been in but for the thick,
comfortable riding outfits.

Dark as the night was, Helen could dimly make out the road underneath.
It was rocky, and apparently little used. When Dale turned off the road
into the low brush or sage of what seemed a level plain, the traveling
was harder, rougher, and yet no slower. The horses kept to the gait of
the leaders. Helen, discovering it unnecessary, ceased attempting to
guide Ranger. There were dim shapes in the gloom ahead, and always they
gave Helen uneasiness, until closer approach proved them to be rocks
or low, scrubby trees. These increased in both size and number as the
horses progressed. Often Helen looked back into the gloom behind.
This act was involuntary and occasioned her sensations of dread. Dale
expected to be pursued. And Helen experienced, along with the dread,
flashes of unfamiliar resentment. Not only was there an attempt afoot
to rob her of her heritage, but even her personal liberty. Then she
shuddered at the significance of Dale’s words regarding her possible
abduction by this hired gang. It seemed monstrous, impossible. Yet,
manifestly it was true enough to Dale and his allies. The West, then, in
reality was raw, hard, inevitable.

Suddenly her horse stopped. He had come up alongside Bo’s horse. Dale
had halted ahead, and apparently was listening. Roy and the pack-train
were out of sight in the gloom.

“What is it?” whispered Helen.

“Reckon I heard a wolf,” replied Dale.

“Was that cry a wolf’s?” asked Bo. “I heard. It was wild.”

“We’re gettin’ up close to the foot-hills,” said Dale. “Feel how much
colder the air is.”

“I’m warm now,” replied Bo. “I guess being near froze was what ailed
me.... Nell, how ‘re you?”

“I’m warm, too, but--” Helen answered.

“If you had your choice of being here or back home, snug in bed--which
would you take?” asked Bo.

“Bo!” exclaimed Helen, aghast.

“Well, I’d choose to be right here on this horse,” rejoined Bo.

Dale heard her, for he turned an instant, then slapped his horse and
started on.

Helen now rode beside Bo, and for a long time they climbed steadily in
silence. Helen knew when that dark hour before dawn had passed, and she
welcomed an almost imperceptible lightening in the east. Then the stars
paled. Gradually a grayness absorbed all but the larger stars. The
great white morning star, wonderful as Helen had never seen it, lost its
brilliance and life and seemed to retreat into the dimming blue.

Daylight came gradually, so that the gray desert became distinguishable
by degrees. Rolling bare hills, half obscured by the gray lifting mantle
of night, rose in the foreground, and behind was gray space, slowly
taking form and substance. In the east there was a kindling of pale
rose and silver that lengthened and brightened along a horizon growing
visibly rugged.

“Reckon we’d better catch up with Roy,” said Dale, and he spurred his
horse.

Ranger and Bo’s mount needed no other urging, and they swung into a
canter. Far ahead the pack-animals showed with Roy driving them. The
cold wind was so keen in Helen’s face that tears blurred her eyes and
froze her cheeks. And riding Ranger at that pace was like riding in
a rocking-chair. That ride, invigorating and exciting, seemed all too
short.

“Oh, Nell, I don’t care--what becomes of--me!” exclaimed Bo,
breathlessly.

Her face was white and red, fresh as a rose, her eyes glanced darkly
blue, her hair blew out in bright, unruly strands. Helen knew she felt
some of the physical stimulation that had so roused Bo, and seemed so
irresistible, but somber thought was not deflected thereby.

It was clear daylight when Roy led off round a knoll from which patches
of scrubby trees--cedars, Dale called them--straggled up on the side of
the foot-hills.

“They grow on the north slopes, where the snow stays longest,” said
Dale.

They descended into a valley that looked shallow, but proved to be deep
and wide, and then began to climb another foot-hill. Upon surmounting it
Helen saw the rising sun, and so glorious a view confronted her that she
was unable to answer Bo’s wild exclamations.

Bare, yellow, cedar-dotted slopes, apparently level, so gradual was the
ascent, stretched away to a dense ragged line of forest that rose
black over range after range, at last to fail near the bare summit of a
magnificent mountain, sunrise-flushed against the blue sky.

“Oh, beautiful!” cried Bo. “But they ought to be called Black
Mountains.”

“Old Baldy, there, is white half the year,” replied Dale.

“Look back an’ see what you say,” suggested Roy.

The girls turned to gaze silently. Helen imagined she looked down upon
the whole wide world. How vastly different was the desert! Verily it
yawned away from her, red and gold near at hand, growing softly flushed
with purple far away, a barren void, borderless and immense, where
dark-green patches and black lines and upheaved ridges only served to
emphasize distance and space.

“See thet little green spot,” said Roy, pointing. “Thet’s Snowdrop. An’
the other one--‘way to the right--thet’s Show Down.”

“Where is Pine?” queried Helen, eagerly.

“Farther still, up over the foot-hills at the edge of the woods.”

“Then we’re riding away from it.”

“Yes. If we’d gone straight for Pine thet gang could overtake us. Pine
is four days’ ride. An’ by takin’ to the mountains Milt can hide his
tracks. An’ when he’s thrown Anson off the scent, then he’ll circle down
to Pine.”

“Mr. Dale, do you think you’ll get us there safely--and soon?” asked
Helen, wistfully.

“I won’t promise soon, but I promise safe. An’ I don’t like bein’ called
Mister,” he replied.

“Are we ever going to eat?” inquired Bo, demurely.

At this query Roy Beeman turned with a laugh to look at Bo. Helen saw
his face fully in the light, and it was thin and hard, darkly bronzed,
with eyes like those of a hawk, and with square chin and lean jaws
showing scant, light beard.

“We shore are,” he replied. “Soon as we reach the timber. Thet won’t be
long.”

“Reckon we can rustle some an’ then take a good rest,” said Dale, and he
urged his horse into a jog-trot.

During a steady trot for a long hour, Helen’s roving eyes were
everywhere, taking note of the things from near to far--the scant sage
that soon gave place to as scanty a grass, and the dark blots that
proved to be dwarf cedars, and the ravines opening out as if by magic
from what had appeared level ground, to wind away widening between gray
stone walls, and farther on, patches of lonely pine-trees, two and three
together, and then a straggling clump of yellow aspens, and up beyond
the fringed border of forest, growing nearer all the while, the black
sweeping benches rising to the noble dome of the dominant mountain of
the range.

No birds or animals were seen in that long ride up toward the timber,
which fact seemed strange to Helen. The air lost something of its cold,
cutting edge as the sun rose higher, and it gained sweeter tang of
forest-land. The first faint suggestion of that fragrance was utterly
new to Helen, yet it brought a vague sensation of familiarity and
with it an emotion as strange. It was as if she had smelled that keen,
pungent tang long ago, and her physical sense caught it before her
memory.

The yellow plain had only appeared to be level. Roy led down into a
shallow ravine, where a tiny stream meandered, and he followed this
around to the left, coming at length to a point where cedars and
dwarf pines formed a little grove. Here, as the others rode up, he sat
cross-legged in his saddle, and waited.

“We’ll hang up awhile,” he said. “Reckon you’re tired?”

“I’m hungry, but not tired yet,” replied Bo.

Helen dismounted, to find that walking was something she had apparently
lost the power to do. Bo laughed at her, but she, too, was awkward when
once more upon the ground.

Then Roy got down. Helen was surprised to find him lame. He caught her
quick glance.

“A hoss threw me once an’ rolled on me. Only broke my collar-bone, five
ribs, one arm, an’ my bow-legs in two places!”

Notwithstanding this evidence that he was a cripple, as he stood there
tall and lithe in his homespun, ragged garments, he looked singularly
powerful and capable.

“Reckon walkin’ around would be good for you girls,” advised Dale. “If
you ain’t stiff yet, you’ll be soon. An’ walkin’ will help. Don’t go
far. I’ll call when breakfast’s ready.”


A little while later the girls were whistled in from their walk and
found camp-fire and meal awaiting them. Roy was sitting cross-legged,
like an Indian, in front of a tarpaulin, upon which was spread a homely
but substantial fare. Helen’s quick eye detected a cleanliness and
thoroughness she had scarcely expected to find in the camp cooking of
men of the wilds. Moreover, the fare was good. She ate heartily, and
as for Bo’s appetite, she was inclined to be as much ashamed of that as
amused at it. The young men were all eyes, assiduous in their service
to the girls, but speaking seldom. It was not lost upon Helen how
Dale’s gray gaze went often down across the open country. She divined
apprehension from it rather than saw much expression in it.

“I--declare,” burst out Bo, when she could not eat any more, “this
isn’t believable. I’m dreaming.... Nell, the black horse you rode is the
prettiest I ever saw.”

Ranger, with the other animals, was grazing along the little brook.
Packs and saddles had been removed. The men ate leisurely. There
was little evidence of hurried flight. Yet Helen could not cast off
uneasiness. Roy might have been deep, and careless, with a motive to
spare the girls’ anxiety, but Dale seemed incapable of anything he did
not absolutely mean.

“Rest or walk,” he advised the girls. “We’ve got forty miles to ride
before dark.”

Helen preferred to rest, but Bo walked about, petting the horses and
prying into the packs. She was curious and eager.

Dale and Roy talked in low tones while they cleaned up the utensils and
packed them away in a heavy canvas bag.

“You really expect Anson ‘ll strike my trail this mornin’?” Dale was
asking.

“I shore do,” replied Roy.

“An’ how do you figure that so soon?”

“How’d you figure it--if you was Snake Anson?” queried Roy, in reply.

“Depends on that rider from Magdalena,” Said Dale, soberly. “Although
it’s likely I’d seen them wheel tracks an’ hoss tracks made where we
turned off. But supposin’ he does.”

“Milt, listen. I told you Snake met us boys face to face day before
yesterday in Show Down. An’ he was plumb curious.”

“But he missed seein’ or hearin’ about me,” replied Dale.

“Mebbe he did an’ mebbe he didn’t. Anyway, what’s the difference whether
he finds out this mornin’ or this evenin’?”

“Then you ain’t expectin’ a fight if Anson holds up the stage?”

“Wal, he’d have to shoot first, which ain’t likely. John an’ Hal, since
thet shootin’-scrape a year ago, have been sort of gun-shy. Joe might
get riled. But I reckon the best we can be shore of is a delay. An’ it’d
be sense not to count on thet.”

“Then you hang up here an’ keep watch for Anson’s gang--say long enough
so’s to be sure they’d be in sight if they find our tracks this mornin’.
Makin’ sure one way or another, you ride ‘cross-country to Big Spring,
where I’ll camp to-night.”

Roy nodded approval of that suggestion. Then without more words both men
picked up ropes and went after the horses. Helen was watching Dale, so
that when Bo cried out in great excitement Helen turned to see a savage
yellow little mustang standing straight up on his hind legs and pawing
the air. Roy had roped him and was now dragging him into camp.

“Nell, look at that for a wild pony!” exclaimed Bo.

Helen busied herself getting well out of the way of the infuriated
mustang. Roy dragged him to a cedar near by.

“Come now, Buckskin,” said Roy, soothingly, and he slowly approached the
quivering animal. He went closer, hand over hand, on the lasso. Buckskin
showed the whites of his eyes and also his white teeth. But he stood
while Roy loosened the loop and, slipping it down over his head,
fastened it in a complicated knot round his nose.

“Thet’s a hackamore,” he said, indicating the knot. “He’s never had a
bridle, an’ never will have one, I reckon.”

“You don’t ride him?” queried Helen.

“Sometimes I do,” replied Roy, with a smile. “Would you girls like to
try him?”

“Excuse me,” answered Helen.

“Gee!” ejaculated Bo. “He looks like a devil. But I’d tackle him--if you
think I could.”

The wild leaven of the West had found quick root in Bo Rayner.

“Wal, I’m sorry, but I reckon I’ll not let you--for a spell,” replied
Roy, dryly.

“He pitches somethin’ powerful bad.”

“Pitches. You mean bucks?”

“I reckon.”

In the next half-hour Helen saw more and learned more about how horses
of the open range were handled than she had ever heard of. Excepting
Ranger, and Roy’s bay, and the white pony Bo rode, the rest of the
horses had actually to be roped and hauled into camp to be saddled and
packed. It was a job for fearless, strong men, and one that called for
patience as well as arms of iron. So that for Helen Rayner the thing
succeeding the confidence she had placed in these men was respect. To an
observing woman that half-hour told much.

When all was in readiness for a start Dale mounted, and said,
significantly: “Roy, I’ll look for you about sundown. I hope no sooner.”

“Wal, it’d be bad if I had to rustle along soon with bad news. Let’s
hope for the best. We’ve been shore lucky so far. Now you take to the
pine-mats in the woods an’ hide your trail.”

Dale turned away. Then the girls bade Roy good-by, and followed. Soon
Roy and his buckskin-colored mustang were lost to sight round a clump of
trees.

The unhampered horses led the way; the pack-animals trotted after them;
the riders were close behind. All traveled at a jog-trot. And this gait
made the packs bob up and down and from side to side. The sun felt
warm at Helen’s back and the wind lost its frosty coldness, that almost
appeared damp, for a dry, sweet fragrance. Dale drove up the shallow
valley that showed timber on the levels above and a black border of
timber some few miles ahead. It did not take long to reach the edge of
the forest.

Helen wondered why the big pines grew so far on that plain and no
farther. Probably the growth had to do with snow, but, as the ground
was level, she could not see why the edge of the woods should come just
there.

They rode into the forest.

To Helen it seemed a strange, critical entrance into another world,
which she was destined to know and to love. The pines were big,
brown-barked, seamed, and knotted, with no typical conformation except
a majesty and beauty. They grew far apart. Few small pines and little
underbrush flourished beneath them. The floor of this forest appeared
remarkable in that it consisted of patches of high silvery grass and
wide brown areas of pine-needles. These manifestly were what Roy
had meant by pine-mats. Here and there a fallen monarch lay riven or
rotting. Helen was presently struck with the silence of the forest and
the strange fact that the horses seldom made any sound at all, and when
they did it was a cracking of dead twig or thud of hoof on log. Likewise
she became aware of a springy nature of the ground. And then she saw
that the pine-mats gave like rubber cushions under the hoofs of the
horses, and after they had passed sprang back to place again, leaving no
track. Helen could not see a sign of a trail they left behind. Indeed,
it would take a sharp eye to follow Dale through that forest. This
knowledge was infinitely comforting to Helen, and for the first time
since the flight had begun she felt a lessening of the weight upon mind
and heart. It left her free for some of the appreciation she might have
had in this wonderful ride under happier circumstances.

Bo, however, seemed too young, too wild, too intense to mind what the
circumstances were. She responded to reality. Helen began to suspect
that the girl would welcome any adventure, and Helen knew surely now
that Bo was a true Auchincloss. For three long days Helen had felt a
constraint with which heretofore she had been unfamiliar; for the last
hours it had been submerged under dread. But it must be, she concluded,
blood like her sister’s, pounding at her veins to be set free to race
and to burn.

Bo loved action. She had an eye for beauty, but she was not
contemplative. She was now helping Dale drive the horses and hold them
in rather close formation. She rode well, and as yet showed no symptoms
of fatigue or pain. Helen began to be aware of both, but not enough yet
to limit her interest.

A wonderful forest without birds did not seem real to her. Of all living
creatures in nature Helen liked birds best, and she knew many and could
imitate the songs of a few. But here under the stately pines there were
no birds. Squirrels, however, began to be seen here and there, and in
the course of an hour’s travel became abundant. The only one with which
she was familiar was the chipmunk. All the others, from the slim bright
blacks to the striped russets and the white-tailed grays, were totally
new to her. They appeared tame and curious. The reds barked and scolded
at the passing cavalcade; the blacks glided to some safe branch, there
to watch; the grays paid no especial heed to this invasion of their
domain.

Once Dale, halting his horse, pointed with long arm, and Helen,
following the direction, descried several gray deer standing in a glade,
motionless, with long ears up. They made a wild and beautiful picture.
Suddenly they bounded away with remarkable springy strides.

The forest on the whole held to the level, open character, but there
were swales and stream-beds breaking up its regular conformity. Toward
noon, however, it gradually changed, a fact that Helen believed she
might have observed sooner had she been more keen. The general lay of
the land began to ascend, and the trees to grow denser.

She made another discovery. Ever since she had entered the forest she
had become aware of a fullness in her head and a something affecting
her nostrils. She imagined, with regret, that she had taken cold. But
presently her head cleared somewhat and she realized that the thick pine
odor of the forest had clogged her nostrils as if with a sweet pitch.
The smell was overpowering and disagreeable because of its strength.
Also her throat and lungs seemed to burn.

When she began to lose interest in the forest and her surroundings
it was because of aches and pains which would no longer be denied
recognition. Thereafter she was not permitted to forget them and they
grew worse. One, especially, was a pain beyond all her experience.
It lay in the muscles of her side, above her hip, and it grew to be a
treacherous thing, for it was not persistent. It came and went. After it
did come, with a terrible flash, it could be borne by shifting or easing
the body. But it gave no warning. When she expected it she was mistaken;
when she dared to breathe again, then, with piercing swiftness,
it returned like a blade in her side. This, then, was one of the
riding-pains that made a victim of a tenderfoot on a long ride. It
was almost too much to be borne. The beauty of the forest, the living
creatures to be seen scurrying away, the time, distance--everything
faded before that stablike pain. To her infinite relief she found that
it was the trot that caused this torture. When Ranger walked she did not
have to suffer it. Therefore she held him to a walk as long as she dared
or until Dale and Bo were almost out of sight; then she loped him ahead
until he had caught up.

So the hours passed, the sun got around low, sending golden shafts
under the trees, and the forest gradually changed to a brighter, but a
thicker, color. This slowly darkened. Sunset was not far away.

She heard the horses splashing in water, and soon she rode up to see the
tiny streams of crystal water running swiftly over beds of green moss.
She crossed a number of these and followed along the last one into a
more open place in the forest where the pines were huge, towering,
and far apart. A low, gray bluff of stone rose to the right, perhaps
one-third as high as the trees. From somewhere came the rushing sound of
running water.

“Big Spring,” announced Dale. “We camp here. You girls have done well.”

Another glance proved to Helen that all those little streams poured from
under this gray bluff.

“I’m dying for a drink,” cried Bo with her customary hyperbole.

“I reckon you’ll never forget your first drink here,” remarked Dale.

Bo essayed to dismount, and finally fell off, and when she did get to
the ground her legs appeared to refuse their natural function, and she
fell flat. Dale helped her up.

“What’s wrong with me, anyhow?” she demanded, in great amaze.

“Just stiff, I reckon,” replied Dale, as he led her a few awkward steps.

“Bo, have you any hurts?” queried Helen, who still sat her horse, loath
to try dismounting, yet wanting to beyond all words.

Bo gave her an eloquent glance.

“Nell, did you have one in your side, like a wicked, long
darning-needle, punching deep when you weren’t ready?”

“That one I’ll never get over!” exclaimed Helen, softly. Then, profiting
by Bo’s experience, she dismounted cautiously, and managed to keep
upright. Her legs felt like wooden things.

Presently the girls went toward the spring.

“Drink slow,” called out Dale.

Big Spring had its source somewhere deep under the gray, weathered
bluff, from which came a hollow subterranean gurgle and roar of water.
Its fountainhead must have been a great well rushing up through the cold
stone.

Helen and Bo lay flat on a mossy bank, seeing their faces as they bent
over, and they sipped a mouthful, by Dale’s advice, and because they
were so hot and parched and burning they wanted to tarry a moment with a
precious opportunity.

The water was so cold that it sent a shock over Helen, made her teeth
ache, and a singular, revivifying current steal all through her,
wonderful in its cool absorption of that dry heat of flesh, irresistible
in its appeal to thirst. Helen raised her head to look at this water. It
was colorless as she had found it tasteless.

“Nell--drink!” panted Bo. “Think of our--old spring--in the
orchard--full of pollywogs!”

And then Helen drank thirstily, with closed eyes, while a memory of home
stirred from Bo’s gift of poignant speech.



CHAPTER VII

The first camp duty Dale performed was to throw a pack off one of the
horses, and, opening it, he took out tarpaulin and blankets, which he
arranged on the ground under a pine-tree.

“You girls rest,” he said, briefly.

“Can’t we help?” asked Helen, though she could scarcely stand.

“You’ll be welcome to do all you like after you’re broke in.”

“Broke in!” ejaculated Bo, with a little laugh. “I’m all broke UP now.”

“Bo, it looks as if Mr. Dale expects us to have quite a stay with him in
the woods.”

“It does,” replied Bo, as slowly she sat down upon the blankets,
stretched out with a long sigh, and laid her head on a saddle. “Nell,
didn’t he say not to call him Mister?”

Dale was throwing the packs off the other horses.

Helen lay down beside Bo, and then for once in her life she experienced
the sweetness of rest.

“Well, sister, what do you intend to call him?” queried Helen,
curiously.

“Milt, of course,” replied Bo.

Helen had to laugh despite her weariness and aches.

“I suppose, then, when your Las Vegas cowboy comes along you will call
him what he called you.”

Bo blushed, which was a rather unusual thing for her.

“I will if I like,” she retorted. “Nell, ever since I could remember
you’ve raved about the West. Now you’re OUT West, right in it good and
deep. So wake up!”

That was Bo’s blunt and characteristic way of advising the elimination
of Helen’s superficialities. It sank deep. Helen had no retort. Her
ambition, as far as the West was concerned, had most assuredly not been
for such a wild, unheard-of jaunt as this. But possibly the West--a
living from day to day--was one succession of adventures, trials,
tests, troubles, and achievements. To make a place for others to live
comfortably some day! That might be Bo’s meaning, embodied in her
forceful hint. But Helen was too tired to think it out then. She found
it interesting and vaguely pleasant to watch Dale.

He hobbled the horses and turned them loose. Then with ax in hand he
approached a short, dead tree, standing among a few white-barked
aspens. Dale appeared to advantage swinging the ax. With his coat off,
displaying his wide shoulders, straight back, and long, powerful arms,
he looked a young giant. He was lithe and supple, brawny but not bulky.
The ax rang on the hard wood, reverberating through the forest. A few
strokes sufficed to bring down the stub. Then he split it up. Helen was
curious to see how he kindled a fire. First he ripped splinters out of
the heart of the log, and laid them with coarser pieces on the ground.
Then from a saddlebag which hung on a near-by branch he took flint and
steel and a piece of what Helen supposed was rag or buckskin, upon
which powder had been rubbed. At any rate, the first strike of the steel
brought sparks, a blaze, and burning splinters. Instantly the flame
leaped a foot high. He put on larger pieces of wood crosswise, and the
fire roared.

That done, he stood erect, and, facing the north, he listened. Helen
remembered now that she had seen him do the same thing twice before
since the arrival at Big Spring. It was Roy for whom he was listening
and watching. The sun had set and across the open space the tips of the
pines were losing their brightness.

The camp utensils, which the hunter emptied out of a sack, gave forth a
jangle of iron and tin. Next he unrolled a large pack, the contents
of which appeared to be numerous sacks of all sizes. These evidently
contained food supplies. The bucket looked as if a horse had rolled over
it, pack and all. Dale filled it at the spring. Upon returning to the
camp-fire he poured water into a washbasin, and, getting down to his
knees, proceeded to wash his hands thoroughly. The act seemed a habit,
for Helen saw that while he was doing it he gazed off into the woods
and listened. Then he dried his hands over the fire, and, turning to the
spread-out pack, he began preparations for the meal.

Suddenly Helen thought of the man and all that his actions implied.
At Magdalena, on the stage-ride, and last night, she had trusted
this stranger, a hunter of the White Mountains, who appeared ready to
befriend her. And she had felt an exceeding gratitude. Still, she had
looked at him impersonally. But it began to dawn upon her that chance
had thrown her in the company of a remarkable man. That impression
baffled her. It did not spring from the fact that he was brave and kind
to help a young woman in peril, or that he appeared deft and quick at
camp-fire chores. Most Western men were brave, her uncle had told her,
and many were roughly kind, and all of them could cook. This hunter was
physically a wonderful specimen of manhood, with something leonine about
his stature. But that did not give rise to her impression. Helen
had been a school-teacher and used to boys, and she sensed a boyish
simplicity or vigor or freshness in this hunter. She believed, however,
that it was a mental and spiritual force in Dale which had drawn her to
think of it.

“Nell, I’ve spoken to you three times,” protested Bo, petulantly. “What
‘re you mooning over?”

“I’m pretty tired--and far away, Bo,” replied Helen. “What did you say?”

“I said I had an e-normous appetite.”

“Really. That’s not remarkable for you. I’m too tired to eat. And afraid
to shut my eyes. They’d never come open. When did we sleep last, Bo?”

“Second night before we left home,” declared Bo.

“Four nights! Oh, we’ve slept some.”

“I’ll bet I make mine up in this woods. Do you suppose we’ll sleep right
here--under this tree--with no covering?”

“It looks so,” replied Helen, dubiously.

“How perfectly lovely!” exclaimed Bo, in delight. “We’ll see the stars
through the pines.”

“Seems to be clouding over. Wouldn’t it be awful if we had a storm?”

“Why, I don’t know,” answered Bo, thoughtfully. “It must storm out
West.”

Again Helen felt a quality of inevitableness in Bo. It was something
that had appeared only practical in the humdrum home life in St. Joseph.
All of a sudden Helen received a flash of wondering thought--a thrilling
consciousness that she and Bo had begun to develop in a new and wild
environment. How strange, and fearful, perhaps, to watch that growth!
Bo, being younger, more impressionable, with elemental rather than
intellectual instincts, would grow stronger more swiftly. Helen wondered
if she could yield to her own leaning to the primitive. But how could
anyone with a thoughtful and grasping mind yield that way? It was the
savage who did not think.

Helen saw Dale stand erect once more and gaze into the forest.

“Reckon Roy ain’t comin’,” he soliloquized. “An’ that’s good.” Then he
turned to the girls. “Supper’s ready.”

The girls responded with a spirit greater than their activity. And
they ate like famished children that had been lost in the woods. Dale
attended them with a pleasant light upon his still face.

“To-morrow night we’ll have meat,” he said.

“What kind?” asked Bo.

“Wild turkey or deer. Maybe both, if you like. But it’s well to take
wild meat slow. An’ turkey--that ‘ll melt in your mouth.”

“Uummm!” murmured Bo, greedily. “I’ve heard of wild turkey.”

When they had finished Dale ate his meal, listening to the talk of the
girls, and occasionally replying briefly to some query of Bo’s. It was
twilight when he began to wash the pots and pans, and almost dark by the
time his duties appeared ended. Then he replenished the campfire and
sat down on a log to gaze into the fire. The girls leaned comfortably
propped against the saddles.

“Nell, I’ll keel over in a minute,” said Bo. “And I oughtn’t--right on
such a big supper.”

“I don’t see how I can sleep, and I know I can’t stay awake,” rejoined
Helen.

Dale lifted his head alertly.

“Listen.”

The girls grew tense and still. Helen could not hear a sound, unless it
was a low thud of hoof out in the gloom. The forest seemed sleeping. She
knew from Bo’s eyes, wide and shining in the camp-fire light, that she,
too, had failed to catch whatever it was Dale meant.

“Bunch of coyotes comin’,” he explained.

Suddenly the quietness split to a chorus of snappy, high-strung, strange
barks. They sounded wild, yet they held something of a friendly or
inquisitive note. Presently gray forms could be descried just at the
edge of the circle of light. Soft rustlings of stealthy feet surrounded
the camp, and then barks and yelps broke out all around. It was a
restless and sneaking pack of animals, thought Helen; she was glad after
the chorus ended and with a few desultory, spiteful yelps the coyotes
went away.

Silence again settled down. If it had not been for the anxiety always
present in Helen’s mind she would have thought this silence sweet and
unfamiliarly beautiful.

“Ah! Listen to that fellow,” spoke up Dale. His voice was thrilling.

Again the girls strained their ears. That was not necessary, for
presently, clear and cold out of the silence, pealed a mournful howl,
long drawn, strange and full and wild.

“Oh! What’s that?” whispered Bo.

“That’s a big gray wolf--a timber-wolf, or lofer, as he’s sometimes
called,” replied Dale. “He’s high on some rocky ridge back there. He
scents us, an’ he doesn’t like it.... There he goes again. Listen! Ah,
he’s hungry.”

While Helen listened to this exceedingly wild cry--so wild that it made
her flesh creep and the most indescribable sensations of loneliness come
over her--she kept her glance upon Dale.

“You love him?” she murmured involuntarily, quite without understanding
the motive of her query.

Assuredly Dale had never had that question asked of him before, and
it seemed to Helen, as he pondered, that he had never even asked it of
himself.

“I reckon so,” he replied, presently.

“But wolves kill deer, and little fawns, and everything helpless in the
forest,” expostulated Bo.

The hunter nodded his head.

“Why, then, can you love him?” repeated Helen.

“Come to think of it, I reckon it’s because of lots of reasons,”
 returned Dale. “He kills clean. He eats no carrion. He’s no coward. He
fights. He dies game.... An’ he likes to be alone.”

“Kills clean. What do you mean by that?”

“A cougar, now, he mangles a deer. An’ a silvertip, when killin’ a
cow or colt, he makes a mess of it. But a wolf kills clean, with sharp
snaps.”

“What are a cougar and a silvertip?”

“Cougar means mountain-lion or panther, an’ a silvertip is a grizzly
bear.”

“Oh, they’re all cruel!” exclaimed Helen, shrinking.

“I reckon. Often I’ve shot wolves for relayin’ a deer.”

“What’s that?”

“Sometimes two or more wolves will run a deer, an’ while one of them
rests the other will drive the deer around to his pardner, who’ll, take
up the chase. That way they run the deer down. Cruel it is, but nature,
an’ no worse than snow an’ ice that starve deer, or a fox that kills
turkey-chicks breakin’ out of the egg, or ravens that pick the eyes out
of new-born lambs an’ wait till they die. An’ for that matter, men are
crueler than beasts of prey, for men add to nature, an’ have more than
instincts.”

Helen was silenced, as well as shocked. She had not only learned a new
and striking viewpoint in natural history, but a clear intimation to the
reason why she had vaguely imagined or divined a remarkable character in
this man. A hunter was one who killed animals for their fur, for their
meat or horns, or for some lust for blood--that was Helen’s definition
of a hunter, and she believed it was held by the majority of people
living in settled states. But the majority might be wrong. A hunter
might be vastly different, and vastly more than a tracker and slayer
of game. The mountain world of forest was a mystery to almost all men.
Perhaps Dale knew its secrets, its life, its terror, its beauty, its
sadness, and its joy; and if so, how full, how wonderful must be his
mind! He spoke of men as no better than wolves. Could a lonely life
in the wilderness teach a man that? Bitterness, envy, jealousy, spite,
greed, and hate--these had no place in this hunter’s heart. It was not
Helen’s shrewdness, but a woman’s intuition, which divined that.

Dale rose to his feet and, turning his ear to the north, listened once
more.

“Are you expecting Roy still?” inquired Helen.

“No, it ain’t likely he’ll turn up to-night,” replied Dale, and then he
strode over to put a hand on the pine-tree that soared above where the
girls lay. His action, and the way he looked up at the tree-top and then
at adjacent trees, held more of that significance which so interested
Helen.

“I reckon he’s stood there some five hundred years an’ will stand
through to-night,” muttered Dale.

This pine was the monarch of that wide-spread group.

“Listen again,” said Dale.

Bo was asleep. And Helen, listening, at once caught low, distant roar.

“Wind. It’s goin’ to storm,” explained Dale. “You’ll hear somethin’
worth while. But don’t be scared. Reckon we’ll be safe. Pines blow down
often. But this fellow will stand any fall wind that ever was.... Better
slip under the blankets so I can pull the tarp up.”

Helen slid down, just as she was, fully dressed except for boots, which
she and Bo had removed; and she laid her head close to Bo’s. Dale pulled
the tarpaulin up and folded it back just below their heads.

“When it rains you’ll wake, an’ then just pull the tarp up over you,” he
said.

“Will it rain?” Helen asked. But she was thinking that this moment
was the strangest that had ever happened to her. By the light of the
camp-fire she saw Dale’s face, just as usual, still, darkly serene,
expressing no thought. He was kind, but he was not thinking of these
sisters as girls, alone with him in a pitch-black forest, helpless and
defenseless. He did not seem to be thinking at all. But Helen had never
before in her life been so keenly susceptible to experience.

“I’ll be close by an’ keep the fire goin’ all night,” he said.

She heard him stride off into the darkness. Presently there came a
dragging, bumping sound, then a crash of a log dropped upon the fire.
A cloud of sparks shot up, and many pattered down to hiss upon the damp
ground. Smoke again curled upward along the great, seamed tree-trunk,
and flames sputtered and crackled.

Helen listened again for the roar of wind. It seemed to come on a breath
of air that fanned her cheek and softly blew Bo’s curls, and it was
stronger. But it died out presently, only to come again, and still
stronger. Helen realized then that the sound was that of an approaching
storm. Her heavy eyelids almost refused to stay open, and she knew if
she let them close she would instantly drop to sleep. And she wanted to
hear the storm-wind in the pines.

A few drops of cold rain fell upon her face, thrilling her with the
proof that no roof stood between her and the elements. Then a breeze
bore the smell of burnt wood into her face, and somehow her quick mind
flew to girlhood days when she burned brush and leaves with her little
brothers. The memory faded. The roar that had seemed distant was now
back in the forest, coming swiftly, increasing in volume. Like a
stream in flood it bore down. Helen grew amazed, startled. How rushing,
oncoming, and heavy this storm-wind! She likened its approach to the
tread of an army. Then the roar filled the forest, yet it was back there
behind her. Not a pine-needle quivered in the light of the camp-fire.
But the air seemed to be oppressed with a terrible charge. The roar
augmented till it was no longer a roar, but an on-sweeping crash, like
an ocean torrent engulfing the earth. Bo awoke to cling to Helen
with fright. The deafening storm-blast was upon them. Helen felt the
saddle-pillow move under her head. The giant pine had trembled to its
very roots. That mighty fury of wind was all aloft, in the tree-tops.
And for a long moment it bowed the forest under its tremendous power.
Then the deafening crash passed to roar, and that swept on and on,
lessening in volume, deepening in low detonation, at last to die in the
distance.

No sooner had it died than back to the north another low roar rose and
ceased and rose again. Helen lay there, whispering to Bo, and heard
again the great wave of wind come and crash and cease. That was the way
of this storm-wind of the mountain forest.

A soft patter of rain on the tarpaulin warned Helen to remember Dale’s
directions, and, pulling up the heavy covering, she arranged it hoodlike
over the saddle. Then, with Bo close and warm beside her, she closed
her eyes, and the sense of the black forest and the wind and rain
faded. Last of all sensations was the smell of smoke that blew under the
tarpaulin.


When she opened her eyes she remembered everything, as if only a moment
had elapsed. But it was daylight, though gray and cloudy. The pines were
dripping mist. A fire crackled cheerily and blue smoke curled upward and
a savory odor of hot coffee hung in the air. Horses were standing
near by, biting and kicking at one another. Bo was sound asleep. Dale
appeared busy around the camp-fire. As Helen watched the hunter she
saw him pause in his task, turn his ear to listen, and then look
expectantly. And at that juncture a shout pealed from the forest.
Helen recognized Roy’s voice. Then she heard a splashing of water, and
hoof-beats coming closer. With that the buckskin mustang trotted into
camp, carrying Roy.

“Bad mornin’ for ducks, but good for us,” he called.

“Howdy, Roy!” greeted Dale, and his gladness was unmistakable. “I was
lookin’ for you.”

Roy appeared to slide off the mustang without effort, and his swift
hands slapped the straps as he unsaddled. Buckskin was wet with sweat
and foam mixed with rain. He heaved. And steam rose from him.

“Must have rode hard,” observed Dale.

“I shore did,” replied Roy. Then he espied Helen, who had sat up, with
hands to her hair, and eyes staring at him.

“Mornin’, miss. It’s good news.”

“Thank Heaven!” murmured Helen, and then she shook Bo. That young lady
awoke, but was loath to give up slumber. “Bo! Bo! Wake up! Mr. Roy is
back.”

Whereupon Bo sat up, disheveled and sleepy-eyed.

“Oh-h, but I ache!” she moaned. But her eyes took in the camp scene to
the effect that she added, “Is breakfast ready?”

“Almost. An’ flapjacks this mornin’,” replied Dale.

Bo manifested active symptoms of health in the manner with which she
laced her boots. Helen got their traveling-bag, and with this they
repaired to a flat stone beside the spring, not, however, out of earshot
of the men.

“How long are you goin’ to hang around camp before tellin’ me?” inquired
Dale.

“Jest as I figgered, Milt,” replied Roy. “Thet rider who passed you was
a messenger to Anson. He an’ his gang got on our trail quick. About ten
o’clock I seen them comin’. Then I lit out for the woods. I stayed off
in the woods close enough to see where they come in. An’ shore they
lost your trail. Then they spread through the woods, workin’ off to the
south, thinkin’, of course, thet you would circle round to Pine on the
south side of Old Baldy. There ain’t a hoss-tracker in Snake Anson’s
gang, thet’s shore. Wal, I follered them for an hour till they’d rustled
some miles off our trail. Then I went back to where you struck into
the woods. An’ I waited there all afternoon till dark, expectin’ mebbe
they’d back-trail. But they didn’t. I rode on a ways an’ camped in the
woods till jest before daylight.”

“So far so good,” declared Dale.

“Shore. There’s rough country south of Baldy an’ along the two or three
trails Anson an’ his outfit will camp, you bet.”

“It ain’t to be thought of,” muttered Dale, at some idea that had struck
him.

“What ain’t?”

“Goin’ round the north side of Baldy.”

“It shore ain’t,” rejoined Roy, bluntly.

“Then I’ve got to hide tracks certain--rustle to my camp an’ stay there
till you say it’s safe to risk takin’ the girls to Pine.”

“Milt, you’re talkin’ the wisdom of the prophets.”

“I ain’t so sure we can hide tracks altogether. If Anson had any eyes
for the woods he’d not have lost me so soon.

“No. But, you see, he’s figgerin’ to cross your trail.”

“If I could get fifteen or twenty mile farther on an’ hide tracks
certain, I’d feel safe from pursuit, anyway,” said the hunter,
reflectively.

“Shore an’ easy,” responded Roy, quickly. “I jest met up with some
greaser sheep-herders drivin’ a big flock. They’ve come up from the
south an’ are goin’ to fatten up at Turkey Senacas. Then they’ll drive
back south an’ go on to Phenix. Wal, it’s muddy weather. Now you break
camp quick an’ make a plain trail out to thet sheep trail, as if you
was travelin’ south. But, instead, you ride round ahead of thet flock of
sheep. They’ll keep to the open parks an’ the trails through them necks
of woods out here. An’, passin’ over your tracks, they’ll hide ‘em.”

“But supposin’ Anson circles an’ hits this camp? He’ll track me easy out
to that sheep trail. What then?”

“Jest what you want. Goin’ south thet sheep trail is downhill an’ muddy.
It’s goin’ to rain hard. Your tracks would get washed out even if you
did go south. An’ Anson would keep on thet way till he was clear off the
scent. Leave it to me, Milt. You’re a hunter. But I’m a hoss-tracker.”

“All right. We’ll rustle.”

Then he called the girls to hurry.



CHAPTER VIII

Once astride the horse again, Helen had to congratulate herself upon not
being so crippled as she had imagined. Indeed, Bo made all the audible
complaints.

Both girls had long water-proof coats, brand-new, and of which they were
considerably proud. New clothes had not been a common event in their
lives.

“Reckon I’ll have to slit these,” Dale had said, whipping out a huge
knife.

“What for?” had been Bo’s feeble protest.

“They wasn’t made for ridin’. An’ you’ll get wet enough even if I do cut
them. An’ if I don’t, you’ll get soaked.”

“Go ahead,” had been Helen’s reluctant permission.

So their long new coats were slit half-way up the back. The exigency of
the case was manifest to Helen, when she saw how they came down over the
cantles of the saddles and to their boot-tops.

The morning was gray and cold. A fine, misty rain fell and the trees
dripped steadily. Helen was surprised to see the open country again and
that apparently they were to leave the forest behind for a while. The
country was wide and flat on the right, and to the left it rolled and
heaved along a black, scalloped timber-line. Above this bordering of
the forest low, drifting clouds obscured the mountains. The wind was at
Helen’s back and seemed to be growing stronger. Dale and Roy were ahead,
traveling at a good trot, with the pack-animals bunched before them.
Helen and Bo had enough to do to keep up.

The first hour’s ride brought little change in weather or scenery, but
it gave Helen an inkling of what she must endure if they kept that up
all day. She began to welcome the places where the horses walked, but
she disliked the levels. As for the descents, she hated those. Ranger
would not go down slowly and the shake-up she received was unpleasant.
Moreover, the spirited black horse insisted on jumping the ditches and
washes. He sailed over them like a bird. Helen could not acquire the
knack of sitting the saddle properly, and so, not only was her person
bruised on these occasions, but her feelings were hurt. Helen had
never before been conscious of vanity. Still, she had never rejoiced
in looking at a disadvantage, and her exhibitions here must have been
frightful. Bo always would forge to the front, and she seldom looked
back, for which Helen was grateful.

Before long they struck into a broad, muddy belt, full of innumerable
small hoof tracks. This, then, was the sheep trail Roy had advised
following. They rode on it for three or four miles, and at length,
coming to a gray-green valley, they saw a huge flock of sheep. Soon the
air was full of bleats and baas as well as the odor of sheep, and a
low, soft roar of pattering hoofs. The flock held a compact formation,
covering several acres, and grazed along rapidly. There were three
herders on horses and several pack-burros. Dale engaged one of the
Mexicans in conversation, and passed something to him, then pointed
northward and down along the trail. The Mexican grinned from ear to ear,
and Helen caught the quick “SI, SENOR! GRACIAS, SENOR!” It was a pretty
sight, that flock of sheep, as it rolled along like a rounded woolly
stream of grays and browns and here and there a black. They were keeping
to a trail over the flats. Dale headed into this trail and, if anything,
trotted a little faster.

Presently the clouds lifted and broke, showing blue sky and one streak
of sunshine. But the augury was without warrant. The wind increased. A
huge black pall bore down from the mountains and it brought rain that
could be seen falling in sheets from above and approaching like a
swiftly moving wall. Soon it enveloped the fugitives.

With head bowed, Helen rode along for what seemed ages in a cold, gray
rain that blew almost on a level. Finally the heavy downpour passed,
leaving a fine mist. The clouds scurried low and dark, hiding the
mountains altogether and making the gray, wet plain a dreary sight.
Helen’s feet and knees were as wet as if she had waded in water. And
they were cold. Her gloves, too, had not been intended for rain, and
they were wet through. The cold bit at her fingers so that she had to
beat her hands together. Ranger misunderstood this to mean that he was
to trot faster, which event was worse for Helen than freezing.

She saw another black, scudding mass of clouds bearing down with its
trailing sheets of rain, and this one appeared streaked with white.
Snow! The wind was now piercingly cold. Helen’s body kept warm, but
her extremities and ears began to suffer exceedingly. She gazed ahead
grimly. There was no help; she had to go on. Dale and Roy were hunched
down in their saddles, probably wet through, for they wore no rain-proof
coats. Bo kept close behind them, and plain it was that she felt the
cold.

This second storm was not so bad as the first, because there was less
rain. Still, the icy keenness of the wind bit into the marrow. It lasted
for an hour, during which the horses trotted on, trotted on. Again the
gray torrent roared away, the fine mist blew, the clouds lifted and
separated, and, closing again, darkened for another onslaught. This one
brought sleet. The driving pellets stung Helen’s neck and cheeks, and
for a while they fell so thick and so hard upon her back that she was
afraid she could not hold up under them. The bare places on the ground
showed a sparkling coverlet of marbles of ice.

Thus, storm after storm rolled over Helen’s head. Her feet grew numb
and ceased to hurt. But her fingers, because of her ceaseless efforts
to keep up the circulation, retained the stinging pain. And now the wind
pierced right through her. She marveled at her endurance, and there were
many times that she believed she could not ride farther. Yet she kept
on. All the winters she had ever lived had not brought such a day as
this. Hard and cold, wet and windy, at an increasing elevation--that was
the explanation. The air did not have sufficient oxygen for her blood.

Still, during all those interminable hours, Helen watched where she was
traveling, and if she ever returned over that trail she would recognize
it. The afternoon appeared far advanced when Dale and Roy led down into
an immense basin where a reedy lake spread over the flats. They rode
along its margin, splashing up to the knees of the horses. Cranes and
herons flew on with lumbering motion; flocks of ducks winged swift
flight from one side to the other. Beyond this depression the land
sloped rather abruptly; outcroppings of rock circled along the edge of
the highest ground, and again a dark fringe of trees appeared.

How many miles! wondered Helen. They seemed as many and as long as
the hours. But at last, just as another hard rain came, the pines
were reached. They proved to be widely scattered and afforded little
protection from the storm.

Helen sat her saddle, a dead weight. Whenever Ranger quickened his gait
or crossed a ditch she held on to the pommel to keep from falling
off. Her mind harbored only sensations of misery, and a persistent
thought--why did she ever leave home for the West? Her solicitude for Bo
had been forgotten. Nevertheless, any marked change in the topography
of the country was registered, perhaps photographed on her memory by the
torturing vividness of her experience.

The forest grew more level and denser. Shadows of twilight or gloom lay
under the trees. Presently Dale and Roy, disappeared, going downhill,
and likewise Bo. Then Helen’s ears suddenly filled with a roar of rapid
water. Ranger trotted faster. Soon Helen came to the edge of a great
valley, black and gray, so full of obscurity that she could not see
across or down into it. But she knew there was a rushing river at
the bottom. The sound was deep, continuous, a heavy, murmuring roar,
singularly musical. The trail was steep. Helen had not lost all feeling,
as she had believed and hoped. Her poor, mistreated body still responded
excruciatingly to concussions, jars, wrenches, and all the other
horrible movements making up a horse-trot.

For long Helen did not look up. When she did so there lay a green,
willow-bordered, treeless space at the bottom of the valley, through
which a brown-white stream rushed with steady, ear-filling roar.

Dale and Roy drove the pack-animals across the stream, and followed,
going deep to the flanks of their horses. Bo rode into the foaming water
as if she had been used to it all her days. A slip, a fall, would have
meant that Bo must drown in that mountain torrent.

Ranger trotted straight to the edge, and there, obedient to Helen’s
clutch on the bridle, he halted. The stream was fifty feet wide, shallow
on the near side, deep on the opposite, with fast current and big waves.
Helen was simply too frightened to follow.

“Let him come!” yelled Dale. “Stick on now!... Ranger!”

The big black plunged in, making the water fly. That stream was nothing
for him, though it seemed impassable to Helen. She had not the strength
left to lift her stirrups and the water surged over them. Ranger, in two
more plunges, surmounted the bank, and then, trotting across the green
to where the other horses stood steaming under some pines, he gave a
great heave and halted.

Roy reached up to help her off.

“Thirty miles, Miss Helen,” he said, and the way he spoke was a
compliment.

He had to lift her off and help her to the tree where Bo leaned. Dale
had ripped off a saddle and was spreading saddle-blankets on the ground
under the pine.

“Nell--you swore--you loved me!” was Bo’s mournful greeting. The girl
was pale, drawn, blue-lipped, and she could not stand up.

“Bo, I never did--or I’d never have brought you to this--wretch that I
am!” cried Helen. “Oh, what a horrible ride!”

Rain was falling, the trees were dripping, the sky was lowering. All the
ground was soaking wet, with pools and puddles everywhere. Helen could
imagine nothing but a heartless, dreary, cold prospect. Just then home
was vivid and poignant in her thoughts. Indeed, so utterly miserable
was she that the exquisite relief of sitting down, of a cessation of
movement, of a release from that infernal perpetual-trotting horse,
seemed only a mockery. It could not be true that the time had come for
rest.

Evidently this place had been a camp site for hunters or sheep-herders,
for there were remains of a fire. Dale lifted the burnt end of a log
and brought it down hard upon the ground, splitting off pieces. Several
times he did this. It was amazing to see his strength, his facility, as
he split off handfuls of splinters. He collected a bundle of them, and,
laying them down, he bent over them. Roy wielded the ax on another log,
and each stroke split off a long strip. Then a tiny column of smoke
drifted up over Dale’s shoulder as he leaned, bareheaded, sheltering the
splinters with his hat. A blaze leaped up. Roy came with an armful of
strips all white and dry, out of the inside of a log. Crosswise these
were laid over the blaze, and it began to roar. Then piece by piece the
men built up a frame upon which they added heavier woods, branches
and stumps and logs, erecting a pyramid through which flames and smoke
roared upward. It had not taken two minutes. Already Helen felt the
warmth on her icy face. She held up her bare, numb hands.

Both Dale and Roy were wet through to the skin, yet they did not tarry
beside the fire. They relieved the horses. A lasso went up between two
pines, and a tarpaulin over it, V-shaped and pegged down at the four
ends. The packs containing the baggage of the girls and the supplies and
bedding were placed under this shelter.

Helen thought this might have taken five minutes more. In this short
space of time the fire had leaped and flamed until it was huge and hot.
Rain was falling steadily all around, but over and near that roaring
blaze, ten feet high, no water fell. It evaporated. The ground began to
steam and to dry. Helen suffered at first while the heat was driving out
the cold. But presently the pain ceased.

“Nell, I never knew before how good a fire could feel,” declared Bo.

And therein lay more food for Helen’s reflection.

In ten minutes Helen was dry and hot. Darkness came down upon the
dreary, sodden forest, but that great camp-fire made it a different
world from the one Helen had anticipated. It blazed and roared, cracked
like a pistol, hissed and sputtered, shot sparks everywhere, and sent
aloft a dense, yellow, whirling column of smoke. It began to have a
heart of gold.

Dale took a long pole and raked out a pile of red embers upon which the
coffee-pot and oven soon began to steam.

“Roy, I promised the girls turkey to-night,” said the hunter.

“Mebbe to-morrow, if the wind shifts. This ‘s turkey country.”

“Roy, a potato will do me!” exclaimed Bo. “Never again will I ask for
cake and pie! I never appreciated good things to eat. And I’ve been a
little pig, always. I never--never knew what it was to be hungry--until
now.”

Dale glanced up quickly.

“Lass, it’s worth learnin’,” he said.

Helen’s thought was too deep for words. In such brief space had she been
transformed from misery to comfort!

The rain kept on falling, though it appeared to grow softer as night
settled down black. The wind died away and the forest was still, except
for the steady roar of the stream. A folded tarpaulin was laid between
the pine and the fire, well in the light and warmth, and upon it the
men set steaming pots and plates and cups, the fragrance from which was
strong and inviting.

“Fetch the saddle-blanket an’ set with your backs to the fire,” said
Roy.


Later, when the girls were tucked away snugly in their blankets and
sheltered from the rain, Helen remained awake after Bo had fallen
asleep. The big blaze made the improvised tent as bright as day. She
could see the smoke, the trunk of the big pine towering aloft, and
a blank space of sky. The stream hummed a song, seemingly musical at
times, and then discordant and dull, now low, now roaring, and always
rushing, gurgling, babbling, flowing, chafing in its hurry.

Presently the hunter and his friend returned from hobbling the horses,
and beside the fire they conversed in low tones.

“Wal, thet trail we made to-day will be hid, I reckon,” said Roy, with
satisfaction.

“What wasn’t sheeped over would be washed out. We’ve had luck. An’ now I
ain’t worryin’,” returned Dale.

“Worryin’? Then it’s the first I ever knowed you to do.”

“Man, I never had a job like this,” protested the hunter.

“Wal, thet’s so.”

“Now, Roy, when old Al Auchincloss finds out about this deal, as he’s
bound to when you or the boys get back to Pine, he’s goin’ to roar.”

“Do you reckon folks will side with him against Beasley?”

“Some of them. But Al, like as not, will tell folks to go where it’s
hot. He’ll bunch his men an’ strike for the mountains to find his
nieces.”

“Wal, all you’ve got to do is to keep the girls hid till I can guide him
up to your camp. Or, failin’ thet, till you can slip the girls down to
Pine.”

“No one but you an’ your brothers ever seen my senaca. But it could be
found easy enough.”

“Anson might blunder on it. But thet ain’t likely.”

“Why ain’t it?”

“Because I’ll stick to thet sheep-thief’s tracks like a wolf after a
bleedin’ deer. An’ if he ever gets near your camp I’ll ride in ahead of
him.”

“Good!” declared Dale. “I was calculatin’ you’d go down to Pine, sooner
or later.”

“Not unless Anson goes. I told John thet in case there was no fight on
the stage to make a bee-line back to Pine. He was to tell Al an’ offer
his services along with Joe an’ Hal.”

“One way or another, then, there’s bound to be blood spilled over this.”

“Shore! An’ high time. I jest hope I get a look down my old ‘forty-four’
at thet Beasley.”

“In that case I hope you hold straighter than times I’ve seen you.”

“Milt Dale, I’m a good shot,” declared Roy, stoutly.

“You’re no good on movin’ targets.”

“Wal, mebbe so. But I’m not lookin’ for a movin’ target when I meet up
with Beasley. I’m a hossman, not a hunter. You’re used to shootin’ flies
off deer’s horns, jest for practice.”

“Roy, can we make my camp by to-morrow night?” queried Dale, more
seriously.

“We will, if each of us has to carry one of the girls. But they’ll do it
or die. Dale, did you ever see a gamer girl than thet kid Bo?”

“Me! Where’d I ever see any girls?” ejaculated Dale. “I remember some
when I was a boy, but I was only fourteen then. Never had much use for
girls.”

“I’d like to have a wife like that Bo,” declared Roy, fervidly.

There ensued a moment’s silence.

“Roy, you’re a Mormon an’ you already got a wife,” was Dale’s reply.

“Now, Milt, have you lived so long in the woods thet you never heard of
a Mormon with two wives?” returned Roy, and then he laughed heartily.

“I never could stomach what I did hear pertainin’ to more than one wife
for a man.”

“Wal, my friend, you go an’ get yourself ONE. An’ see then if you
wouldn’t like to have TWO.”

“I reckon one ‘d be more than enough for Milt Dale.”

“Milt, old man, let me tell you thet I always envied you your freedom,”
 said Roy, earnestly. “But it ain’t life.”

“You mean life is love of a woman?”

“No. Thet’s only part. I mean a son--a boy thet’s like you--thet you
feel will go on with your life after you’re gone.”

“I’ve thought of that--thought it all out, watchin’ the birds an’
animals mate in the woods.... If I have no son I’ll never live
hereafter.”

“Wal,” replied Roy, hesitatingly, “I don’t go in so deep as thet. I mean
a son goes on with your blood an’ your work.”

“Exactly... An’, Roy, I envy you what you ve got, because it’s out of
all bounds for Milt Dale.”

Those words, sad and deep, ended the conversation. Again the rumbling,
rushing stream dominated the forest. An owl hooted dismally. A horse
trod thuddingly near by and from that direction came a cutting tear of
teeth on grass.


A voice pierced Helen’s deep dreams and, awaking, she found Bo shaking
and calling her.

“Are you dead?” came the gay voice.

“Almost. Oh, my back’s broken,” replied Helen. The desire to move seemed
clamped in a vise, and even if that came she believed the effort would
be impossible.

“Roy called us,” said Bo. “He said hurry. I thought I’d die just sitting
up, and I’d give you a million dollars to lace my boots. Wait, sister,
till you try to pull on one of those stiff boots!”

With heroic and violent spirit Helen sat up to find that in the act
her aches and pains appeared beyond number. Reaching for her boots,
she found them cold and stiff. Helen unlaced one and, opening it wide,
essayed to get her sore foot down into it. But her foot appeared swollen
and the boot appeared shrunken. She could not get it half on, though
she expended what little strength seemed left in her aching arms. She
groaned.

Bo laughed wickedly. Her hair was tousled, her eyes dancing, her cheeks
red.

“Be game!” she said. “Stand up like a real Western girl and PULL your
boot on.”

Whether Bo’s scorn or advice made the task easier did not occur to
Helen, but the fact was that she got into her boots. Walking and
moving a little appeared to loosen the stiff joints and ease that tired
feeling. The water of the stream where the girls washed was colder than
any ice Helen had ever felt. It almost paralyzed her hands. Bo mumbled,
and blew like a porpoise. They had to run to the fire before being able
to comb their hair. The air was wonderfully keen. The dawn was clear,
bright, with a red glow in the east where the sun was about to rise.

“All ready, girls,” called Roy. “Reckon you can help yourselves. Milt
ain’t comin’ in very fast with the hosses. I’ll rustle off to help him.
We’ve got a hard day before us. Yesterday wasn’t nowhere to what to-day
‘ll be.”

“But the sun’s going to shine?” implored Bo.

“Wal, you bet,” rejoined Roy, as he strode off.

Helen and Bo ate breakfast and had the camp to themselves for perhaps
half an hour; then the horses came thudding down, with Dale and Roy
riding bareback.

By the time all was in readiness to start the sun was up, melting the
frost and ice, so that a dazzling, bright mist, full of rainbows, shone
under the trees.

Dale looked Ranger over, and tried the cinches of Bo’s horse.

“What’s your choice--a long ride behind the packs with me--or a short
cut over the hills with Roy?” he asked.

“I choose the lesser of two rides,” replied Helen, smiling.

“Reckon that ‘ll be easier, but you’ll know you’ve had a ride,” said
Dale, significantly.

“What was that we had yesterday?” asked Bo, archly.

“Only thirty miles, but cold an’ wet. To-day will be fine for ridin’.”

“Milt, I’ll take a blanket an’ some grub in case you don’t meet us
to-night,” said Roy. “An’ I reckon we’ll split up here where I’ll have
to strike out on thet short cut.”

Bo mounted without a helping hand, but Helen’s limbs were so stiff that
she could not get astride the high Ranger without assistance. The hunter
headed up the slope of the canyon, which on that side was not steep.
It was brown pine forest, with here and there a clump of dark,
silver-pointed evergreens that Roy called spruce. By the time this slope
was surmounted Helen’s aches were not so bad. The saddle appeared to
fit her better, and the gait of the horse was not so unfamiliar. She
reflected, however, that she always had done pretty well uphill. Here it
was beautiful forest-land, uneven and wilder. They rode for a time along
the rim, with the white rushing stream in plain sight far below, with
its melodious roar ever thrumming in the ear.

Dale reined in and peered down at the pine-mat.

“Fresh deer sign all along here,” he said, pointing.

“Wal, I seen thet long ago,” rejoined Roy.

Helen’s scrutiny was rewarded by descrying several tiny depressions in
the pine-needles, dark in color and sharply defined.

“We may never get a better chance,” said Dale. “Those deer are workin’
up our way. Get your rifle out.”

Travel was resumed then, with Roy a little in advance of the pack-train.
Presently he dismounted, threw his bridle, and cautiously peered ahead.
Then, turning, he waved his sombrero. The pack-animals halted in a
bunch. Dale beckoned for the girls to follow and rode up to Roy’s horse.
This point, Helen saw, was at the top of an intersecting canuon. Dale
dismounted, without drawing his rifle from its saddle-sheath, and
approached Roy.

“Buck an’ two does,” he said, low-voiced. “An’ they’ve winded us, but
don’t see us yet.... Girls, ride up closer.”

Following the directions indicated by Dale’s long arm, Helen looked down
the slope. It was open, with tall pines here and there, and clumps of
silver spruce, and aspens shining like gold in the morning sunlight.
Presently Bo exclaimed: “Oh, look! I see! I see!” Then Helen’s roving
glance passed something different from green and gold and brown.
Shifting back to it she saw a magnificent stag, with noble spreading
antlers, standing like a statue, his head up in alert and wild posture.
His color was gray. Beside him grazed two deer of slighter and more
graceful build, without horns.

“It’s downhill,” whispered Dale. “An’ you’re goin’ to overshoot.”

Then Helen saw that Roy had his rifle leveled.

“Oh, don’t!” she cried.

Dale’s remark evidently nettled Roy. He lowered the rifle.

“Milt, it’s me lookin’ over this gun. How can you stand there an’ tell
me I’m goin’ to shoot high? I had a dead bead on him.”

“Roy, you didn’t allow for downhill... Hurry. He sees us now.”

Roy leveled the rifle and, taking aim as before, he fired. The buck
stood perfectly motionless, as if he had indeed been stone. The does,
however, jumped with a start, and gazed in fright in every direction.

“Told you! I seen where your bullet hit thet pine--half a foot over his
shoulder. Try again an’ aim at his legs.”

Roy now took a quicker aim and pulled trigger. A puff of dust right at
the feet of the buck showed where Roy’s lead had struck this time. With
a single bound, wonderful to see, the big deer was out of sight behind
trees and brush. The does leaped after him.

“Doggone the luck!” ejaculated Roy, red in the face, as he worked the
lever of his rifle. “Never could shoot downhill, nohow!”

His rueful apology to the girls for missing brought a merry laugh from
Bo.

“Not for worlds would I have had you kill that beautiful deer!” she
exclaimed.

“We won’t have venison steak off him, that’s certain,” remarked Dale,
dryly. “An’ maybe none off any deer, if Roy does the shootin’.”

They resumed travel, sheering off to the right and keeping to the edge
of the intersecting canuon. At length they rode down to the bottom,
where a tiny brook babbled through willows, and they followed this for
a mile or so down to where it flowed into the larger stream. A dim trail
overgrown with grass showed at this point.

“Here’s where we part,” said Dale. “You’ll beat me into my camp, but
I’ll get there sometime after dark.”

“Hey, Milt, I forgot about thet darned pet cougar of yours an’ the rest
of your menagerie. Reckon they won’t scare the girls? Especially old
Tom?”

“You won’t see Tom till I get home,” replied Dale.

“Ain’t he corralled or tied up?”

“No. He has the run of the place.”

“Wal, good-by, then, an’ rustle along.”

Dale nodded to the girls, and, turning his horse, he drove the
pack-train before him up the open space between the stream and the
wooded slope.

Roy stepped off his horse with that single action which appeared such a
feat to Helen.

“Guess I’d better cinch up,” he said, as he threw a stirrup up over the
pommel of his saddle. “You girls are goin’ to see wild country.”

“Who’s old Tom?” queried Bo, curiously.

“Why, he’s Milt’s pet cougar.”

“Cougar? That’s a panther--a mountain-lion, didn’t he say?”

“Shore is. Tom is a beauty. An’ if he takes a likin’ to you he’ll love
you, play with you, maul you half to death.”

Bo was all eyes.

“Dale has other pets, too?” she questioned, eagerly.

“I never was up to his camp but what it was overrun with birds an’
squirrels an’ vermin of all kinds, as tame as tame as cows. Too darn
tame, Milt says. But I can’t figger thet. You girls will never want to
leave thet senaca of his.”

“What’s a senaca?” asked Helen, as she shifted her foot to let him
tighten the cinches on her saddle.

“Thet’s Mexican for park, I guess,” he replied. “These mountains are
full of parks; an’, say, I don’t ever want to see no prettier place till
I get to heaven.... There, Ranger, old boy, thet’s tight.”

He slapped the horse affectionately, and, turning to his own, he stepped
and swung his long length up.

“It ain’t deep crossin’ here. Come on,” he called, and spurred his bay.

The stream here was wide and it looked deep, but turned out to be
deceptive.

“Wal, girls, here beginneth the second lesson,” he drawled, cheerily.
“Ride one behind the other--stick close to me--do what I do--an’ holler
when you want to rest or if somethin’ goes bad.”

With that he spurred into the thicket. Bo went next and Helen followed.
The willows dragged at her so hard that she was unable to watch Roy, and
the result was that a low-sweeping branch of a tree knocked her hard
on the head. It hurt and startled her, and roused her mettle. Roy was
keeping to the easy trot that covered ground so well, and he led up
a slope to the open pine forest. Here the ride for several miles was
straight, level, and open. Helen liked the forest to-day. It was brown
and green, with patches of gold where the sun struck. She saw her first
bird--big blue grouse that whirred up from under her horse, and little
checkered gray quail that appeared awkward on the wing. Several times
Roy pointed out deer flashing gray across some forest aisle, and often
when he pointed Helen was not quick enough to see.

Helen realized that this ride would make up for the hideous one of
yesterday. So far she had been only barely conscious of sore places
and aching bones. These she would bear with. She loved the wild and the
beautiful, both of which increased manifestly with every mile. The sun
was warm, the air fragrant and cool, the sky blue as azure and so deep
that she imagined that she could look far up into it.

Suddenly Roy reined in so sharply that he pulled the bay up short.

“Look!” he called, sharply.

Bo screamed.

“Not thet way! Here! Aw, he’s gone!”

“Nell! It was a bear! I saw it! Oh! not like circus bears at all!” cried
Bo.

Helen had missed her opportunity.

“Reckon he was a grizzly, an’ I’m jest as well pleased thet he loped
off,” said Roy. Altering his course somewhat, he led to an old rotten
log that the bear had been digging in. “After grubs. There, see his
track. He was a whopper shore enough.”

They rode on, out to a high point that overlooked canuon and range,
gorge and ridge, green and black as far as Helen could see. The ranges
were bold and long, climbing to the central uplift, where a number of
fringed peaks raised their heads to the vast bare dome of Old Baldy.
Far as vision could see, to the right lay one rolling forest of pine,
beautiful and serene. Somewhere down beyond must have lain the desert,
but it was not in sight.

“I see turkeys ‘way down there,” said Roy, backing away. “We’ll go down
and around an’ mebbe I’ll get a shot.”

Descent beyond a rocky point was made through thick brush. This slope
consisted of wide benches covered with copses and scattered pines and
many oaks. Helen was delighted to see the familiar trees, although these
were different from Missouri oaks. Rugged and gnarled, but not tall,
these trees spread wide branches, the leaves of which were yellowing.
Roy led into a grassy glade, and, leaping off his horse, rifle in hand,
he prepared to shoot at something. Again Bo cried out, but this time it
was in delight. Then Helen saw an immense flock of turkeys, apparently
like the turkeys she knew at home, but these had bronze and checks
of white, and they looked wild. There must have been a hundred in the
flock, most of them hens. A few gobblers on the far side began the
flight, running swiftly off. Helen plainly heard the thud of their
feet. Roy shot once--twice--three times. Then rose a great commotion and
thumping, and a loud roar of many wings. Dust and leaves whirling in the
air were left where the turkeys had been.

“Wal, I got two,” said Roy, and he strode forward to pick up his game.
Returning, he tied two shiny, plump gobblers back of his saddle and
remounted his horse. “We’ll have turkey to-night, if Milt gets to camp
in time.”

The ride was resumed. Helen never would have tired riding through those
oak groves, brown and sear and yellow, with leaves and acorns falling.

“Bears have been workin’ in here already,” said Roy. “I see tracks all
over. They eat acorns in the fall. An’ mebbe we’ll run into one yet.”

The farther down he led the wilder and thicker grew the trees, so that
dodging branches was no light task. Ranger did not seem to care how
close he passed a tree or under a limb, so that he missed them himself;
but Helen thereby got some additional bruises. Particularly hard was it,
when passing a tree, to get her knee out of the way in time.

Roy halted next at what appeared a large green pond full of vegetation
and in places covered with a thick scum. But it had a current and an
outlet, proving it to be a huge, spring. Roy pointed down at a muddy
place.

“Bear-wallow. He heard us comin’. Look at thet little track. Cub track.
An’ look at these scratches on this tree, higher ‘n my head. An old
she-bear stood up, an’ scratched them.”

Roy sat his saddle and reached up to touch fresh marks on the tree.

“Woods’s full of big bears,” he said, grinning. “An’ I take it
particular kind of this old she rustlin’ off with her cub. She-bears
with cubs are dangerous.”

The next place to stir Helen to enthusiasm was the glen at the bottom
of this canuon. Beech-trees, maples, aspens, overtopped by lofty
pines, made dense shade over a brook where trout splashed on the brown,
swirling current, and leaves drifted down, and stray flecks of golden
sunlight lightened the gloom. Here was hard riding to and fro across the
brook, between huge mossy boulders, and between aspens so close together
that Helen could scarce squeeze her knees through.

Once more Roy climbed out of that canuon, over a ridge into another,
down long wooded slopes and through scrub-oak thickets, on and on
till the sun stood straight overhead. Then he halted for a short rest,
unsaddled the horses to let them roll, and gave the girls some cold
lunch that he had packed. He strolled off with his gun, and, upon
returning, resaddled and gave the word to start.

That was the last of rest and easy traveling for the girls. The forest
that he struck into seemed ribbed like a washboard with deep ravines
so steep of slope as to make precarious travel. Mostly he kept to the
bottom where dry washes afforded a kind of trail. But it was necessary
to cross these ravines when they were too long to be headed, and this
crossing was work.

The locust thickets characteristic of these slopes were thorny and close
knit. They tore and scratched and stung both horses and riders. Ranger
appeared to be the most intelligent of the horses and suffered less.
Bo’s white mustang dragged her through more than one brambly place. On
the other hand, some of these steep slopes, were comparatively free of
underbrush. Great firs and pines loomed up on all sides. The earth was
soft and the hoofs sank deep. Toward the bottom of a descent Ranger
would brace his front feet and then slide down on his haunches. This
mode facilitated travel, but it frightened Helen. The climb out then on
the other side had to be done on foot.

After half a dozen slopes surmounted in this way Helen’s strength was
spent and her breath was gone. She felt light-headed. She could not get
enough air. Her feet felt like lead, and her riding-coat was a burden.
A hundred times, hot and wet and throbbing, she was compelled to stop.
Always she had been a splendid walker and climber. And here, to break up
the long ride, she was glad to be on her feet. But she could only drag
one foot up after the other. Then, when her nose began to bleed, she
realized that it was the elevation which was causing all the trouble.
Her heart, however, did not hurt her, though she was conscious of an
oppression on her breast.

At last Roy led into a ravine so deep and wide and full of forest
verdure that it appeared impossible to cross. Nevertheless, he started
down, dismounting after a little way. Helen found that leading Ranger
down was worse than riding him. He came fast and he would step right
in her tracks. She was not quick enough to get away from him. Twice
he stepped on her foot, and again his broad chest hit her shoulder and
threw her flat. When he began to slide, near the bottom, Helen had to
run for her life.

“Oh, Nell! Isn’t--this--great?” panted Bo, from somewhere ahead.

“Bo--your--mind’s--gone,” panted Helen, in reply.

Roy tried several places to climb out, and failed in each. Leading down
the ravine for a hundred yards or more, he essayed another attempt.
Here there had been a slide, and in part the earth was bare. When he had
worked up this, he halted above, and called:

“Bad place! Keep on the up side of the hosses!”

This appeared easier said than done. Helen could not watch Bo, because
Ranger would not wait. He pulled at the bridle and snorted.

“Faster you come the better,” called Roy.

Helen could not see the sense of that, but she tried. Roy and Bo had dug
a deep trail zigzag up that treacherous slide. Helen made the mistake
of starting to follow in their tracks, and when she realized this Ranger
was climbing fast, almost dragging her, and it was too late to get
above. Helen began to labor. She slid down right in front of Ranger. The
intelligent animal, with a snort, plunged out of the trail to keep from
stepping on her. Then he was above her.

“Lookout down there,” yelled Roy, in warning. “Get on the up side!”

But that did not appear possible. The earth began to slide under Ranger,
and that impeded Helen’s progress. He got in advance of her, straining
on the bridle.

“Let go!” yelled Roy.

Helen dropped the bridle just as a heavy slide began to move with
Ranger. He snorted fiercely, and, rearing high, in a mighty plunge he
gained solid ground. Helen was buried to her knees, but, extricating
herself, she crawled to a safe point and rested before climbing farther.

“Bad cave-in, thet,” was Roy’s comment, when at last she joined him and
Bo at the top.

Roy appeared at a loss as to which way to go. He rode to high ground and
looked in all directions. To Helen, one way appeared as wild and rough
as another, and all was yellow, green, and black under the westering
sun. Roy rode a short distance in one direction, then changed for
another.

Presently he stopped.

“Wal, I’m shore turned round,” he said.

“You’re not lost?” cried Bo.

“Reckon I’ve been thet for a couple of hours,” he replied, cheerfully.
“Never did ride across here I had the direction, but I’m blamed now if I
can tell which way thet was.”

Helen gazed at him in consternation.

“Lost!” she echoed.



CHAPTER IX

A silence ensued, fraught with poignant fear for Helen, as she gazed
into Bo’s whitening face. She read her sister’s mind. Bo was remembering
tales of lost people who never were found.

“Me an’ Milt get lost every day,” said Roy. “You don’t suppose any man
can know all this big country. It’s nothin’ for us to be lost.”

“Oh!... I was lost when I was little,” said Bo.

“Wal, I reckon it’d been better not to tell you so offhand like,”
 replied Roy, contritely. “Don’t feel bad, now. All I need is a peek at
Old Baldy. Then I’ll have my bearin’. Come on.”

Helen’s confidence returned as Roy led off at a fast trot. He rode
toward the westering sun, keeping to the ridge they had ascended, until
once more he came out upon a promontory. Old Baldy loomed there, blacker
and higher and closer. The dark forest showed round, yellow, bare spots
like parks.

“Not so far off the track,” said Roy, as he wheeled his horse. “We’ll
make camp in Milt’s senaca to-night.”

He led down off the ridge into a valley and then up to higher altitude,
where the character of the forest changed. The trees were no longer
pines, but firs and spruce, growing thin and exceedingly tall, with
few branches below the topmost foliage. So dense was this forest that
twilight seemed to have come.

Travel was arduous. Everywhere were windfalls that had to be avoided,
and not a rod was there without a fallen tree. The horses, laboring
slowly, sometimes sank knee-deep into the brown duff. Gray moss
festooned the tree-trunks and an amber-green moss grew thick on the
rotting logs.

Helen loved this forest primeval. It was so still, so dark, so gloomy,
so full of shadows and shade, and a dank smell of rotting wood, and
sweet fragrance of spruce. The great windfalls, where trees were jammed
together in dozens, showed the savagery of the storms. Wherever a single
monarch lay uprooted there had sprung up a number of ambitious sons,
jealous of one another, fighting for place. Even the trees fought one
another! The forest was a place of mystery, but its strife could be read
by any eye. The lightnings had split firs clear to the roots, and others
it had circled with ripping tear from top to trunk.

Time came, however, when the exceeding wildness of the forest, in
density and fallen timber, made it imperative for Helen to put all her
attention on the ground and trees in her immediate vicinity. So the
pleasure of gazing ahead at the beautiful wilderness was denied her.
Thereafter travel became toil and the hours endless.

Roy led on, and Ranger followed, while the shadows darkened under the
trees. She was reeling in her saddle, half blind and sick, when Roy
called out cheerily that they were almost there.

Whatever his idea was, to Helen it seemed many miles that she followed
him farther, out of the heavy-timbered forest down upon slopes of low
spruce, like evergreen, which descended sharply to another level, where
dark, shallow streams flowed gently and the solemn stillness held a low
murmur of falling water, and at last the wood ended upon a wonderful
park full of a thick, rich, golden light of fast-fading sunset.

“Smell the smoke,” said Roy. “By Solomon! if Milt ain’t here ahead of
me!”

He rode on. Helen’s weary gaze took in the round senaca, the circling
black slopes, leading up to craggy rims all gold and red in the
last flare of the sun; then all the spirit left in her flashed up in
thrilling wonder at this exquisite, wild, and colorful spot.

Horses were grazing out in the long grass and there were deer grazing
with them. Roy led round a corner of the fringed, bordering woodland,
and there, under lofty trees, shone a camp-fire. Huge gray rocks loomed
beyond, and then cliffs rose step by step to a notch in the mountain
wall, over which poured a thin, lacy waterfall. As Helen gazed in
rapture the sunset gold faded to white and all the western slope of the
amphitheater darkened.

Dale’s tall form appeared.

“Reckon you’re late,” he said, as with a comprehensive flash of eye he
took in the three.

“Milt, I got lost,” replied Roy.

“I feared as much.... You girls look like you’d done better to ride with
me,” went on Dale, as he offered a hand to help Bo off. She took it,
tried to get her foot out of the stirrups, and then she slid from the
saddle into Dale’s arms. He placed her on her feet and, supporting her,
said, solicitously: “A hundred-mile ride in three days for a tenderfoot
is somethin’ your uncle Al won’t believe.... Come, walk if it kills
you!”

Whereupon he led Bo, very much as if he were teaching a child to walk.
The fact that the voluble Bo had nothing to say was significant to
Helen, who was following, with the assistance of Roy.

One of the huge rocks resembled a sea-shell in that it contained a
hollow over which the wide-spreading shelf flared out. It reached toward
branches of great pines. A spring burst from a crack in the solid rock.
The campfire blazed under a pine, and the blue column of smoke rose just
in front of the shelving rock. Packs were lying on the grass and some
of them were open. There were no signs here of a permanent habitation of
the hunter. But farther on were other huge rocks, leaning, cracked, and
forming caverns, some of which perhaps he utilized.

“My camp is just back,” said Dale, as if he had read Helen’s mind.
“To-morrow we’ll fix up comfortable-like round here for you girls.”

Helen and Bo were made as easy as blankets and saddles could make them,
and the men went about their tasks.

“Nell--isn’t this--a dream?” murmured Bo.

“No, child. It’s real--terribly real,” replied Helen. “Now that we’re
here--with that awful ride over--we can think.”

“It’s so pretty--here,” yawned Bo. “I’d just as lief Uncle Al didn’t
find us very soon.”

“Bo! He’s a sick man. Think what the worry will be to him.”

“I’ll bet if he knows Dale he won’t be so worried.”

“Dale told us Uncle Al disliked him.”

“Pooh! What difference does that make?... Oh, I don’t know which I
am--hungrier or tireder!”

“I couldn’t eat to-night,” said Helen, wearily.

When she stretched out she had a vague, delicious sensation that that
was the end of Helen Rayner, and she was glad. Above her, through the
lacy, fernlike pine-needles, she saw blue sky and a pale star just
showing. Twilight was stealing down swiftly. The silence was beautiful,
seemingly undisturbed by the soft, silky, dreamy fall of water. Helen
closed her eyes, ready for sleep, with the physical commotion within her
body gradually yielding. In some places her bones felt as if they had
come out through her flesh; in others throbbed deep-seated aches; her
muscles appeared slowly to subside, to relax, with the quivering twinges
ceasing one by one; through muscle and bone, through all her body,
pulsed a burning current.

Bo’s head dropped on Helen’s shoulder. Sense became vague to Helen. She
lost the low murmur of the waterfall, and then the sound or feeling of
some one at the campfire. And her last conscious thought was that she
tried to open her eyes and could not.

When she awoke all was bright. The sun shone almost directly overhead.
Helen was astounded. Bo lay wrapped in deep sleep, her face flushed,
with beads of perspiration on her brow and the chestnut curls damp.
Helen threw down the blankets, and then, gathering courage--for she felt
as if her back was broken--she endeavored to sit up. In vain! Her spirit
was willing, but her muscles refused to act. It must take a violent
spasmodic effort. She tried it with shut eyes, and, succeeding, sat
there trembling. The commotion she had made in the blankets awoke Bo,
and she blinked her surprised blue eyes in the sunlight.

“Hello--Nell! do I have to--get up?” she asked, sleepily.

“Can you?” queried Helen.

“Can I what?” Bo was now thoroughly awake and lay there staring at her
sister.

“Why--get up.”

“I’d like to know why not,” retorted Bo, as she made the effort. She got
one arm and shoulder up, only to flop back like a crippled thing. And
she uttered the most piteous little moan. “I’m dead! I know--I am!”

“Well, if you’re going to be a Western girl you’d better have spunk
enough to move.”

“A-huh!” ejaculated Bo. Then she rolled over, not without groans, and,
once upon her face, she raised herself on her hands and turned to a
sitting posture. “Where’s everybody?... Oh, Nell, it’s perfectly lovely
here. Paradise!”

Helen looked around. A fire was smoldering. No one was in sight.
Wonderful distant colors seemed to strike her glance as she tried to fix
it upon near-by objects. A beautiful little green tent or shack had been
erected out of spruce boughs. It had a slanting roof that sloped all the
way from a ridge-pole to the ground; half of the opening in front was
closed, as were the sides. The spruce boughs appeared all to be laid in
the same direction, giving it a smooth, compact appearance, actually as
if it had grown there.

“That lean-to wasn’t there last night?” inquired Bo.

“I didn’t see it. Lean-to? Where’d you get that name?”

“It’s Western, my dear. I’ll bet they put it up for us.... Sure, I see
our bags inside. Let’s get up. It must be late.”

The girls had considerable fun as well as pain in getting up and keeping
each other erect until their limbs would hold them firmly. They were
delighted with the spruce lean-to. It faced the open and stood just
under the wide-spreading shelf of rock. The tiny outlet from the spring
flowed beside it and spilled its clear water over a stone, to fall into
a little pool. The floor of this woodland habitation consisted of tips
of spruce boughs to about a foot in depth, all laid one way, smooth and
springy, and so sweetly odorous that the air seemed intoxicating. Helen
and Bo opened their baggage, and what with use of the cold water, brush
and comb, and clean blouses, they made themselves feel as comfortable as
possible, considering the excruciating aches. Then they went out to the
campfire.

Helen’s eye was attracted by moving objects near at hand. Then
simultaneously with Bo’s cry of delight Helen saw a beautiful doe
approaching under the trees. Dale walked beside it.

“You sure had a long sleep,” was the hunter’s greeting. “I reckon you
both look better.”

“Good morning. Or is it afternoon? We’re just able to move about,” said
Helen.

“I could ride,” declared Bo, stoutly. “Oh, Nell, look at the deer! It’s
coming to me.”

The doe had hung back a little as Dale reached the camp-fire. It was a
gray, slender creature, smooth as silk, with great dark eyes. It stood a
moment, long ears erect, and then with a graceful little trot came up
to Bo and reached a slim nose for her outstretched hand. All about it,
except the beautiful soft eyes, seemed wild, and yet it was as tame as
a kitten. Then, suddenly, as Bo fondled the long ears, it gave a start
and, breaking away, ran back out of sight under the pines.

“What frightened it?” asked Bo.

Dale pointed up at the wall under the shelving roof of rock. There,
twenty feet from the ground, curled up on a ledge, lay a huge tawny
animal with a face like that of a cat.

“She’s afraid of Tom,” replied Dale. “Recognizes him as a hereditary
foe, I guess. I can’t make friends of them.”

“Oh! So that’s Tom--the pet lion!” exclaimed Bo. “Ugh! No wonder that
deer ran off!”

“How long has he been up there?” queried Helen, gazing fascinated at
Dale’s famous pet.

“I couldn’t say. Tom comes an’ goes,” replied Dale. “But I sent him up
there last night.”

“And he was there--perfectly free--right over us--while we slept!” burst
out Bo.

“Yes. An’ I reckon you slept the safer for that.”

“Of all things! Nell, isn’t he a monster? But he doesn’t look like a
lion--an African lion. He’s a panther. I saw his like at the circus
once.”

“He’s a cougar,” said Dale. “The panther is long and slim. Tom is not
only long, but thick an’ round. I’ve had him four years. An’ he was a
kitten no bigger ‘n my fist when I got him.”

“Is he perfectly tame--safe?” asked Helen, anxiously.

“I’ve never told anybody that Tom was safe, but he is,” replied Dale.
“You can absolutely believe it. A wild cougar wouldn’t attack a man
unless cornered or starved. An’ Tom is like a big kitten.”

The beast raised his great catlike face, with its sleepy, half-shut
eyes, and looked down upon them.

“Shall I call him down?” inquired Dale.

For once Bo did not find her voice.

“Let us--get a little more used to him--at a distance,” replied Helen,
with a little laugh.

“If he comes to you, just rub his head an’ you’ll see how tame he is,”
 said Dale. “Reckon you’re both hungry?”

“Not so very,” returned Helen, aware of his penetrating gray gaze upon
her.

“Well, I am,” vouchsafed Bo.

“Soon as the turkey’s done we’ll eat. My camp is round between the
rocks. I’ll call you.”

Not until his broad back was turned did Helen notice that the hunter
looked different. Then she saw he wore a lighter, cleaner suit of
buckskin, with no coat, and instead of the high-heeled horseman’s boots
he wore moccasins and leggings. The change made him appear more lithe.

“Nell, I don’t know what you think, but _I_ call him handsome,” declared
Bo.

Helen had no idea what she thought.

“Let’s try to walk some,” she suggested.

So they essayed that painful task and got as far as a pine log some few
rods from their camp. This point was close to the edge of the park, from
which there was an unobstructed view.

“My! What a place!” exclaimed Bo, with eyes wide and round.

“Oh, beautiful!” breathed Helen.

An unexpected blaze of color drew her gaze first. Out of the black
spruce slopes shone patches of aspens, gloriously red and gold, and low
down along the edge of timber troops of aspens ran out into the park,
not yet so blazing as those above, but purple and yellow and white in
the sunshine. Masses of silver spruce, like trees in moonlight, bordered
the park, sending out here and there an isolated tree, sharp as a
spear, with under-branches close to the ground. Long golden-green grass,
resembling half-ripe wheat, covered the entire floor of the park, gently
waving to the wind. Above sheered the black, gold-patched slopes, steep
and unscalable, rising to buttresses of dark, iron-hued rock. And to
the east circled the rows of cliff-bench, gray and old and fringed,
splitting at the top in the notch where the lacy, slumberous waterfall,
like white smoke, fell and vanished, to reappear in wider sheet of lace,
only to fall and vanish again in the green depths.

It was a verdant valley, deep-set in the mountain walls, wild and sad
and lonesome. The waterfall dominated the spirit of the place, dreamy
and sleepy and tranquil; it murmured sweetly on one breath of wind, and
lulled with another, and sometimes died out altogether, only to come
again in soft, strange roar.

“Paradise Park!” whispered Bo to herself.

A call from Dale disturbed their raptures. Turning, they hobbled with
eager but painful steps in the direction of a larger camp-fire, situated
to the right of the great rock that sheltered their lean-to. No hut or
house showed there and none was needed. Hiding-places and homes for a
hundred hunters were there in the sections of caverned cliffs, split off
in bygone ages from the mountain wall above. A few stately pines stood
out from the rocks, and a clump of silver spruce ran down to a brown
brook. This camp was only a step from the lean-to, round the corner of
a huge rock, yet it had been out of sight. Here indeed was evidence of
a hunter’s home--pelts and skins and antlers, a neat pile of split
fire-wood, a long ledge of rock, well sheltered, and loaded with
bags like a huge pantry-shelf, packs and ropes and saddles, tools and
weapons, and a platform of dry brush as shelter for a fire around which
hung on poles a various assortment of utensils for camp.

“Hyar--you git!” shouted Dale, and he threw a stick at something. A bear
cub scampered away in haste. He was small and woolly and brown, and he
grunted as he ran. Soon he halted.

“That’s Bud,” said Dale, as the girls came up. “Guess he near starved in
my absence. An’ now he wants everythin’, especially the sugar. We don’t
have sugar often up here.”

“Isn’t he dear? Oh, I love him!” cried Bo. “Come back, Bud. Come,
Buddie.”

The cub, however, kept his distance, watching Dale with bright little
eyes.

“Where’s Mr. Roy?” asked Helen.

“Roy’s gone. He was sorry not to say good-by. But it’s important he gets
down in the pines on Anson’s trail. He’ll hang to Anson, an’ in case
they get near Pine he’ll ride in to see where your uncle is.”

“What do you expect?” questioned Helen, gravely.

“‘Most anythin’,” he replied. “Al, I reckon, knows now. Maybe he’s
rustlin’ into the mountains by this time. If he meets up with Anson,
well an’ good, for Roy won’t be far off. An’ sure if he runs across Roy,
why they’ll soon be here. But if I were you I wouldn’t count on seein’
your uncle very soon. I’m sorry. I’ve done my best. It sure is a bad
deal.”

“Don’t think me ungracious,” replied Helen, hastily. How plainly he
had intimated that it must be privation and annoyance for her to be
compelled to accept his hospitality! “You are good--kind. I owe you
much. I’ll be eternally grateful.”

Dale straightened as he looked at her. His glance was intent, piercing.
He seemed to be receiving a strange or unusual portent. No need for him
to say he had never before been spoken to like that!

“You may have to stay here with me--for weeks--maybe months--if we’ve
the bad luck to get snowed in,” he said, slowly, as if startled at this
deduction. “You’re safe here. No sheep-thief could ever find this camp.
I’ll take risks to get you safe into Al’s hands. But I’m goin’ to be
pretty sure about what I’m doin’.... So--there’s plenty to eat an’ it’s
a pretty place.”

“Pretty! Why, it’s grand!” exclaimed Bo. “I’ve called it Paradise Park.”

“Paradise Park,” he repeated, weighing the words. “You’ve named it an’
also the creek. Paradise Creek! I’ve been here twelve years with no fit
name for my home till you said that.”

“Oh, that pleases me!” returned Bo, with shining eyes.

“Eat now,” said Dale. “An’ I reckon you’ll like that turkey.”

There was a clean tarpaulin upon which were spread steaming, fragrant
pans--roast turkey, hot biscuits and gravy, mashed potatoes as white as
if prepared at home, stewed dried apples, and butter and coffee. This
bounteous repast surprised and delighted the girls; when they had once
tasted the roast wild turkey, then Milt Dale had occasion to blush at
their encomiums.

“I hope--Uncle Al--doesn’t come for a month,” declared Bo, as she tried
to get her breath. There was a brown spot on her nose and one on each
cheek, suspiciously close to her mouth.

Dale laughed. It was pleasant to hear him, for his laugh seemed unused
and deep, as if it came from tranquil depths.

“Won’t you eat with us?” asked Helen.

“Reckon I will,” he said, “it’ll save time, an’ hot grub tastes better.”

Quite an interval of silence ensued, which presently was broken by Dale.

“Here comes Tom.”

Helen observed with a thrill that the cougar was magnificent, seen erect
on all-fours, approaching with slow, sinuous grace. His color was tawny,
with spots of whitish gray. He had bow-legs, big and round and furry,
and a huge head with great tawny eyes. No matter how tame he was said
to be, he looked wild. Like a dog he walked right up, and it so happened
that he was directly behind Bo, within reach of her when she turned.

“Oh, Lord!” cried Bo, and up went both of her hands, in one of which
was a huge piece of turkey. Tom took it, not viciously, but nevertheless
with a snap that made Helen jump. As if by magic the turkey vanished.
And Tom took a closer step toward Bo. Her expression of fright changed
to consternation.

“He stole my turkey!”

“Tom, come here,” ordered Dale, sharply. The cougar glided round rather
sheepishly. “Now lie down an’ behave.”

Tom crouched on all-fours, his head resting on his paws, with his
beautiful tawny eyes, light and piercing, fixed upon the hunter.

“Don’t grab,” said Dale, holding out a piece of turkey. Whereupon Tom
took it less voraciously.

As it happened, the little bear cub saw this transaction, and he plainly
indicated his opinion of the preference shown to Tom.

“Oh, the dear!” exclaimed Bo. “He means it’s not fair.... Come,
Bud--come on.”

But Bud would not approach the group until called by Dale. Then he
scrambled to them with every manifestation of delight. Bo almost forgot
her own needs in feeding him and getting acquainted with him. Tom
plainly showed his jealousy of Bud, and Bud likewise showed his fear of
the great cat.

Helen could not believe the evidence of her eyes--that she was in the
woods calmly and hungrily partaking of sweet, wild-flavored meat--that
a full-grown mountain lion lay on one side of her and a baby brown bear
sat on the other--that a strange hunter, a man of the forest, there in
his lonely and isolated fastness, appealed to the romance in her and
interested her as no one else she had ever met.

When the wonderful meal was at last finished Bo enticed the bear cub
around to the camp of the girls, and there soon became great comrades
with him. Helen, watching Bo play, was inclined to envy her. No matter
where Bo was placed, she always got something out of it. She adapted
herself. She, who could have a good time with almost any one or
anything, would find the hours sweet and fleeting in this beautiful park
of wild wonders.

But merely objective actions--merely physical movements, had never yet
contented Helen. She could run and climb and ride and play with hearty
and healthy abandon, but those things would not suffice long for her,
and her mind needed food. Helen was a thinker. One reason she had
desired to make her home in the West was that by taking up a life of the
open, of action, she might think and dream and brood less. And here she
was in the wild West, after the three most strenuously active days of
her career, and still the same old giant revolved her mind and turned it
upon herself and upon all she saw.

“What can I do?” she asked Bo, almost helplessly.

“Why, rest, you silly!” retorted Bo. “You walk like an old, crippled
woman with only one leg.”

Helen hoped the comparison was undeserved, but the advice was sound.
The blankets spread out on the grass looked inviting and they felt
comfortably warm in the sunshine. The breeze was slow, languorous,
fragrant, and it brought the low hum of the murmuring waterfall, like
a melody of bees. Helen made a pillow and lay down to rest. The green
pine-needles, so thin and fine in their crisscross network, showed
clearly against the blue sky. She looked in vain for birds. Then
her gaze went wonderingly to the lofty fringed rim of the great
amphitheater, and as she studied it she began to grasp its remoteness,
how far away it was in the rarefied atmosphere. A black eagle, sweeping
along, looked of tiny size, and yet he was far under the heights above.
How pleasant she fancied it to be up there! And drowsy fancy lulled her
to sleep.

Helen slept all afternoon, and upon awakening, toward sunset, found Bo
curled beside her. Dale had thoughtfully covered them with a blanket;
also he had built a camp-fire. The air was growing keen and cold.

Later, when they had put their coats on and made comfortable seats
beside the fire, Dale came over, apparently to visit them.

“I reckon you can’t sleep all the time,” he said. “An’ bein’ city girls,
you’ll get lonesome.”

“Lonesome!” echoed Helen. The idea of her being lonesome here had not
occurred to her.

“I’ve thought that all out,” went on Dale, as he sat down, Indian
fashion, before the blaze. “It’s natural you’d find time drag up here,
bein’ used to lots of people an’ goin’s-on, an’ work, an’ all girls
like.”

“I’d never be lonesome here,” replied Helen, with her direct force.

Dale did not betray surprise, but he showed that his mistake was
something to ponder over.

“Excuse me,” he said, presently, as his gray eyes held hers. “That’s
how I had it. As I remember girls--an’ it doesn’t seem long since I left
home--most of them would die of lonesomeness up here.” Then he addressed
himself to Bo. “How about you? You see, I figured you’d be the one that
liked it, an’ your sister the one who wouldn’t.”

“I won’t get lonesome very soon,” replied Bo.

“I’m glad. It worried me some--not ever havin’ girls as company before.
An’ in a day or so, when you’re rested, I’ll help you pass the time.”

Bo’s eyes were full of flashing interest, and Helen asked him, “How?”

It was a sincere expression of her curiosity and not doubtful or
ironic challenge of an educated woman to a man of the forest. But as a
challenge he took it.

“How!” he repeated, and a strange smile flitted across his face. “Why,
by givin’ you rides an’ climbs to beautiful places. An’ then, if you’re
interested,’ to show you how little so-called civilized people know of
nature.”

Helen realized then that whatever his calling, hunter or wanderer or
hermit, he was not uneducated, even if he appeared illiterate.

“I’ll be happy to learn from you,” she said.

“Me, too!” chimed in Bo. “You can’t tell too much to any one from
Missouri.”

He smiled, and that warmed Helen to him, for then he seemed less removed
from other people. About this hunter there began to be something of the
very nature of which he spoke--a stillness, aloofness, an unbreakable
tranquillity, a cold, clear spirit like that in the mountain air, a
physical something not unlike the tamed wildness of his pets or the
strength of the pines.

“I’ll bet I can tell you more ‘n you’ll ever remember,” he said.

“What ‘ll you bet?” retorted Bo.

“Well, more roast turkey against--say somethin’ nice when you’re safe
an’ home to your uncle Al’s, runnin’ his ranch.”

“Agreed. Nell, you hear?”

Helen nodded her head.

“All right. We’ll leave it to Nell,” began Dale, half seriously. “Now
I’ll tell you, first, for the fun of passin’ time we’ll ride an’ race
my horses out in the park. An’ we’ll fish in the brooks an’ hunt in the
woods. There’s an old silvertip around that you can see me kill. An’
we’ll climb to the peaks an’ see wonderful sights.... So much for
that. Now, if you really want to learn--or if you only want me to tell
you--well, that’s no matter. Only I’ll win the bet!... You’ll see
how this park lies in the crater of a volcano an’ was once full of
water--an’ how the snow blows in on one side in winter, a hundred feet
deep, when there’s none on the other. An’ the trees--how they grow an’
live an’ fight one another an’ depend on one another, an’ protect
the forest from storm-winds. An’ how they hold the water that is the
fountains of the great rivers. An’ how the creatures an’ things that
live in them or on them are good for them, an’ neither could live
without the other. An’ then I’ll show you my pets tame an’ untamed, an’
tell you how it’s man that makes any creature wild--how easy they are
to tame--an’ how they learn to love you. An’ there’s the life of the
forest, the strife of it--how the bear lives, an’ the cats, an’ the
wolves, an’ the deer. You’ll see how cruel nature is how savage an’
wild the wolf or cougar tears down the deer--how a wolf loves fresh, hot
blood, an’ how a cougar unrolls the skin of a deer back from his neck.
An’ you’ll see that this cruelty of nature--this work of the wolf an’
cougar--is what makes the deer so beautiful an’ healthy an’ swift an’
sensitive. Without his deadly foes the deer would deteriorate an’ die
out. An’ you’ll see how this principle works out among all creatures of
the forest. Strife! It’s the meanin’ of all creation, an’ the salvation.
If you’re quick to see, you’ll learn that the nature here in the wilds
is the same as that of men--only men are no longer cannibals. Trees
fight to live--birds fight--animals fight--men fight. They all live
off one another. An’ it’s this fightin’ that brings them all closer an’
closer to bein’ perfect. But nothin’ will ever be perfect.”

“But how about religion?” interrupted Helen, earnestly.

“Nature has a religion, an’ it’s to live--to grow--to reproduce, each of
its kind.”

“But that is not God or the immortality of the soul,” declared Helen.

“Well, it’s as close to God an’ immortality as nature ever gets.”

“Oh, you would rob me of my religion!”

“No, I just talk as I see life,” replied Dale, reflectively, as he poked
a stick into the red embers of the fire. “Maybe I have a religion. I
don’t know. But it’s not the kind you have--not the Bible kind. That
kind doesn’t keep the men in Pine an’ Snowdrop an’ all over--sheepmen
an’ ranchers an’ farmers an’ travelers, such as I’ve known--the religion
they profess doesn’t keep them from lyin’, cheatin’, stealin’, an’
killin’. I reckon no man who lives as I do--which perhaps is my
religion--will lie or cheat or steal or kill, unless it’s to kill in
self-defense or like I’d do if Snake Anson would ride up here now.
My religion, maybe, is love of life--wild life as it was in the
beginnin’--an’ the wind that blows secrets from everywhere, an’ the
water that sings all day an’ night, an’ the stars that shine constant,
an’ the trees that speak somehow, an’ the rocks that aren’t dead. I’m
never alone here or on the trails. There’s somethin’ unseen, but always
with me. An’ that’s It! Call it God if you like. But what stalls me
is--where was that Spirit when this earth was a ball of fiery gas? Where
will that Spirit be when all life is frozen out or burned out on this
globe an’ it hangs dead in space like the moon? That time will come.
There’s no waste in nature. Not the littlest atom is destroyed. It
changes, that’s all, as you see this pine wood go up in smoke an’ feel
somethin’ that’s heat come out of it. Where does that go? It’s not lost.
Nothin’ is lost. So, the beautiful an’ savin’ thought is, maybe all
rock an’ wood, water an’ blood an’ flesh, are resolved back into the
elements, to come to life somewhere again sometime.”

“Oh, what you say is wonderful, but it’s terrible!” exclaimed Helen. He
had struck deep into her soul.

“Terrible? I reckon,” he replied, sadly.

Then ensued a little interval of silence.

“Milt Dale, I lose the bet,” declared Bo, with earnestness behind her
frivolity.

“I’d forgotten that. Reckon I talked a lot,” he said, apologetically.
“You see, I don’t get much chance to talk, except to myself or Tom.
Years ago, when I found the habit of silence settlin’ down on me, I took
to thinkin’ out loud an’ talkin’ to anythin’.”

“I could listen to you all night,” returned Bo, dreamily.

“Do you read--do you have books?” inquired Helen, suddenly.

“Yes, I read tolerable well; a good deal better than I talk or write,”
 he replied. “I went to school till I was fifteen. Always hated study,
but liked to read. Years ago an old friend of mine down here at
Pine--Widow Cass--she gave me a lot of old books. An’ I packed them up
here. Winter’s the time I read.”

Conversation lagged after that, except for desultory remarks, and
presently Dale bade the girls good night and left them. Helen watched
his tall form vanish in the gloom under the pines, and after he had
disappeared she still stared.

“Nell!” called Bo, shrilly. “I’ve called you three times. I want to go
to bed.”

“Oh! I--I was thinking,” rejoined Helen, half embarrassed, half
wondering at herself. “I didn’t hear you.”

“I should smile you didn’t,” retorted Bo. “Wish you could just have seen
your eyes. Nell, do you want me to tell you something?

“Why--yes,” said Helen, rather feebly. She did not at all, when Bo
talked like that.

“You’re going to fall in love with that wild hunter,” declared Bo in a
voice that rang like a bell.

Helen was not only amazed, but enraged. She caught her breath
preparatory to giving this incorrigible sister a piece of her mind. Bo
went calmly on.

“I can feel it in my bones.”

“Bo, you’re a little fool--a sentimental, romancing, gushy little fool!”
 retorted Helen. “All you seem to hold in your head is some rot about
love. To hear you talk one would think there’s nothing else in the world
but love.”

Bo’s eyes were bright, shrewd, affectionate, and laughing as she bent
their steady gaze upon Helen.

“Nell, that’s just it. There IS nothing else!”



CHAPTER X

The night of sleep was so short that it was difficult for Helen to
believe that hours had passed. Bo appeared livelier this morning, with
less complaint of aches.

“Nell, you’ve got color!” exclaimed Bo. “And your eyes are bright. Isn’t
the morning perfectly lovely?... Couldn’t you get drunk on that air? I
smell flowers. And oh! I’m hungry!”

“Bo, our host will soon have need of his hunting abilities if your
appetite holds,” said Helen, as she tried to keep her hair out of her
eyes while she laced her boots.

“Look! there’s a big dog--a hound.”

Helen looked as Bo directed, and saw a hound of unusually large
proportions, black and tan in color, with long, drooping ears. Curiously
he trotted nearer to the door of their hut and then stopped to gaze at
them. His head was noble, his eyes shone dark and sad. He seemed neither
friendly nor unfriendly.

“Hello, doggie! Come right in--we won’t hurt you,” called Bo, but
without enthusiasm.

This made Helen laugh. “Bo, you’re simply delicious,” she said. “You’re
afraid of that dog.”

“Sure. Wonder if he’s Dale’s. Of course he must be.”

Presently the hound trotted away out of sight. When the girls presented
themselves at the camp-fire they espied their curious canine visitor
lying down. His ears were so long that half of them lay on the ground.

“I sent Pedro over to wake you girls up,” said Dale, after greeting
them. “Did he scare you?”

“Pedro. So that’s his name. No, he didn’t exactly scare me. He did Nell,
though. She’s an awful tenderfoot,” replied Bo.

“He’s a splendid-looking dog,” said Helen, ignoring her sister’s sally.
“I love dogs. Will he make friends?”

“He’s shy an’ wild. You see, when I leave camp he won’t hang around. He
an’ Tom are jealous of each other. I had a pack of hounds an’ lost all
but Pedro on account of Tom. I think you can make friends with Pedro.
Try it.”

Whereupon Helen made overtures to Pedro, and not wholly in vain. The
dog was matured, of almost stern aloofness, and manifestly not used to
people. His deep, wine-dark eyes seemed to search Helen’s soul. They
were honest and wise, with a strange sadness.

“He looks intelligent,” observed Helen, as she smoothed the long, dark
ears.

“That hound is nigh human,” responded Dale. “Come, an’ while you eat
I’ll tell you about Pedro.”

Dale had gotten the hound as a pup from a Mexican sheep-herder who
claimed he was part California bloodhound. He grew up, becoming attached
to Dale. In his younger days he did not get along well with Dale’s other
pets and Dale gave him to a rancher down in the valley. Pedro was back
in Dale’s camp next day. From that day Dale began to care more for the
hound, but he did not want to keep him, for various reasons, chief of
which was the fact that Pedro was too fine a dog to be left alone half
the time to shift for himself. That fall Dale had need to go to the
farthest village, Snowdrop, where he left Pedro with a friend. Then Dale
rode to Show Down and Pine, and the camp of the Beemans’ and with them
he trailed some wild horses for a hundred miles, over into New Mexico.
The snow was flying when Dale got back to his camp in the mountains.
And there was Pedro, gaunt and worn, overjoyed to welcome him home. Roy
Beeman visited Dale that October and told that Dale’s friend in Snowdrop
had not been able to keep Pedro. He broke a chain and scaled a ten-foot
fence to escape. He trailed Dale to Show Down, where one of Dale’s
friends, recognizing the hound, caught him, and meant to keep him until
Dale’s return. But Pedro refused to eat. It happened that a freighter
was going out to the Beeman camp, and Dale’s friend boxed Pedro up and
put him on the wagon. Pedro broke out of the box, returned to Show Down,
took up Dale’s trail to Pine, and then on to the Beeman camp. That was
as far as Roy could trace the movements of the hound. But he believed,
and so did Dale, that Pedro had trailed them out on the wild-horse hunt.
The following spring Dale learned more from the herder of a sheepman at
whose camp he and the Beemans; had rested on the way into New Mexico.
It appeared that after Dale had left this camp Pedro had arrived, and
another Mexican herder had stolen the hound. But Pedro got away.

“An’ he was here when I arrived,” concluded Dale, smiling. “I never
wanted to get rid of him after that. He’s turned out to be the finest
dog I ever knew. He knows what I say. He can almost talk. An’ I swear he
can cry. He does whenever I start off without him.”

“How perfectly wonderful!” exclaimed Bo. “Aren’t animals great?... But I
love horses best.”

It seemed to Helen that Pedro understood they were talking about him,
for he looked ashamed, and swallowed hard, and dropped his gaze. She
knew something of the truth about the love of dogs for their owners.
This story of Dale’s, however, was stranger than any she had ever heard.

Tom, the cougar, put in an appearance then, and there was scarcely love
in the tawny eyes he bent upon Pedro. But the hound did not deign to
notice him. Tom sidled up to Bo, who sat on the farther side of the
tarpaulin table-cloth, and manifestly wanted part of her breakfast.

“Gee! I love the look of him,” she said. “But when he’s close he makes
my flesh creep.”

“Beasts are as queer as people,” observed Dale. “They take likes an’
dislikes. I believe Tom has taken a shine to you an’ Pedro begins to be
interested in your sister. I can tell.”

“Where’s Bud?” inquired Bo.

“He’s asleep or around somewhere. Now, soon as I get the work done, what
would you girls like to do?”

“Ride!” declared Bo, eagerly.

“Aren’t you sore an’ stiff?”

“I am that. But I don’t care. Besides, when I used to go out to my
uncle’s farm near Saint Joe I always found riding to be a cure for
aches.”

“Sure is, if you can stand it. An’ what will your sister like to do?”
 returned Dale, turning to Helen.

“Oh, I’ll rest, and watch you folks--and dream,” replied Helen.

“But after you’ve rested you must be active,” said Dale, seriously. “You
must do things. It doesn’t matter what, just as long as you don’t sit
idle.”

“Why?” queried Helen, in surprise. “Why not be idle here in this
beautiful, wild place? just to dream away the hours--the days! I could
do it.”

“But you mustn’t. It took me years to learn how bad that was for me. An’
right now I would love nothin’ more than to forget my work, my horses
an’ pets--everythin’, an’ just lay around, seein’ an’ feelin’.”

“Seeing and feeling? Yes, that must be what I mean. But why--what is
it? There are the beauty and color--the wild, shaggy slopes--the gray
cliffs--the singing wind--the lulling water--the clouds--the sky. And
the silence, loneliness, sweetness of it all.”

“It’s a driftin’ back. What I love to do an’ yet fear most. It’s what
makes a lone hunter of a man. An’ it can grow so strong that it binds a
man to the wilds.”

“How strange!” murmured Helen. “But that could never bind ME. Why, I
must live and fulfil my mission, my work in the civilized world.”

It seemed to Helen that Dale almost imperceptibly shrank at her earnest
words.

“The ways of Nature are strange,” he said. “I look at it different.
Nature’s just as keen to wean you back to a savage state as you are to
be civilized. An’ if Nature won, you would carry out her design all the
better.”

This hunter’s talk shocked Helen and yet stimulated her mind.

“Me--a savage? Oh no!” she exclaimed. “But, if that were possible, what
would Nature’s design be?”

“You spoke of your mission in life,” he replied. “A woman’s mission is
to have children. The female of any species has only one mission--to
reproduce its kind. An’ Nature has only one mission--toward greater
strength, virility, efficiency--absolute perfection, which is
unattainable.”

“What of mental and spiritual development of man and woman?” asked
Helen.

“Both are direct obstacles to the design of Nature. Nature is physical.
To create for limitless endurance for eternal life. That must be
Nature’s inscrutable design. An’ why she must fail.”

“But the soul!” whispered Helen.

“Ah! When you speak of the soul an’ I speak of life we mean the same.
You an’ I will have some talks while you’re here. I must brush up my
thoughts.”

“So must I, it seems,” said Helen, with a slow smile. She had been
rendered grave and thoughtful. “But I guess I’ll risk dreaming under the
pines.”

Bo had been watching them with her keen blue eyes.

“Nell, it’d take a thousand years to make a savage of you,” she said.
“But a week will do for me.”

“Bo, you were one before you left Saint Joe,” replied Helen. “Don’t you
remember that school-teacher Barnes who said you were a wildcat and an
Indian mixed? He spanked you with a ruler.”

“Never! He missed me,” retorted Bo, with red in her cheeks. “Nell, I
wish you’d not tell things about me when I was a kid.”

“That was only two years ago,” expostulated Helen, in mild surprise.

“Suppose it was. I was a kid all right. I’ll bet you--” Bo broke up
abruptly, and, tossing her head, she gave Tom a pat and then ran away
around the corner of cliff wall.

Helen followed leisurely.

“Say, Nell,” said Bo, when Helen arrived at their little green
ledge-pole hut, “do you know that hunter fellow will upset some of your
theories?”

“Maybe. I’ll admit he amazes me--and affronts me, too, I’m afraid,”
 replied Helen. “What surprises me is that in spite of his evident lack
of schooling he’s not raw or crude. He’s elemental.”

“Sister dear, wake up. The man’s wonderful. You can learn more from
him than you ever learned in your life. So can I. I always hated books,
anyway.”

When, a little later, Dale approached carrying some bridles, the hound
Pedro trotted at his heels.

“I reckon you’d better ride the horse you had,” he said to Bo.

“Whatever you say. But I hope you let me ride them all, by and by.”

“Sure. I’ve a mustang out there you’ll like. But he pitches a little,”
 he rejoined, and turned away toward the park. The hound looked after him
and then at Helen.

“Come, Pedro. Stay with me,” called Helen.

Dale, hearing her, motioned the hound back. Obediently Pedro trotted to
her, still shy and soberly watchful, as if not sure of her intentions,
but with something of friendliness about him now. Helen found a soft,
restful seat in the sun facing the park, and there composed herself for
what she felt would be slow, sweet, idle hours. Pedro curled down beside
her. The tall form of Dale stalked across the park, out toward the
straggling horses. Again she saw a deer grazing among them. How erect
and motionless it stood watching Dale! Presently it bounded away toward
the edge of the forest. Some of the horses whistled and ran, kicking
heels high in the air. The shrill whistles rang clear in the stillness.

“Gee! Look at them go!” exclaimed Bo, gleefully, coming up to where
Helen sat. Bo threw herself down upon the fragrant pine-needles and
stretched herself languorously, like a lazy kitten. There was something
feline in her lithe, graceful outline. She lay flat and looked up
through the pines.

“Wouldn’t it be great, now,” she murmured, dreamily, half to herself,
“if that Las Vegas cowboy would happen somehow to come, and then an
earthquake would shut us up here in this Paradise valley so we’d never
get out?”

“Bo! What would mother say to such talk as that?” gasped Helen.

“But, Nell, wouldn’t it be great?”

“It would be terrible.”

“Oh, there never was any romance in you, Nell Rayner,” replied Bo. “That
very thing has actually happened out here in this wonderful country
of wild places. You need not tell me! Sure it’s happened. With the
cliff-dwellers and the Indians and then white people. Every place I look
makes me feel that. Nell, you’d have to see people in the moon through a
telescope before you’d believe that.”

“I’m practical and sensible, thank goodness!”

“But, for the sake of argument,” protested Bo, with flashing eyes,
“suppose it MIGHT happen. Just to please me, suppose we DID get shut up
here with Dale and that cowboy we saw from the train. Shut in without
any hope of ever climbing out.... What would you do? Would you give up
and pine away and die? Or would you fight for life and whatever joy it
might mean?”

“Self-preservation is the first instinct,” replied Helen, surprised at
a strange, deep thrill in the depths of her. “I’d fight for life, of
course.”

“Yes. Well, really, when I think seriously I don’t want anything like
that to happen. But, just the same, if it DID happen I would glory in
it.”

While they were talking Dale returned with the horses.

“Can you bridle an’ saddle your own horse?” he asked.

“No. I’m ashamed to say I can’t,” replied Bo.

“Time to learn then. Come on. Watch me first when I saddle mine.”

Bo was all eyes while Dale slipped off the bridle from his horse and
then with slow, plain action readjusted it. Next he smoothed the back of
the horse, shook out the blanket, and, folding it half over, he threw
it in place, being careful to explain to Bo just the right position. He
lifted his saddle in a certain way and put that in place, and then he
tightened the cinches.

“Now you try,” he said.

According to Helen’s judgment Bo might have been a Western girl all her
days. But Dale shook his head and made her do it over.

“That was better. Of course, the saddle is too heavy for you to sling
it up. You can learn that with a light one. Now put the bridle on
again. Don’t be afraid of your hands. He won’t bite. Slip the bit in
sideways.... There. Now let’s see you mount.”

When Bo got into the saddle Dale continued: “You went up quick an’
light, but the wrong way. Watch me.”

Bo had to mount several times before Dale was satisfied. Then he told
her to ride off a little distance. When Bo had gotten out of earshot
Dale said to Helen: “She’ll take to a horse like a duck takes to water.”
 Then, mounting, he rode out after her.

Helen watched them trotting and galloping and running the horses round
the grassy park, and rather regretted she had not gone with them.
Eventually Bo rode back, to dismount and fling herself down, red-cheeked
and radiant, with disheveled hair, and curls damp on her temples. How
alive she seemed! Helen’s senses thrilled with the grace and charm
and vitality of this surprising sister, and she was aware of a sheer
physical joy in her presence. Bo rested, but she did not rest long. She
was soon off to play with Bud. Then she coaxed the tame doe to eat
out of her hand. She dragged Helen off for wild flowers, curious and
thoughtless by turns. And at length she fell asleep, quickly, in a way
that reminded Helen of the childhood now gone forever.

Dale called them to dinner about four o’clock, as the sun was reddening
the western rampart of the park. Helen wondered where the day had gone.
The hours had flown swiftly, serenely, bringing her scarcely a thought
of her uncle or dread of her forced detention there or possible
discovery by those outlaws supposed to be hunting for her. After
she realized the passing of those hours she had an intangible and
indescribable feeling of what Dale had meant about dreaming the hours
away. The nature of Paradise Park was inimical to the kind of thought
that had habitually been hers. She found the new thought absorbing, yet
when she tried to name it she found that, after all, she had only felt.
At the meal hour she was more than usually quiet. She saw that Dale
noticed it and was trying to interest her or distract her attention. He
succeeded, but she did not choose to let him see that. She strolled
away alone to her seat under the pine. Bo passed her once, and cried,
tantalizingly:

“My, Nell, but you’re growing romantic!”

Never before in Helen’s life had the beauty of the evening star seemed
so exquisite or the twilight so moving and shadowy or the darkness so
charged with loneliness. It was their environment--the accompaniment of
wild wolf-mourn, of the murmuring waterfall, of this strange man of the
forest and the unfamiliar elements among which he made his home.


Next morning, her energy having returned, Helen shared Bo’s lesson in
bridling and saddling her horse, and in riding. Bo, however, rode so
fast and so hard that for Helen to share her company was impossible. And
Dale, interested and amused, yet anxious, spent most of his time
with Bo. It was thus that Helen rode all over the park alone. She was
astonished at its size, when from almost any point it looked so small.
The atmosphere deceived her. How clearly she could see! And she began to
judge distance by the size of familiar things. A horse, looked at across
the longest length of the park, seemed very small indeed. Here and
there she rode upon dark, swift, little brooks, exquisitely clear and
amber-colored and almost hidden from sight by the long grass. These all
ran one way, and united to form a deeper brook that apparently wound
under the cliffs at the west end, and plunged to an outlet in narrow
clefts. When Dale and Bo came to her once she made inquiry, and she was
surprised to learn from Dale that this brook disappeared in a hole in
the rocks and had an outlet on the other side of the mountain. Sometime
he would take them to the lake it formed.

“Over the mountain?” asked Helen, again remembering that she must regard
herself as a fugitive. “Will it be safe to leave our hiding-place? I
forget so often why we are here.”

“We would be better hidden over there than here,” replied Dale. “The
valley on that side is accessible only from that ridge. An’ don’t worry
about bein’ found. I told you Roy Beeman is watchin’ Anson an’ his gang.
Roy will keep between them an’ us.”

Helen was reassured, yet there must always linger in the background of
her mind a sense of dread. In spite of this, she determined to make the
most of her opportunity. Bo was a stimulus. And so Helen spent the rest
of that day riding and tagging after her sister.

The next day was less hard on Helen. Activity, rest, eating, and
sleeping took on a wonderful new meaning to her. She had really never
known them as strange joys. She rode, she walked, she climbed a little,
she dozed under her pine-tree, she worked helping Dale at camp-fire
tasks, and when night came she said she did not know herself. That fact
haunted her in vague, deep dreams. Upon awakening she forgot her resolve
to study herself. That day passed. And then several more went swiftly
before she adapted herself to a situation she had reason to believe
might last for weeks and even months.


It was afternoon that Helen loved best of all the time of the day.
The sunrise was fresh, beautiful; the morning was windy, fragrant; the
sunset was rosy, glorious; the twilight was sad, changing; and night
seemed infinitely sweet with its stars and silence and sleep. But the
afternoon, when nothing changed, when all was serene, when time seemed
to halt, that was her choice, and her solace.

One afternoon she had camp all to herself. Bo was riding. Dale had
climbed the mountain to see if he could find any trace of tracks or see
any smoke from camp-fire. Bud was nowhere to be seen, nor any of the
other pets. Tom had gone off to some sunny ledge where he could bask in
the sun, after the habit of the wilder brothers of his species. Pedro
had not been seen for a night and a day, a fact that Helen had noted
with concern. However, she had forgotten him, and therefore was the more
surprised to see him coming limping into camp on three legs.

“Why, Pedro! You have been fighting. Come here,” she called.

The hound did not look guilty. He limped to her and held up his right
fore paw. The action was unmistakable. Helen examined the injured member
and presently found a piece of what looked like mussel-shell embedded
deeply between the toes. The wound was swollen, bloody, and evidently
very painful. Pedro whined. Helen had to exert all the strength of her
fingers to pull it out. Then Pedro howled. But immediately he showed his
gratitude by licking her hand. Helen bathed his paw and bound it up.

When Dale returned she related the incident and, showing the piece of
shell, she asked: “Where did that come from? Are there shells in the
mountains?”

“Once this country was under the sea,” replied Dale. “I’ve found things
that ‘d make you wonder.”

“Under the sea!” ejaculated Helen. It was one thing to have read of
such a strange fact, but a vastly different one to realize it here among
these lofty peaks. Dale was always showing her something or telling her
something that astounded her.

“Look here,” he said one day. “What do you make of that little bunch of
aspens?”

They were on the farther side of the park and were resting under a
pine-tree. The forest here encroached upon the park with its straggling
lines of spruce and groves of aspen. The little clump of aspens did not
differ from hundreds Helen had seen.

“I don’t make anything particularly of it,” replied Helen, dubiously.
“Just a tiny grove of aspens--some very small, some larger, but none
very big. But it’s pretty with its green and yellow leaves fluttering
and quivering.”

“It doesn’t make you think of a fight?”

“Fight? No, it certainly does not,” replied Helen.

“Well, it’s as good an example of fight, of strife, of selfishness, as
you will find in the forest,” he said. “Now come over, you an’ Bo, an’
let me show you what I mean.”

“Come on, Nell,” cried Bo, with enthusiasm. “He’ll open our eyes some
more.”

Nothing loath, Helen went with them to the little clump of aspens.

“About a hundred altogether,” said Dale. “They’re pretty well shaded by
the spruces, but they get the sunlight from east an’ south. These little
trees all came from the same seedlings. They’re all the same age. Four
of them stand, say, ten feet or more high an’ they’re as large around as
my wrist. Here’s one that’s largest. See how full-foliaged he is--how he
stands over most of the others, but not so much over these four next to
him. They all stand close together, very close, you see. Most of them
are no larger than my thumb. Look how few branches they have, an’ none
low down. Look at how few leaves. Do you see how all the branches stand
out toward the east an’ south--how the leaves, of course, face the same
way? See how one branch of one tree bends aside one from another tree.
That’s a fight for the sunlight. Here are one--two--three dead trees.
Look, I can snap them off. An’ now look down under them. Here are little
trees five feet high--four feet high--down to these only a foot
high. Look how pale, delicate, fragile, unhealthy! They get so little
sunshine. They were born with the other trees, but did not get an equal
start. Position gives the advantage, perhaps.”

Dale led the girls around the little grove, illustrating his words by
action. He seemed deeply in earnest.

“You understand it’s a fight for water an’ sun. But mostly sun, because,
if the leaves can absorb the sun, the tree an’ roots will grow to grasp
the needed moisture. Shade is death--slow death to the life of trees.
These little aspens are fightin’ for place in the sunlight. It is a
merciless battle. They push an’ bend one another’s branches aside an’
choke them. Only perhaps half of these aspens will survive, to make one
of the larger clumps, such as that one of full-grown trees over there.
One season will give advantage to this saplin’ an’ next year to that
one. A few seasons’ advantage to one assures its dominance over the
others. But it is never sure of holdin’ that dominance. An ‘if wind or
storm or a strong-growin’ rival does not overthrow it, then sooner or
later old age will. For there is absolute and continual fight. What is
true of these aspens is true of all the trees in the forest an’ of all
plant life in the forest. What is most wonderful to me is the tenacity
of life.”

And next day Dale showed them an even more striking example of this
mystery of nature.

He guided them on horseback up one of the thick, verdant-wooded slopes,
calling their attention at various times to the different growths, until
they emerged on the summit of the ridge where the timber grew scant
and dwarfed. At the edge of timber-line he showed a gnarled and knotted
spruce-tree, twisted out of all semblance to a beautiful spruce, bent
and storm-blasted, with almost bare branches, all reaching one’ way. The
tree was a specter. It stood alone. It had little green upon it. There
seemed something tragic about its contortions. But it was alive and
strong. It had no rivals to take sun or moisture. Its enemies were the
snow and wind and cold of the heights.

Helen felt, as the realization came to her, the knowledge Dale wished
to impart, that it was as sad as wonderful, and as mysterious as it was
inspiring. At that moment there were both the sting and sweetness of
life--the pain and the joy--in Helen’s heart. These strange facts
were going to teach her--to transform her. And even if they hurt, she
welcomed them.



CHAPTER XI

“I’ll ride you if it breaks--my neck!” panted Bo, passionately, shaking
her gloved fist at the gray pony.

Dale stood near with a broad smile on his face. Helen was within
earshot, watching from the edge of the park, and she felt so fascinated
and frightened that she could not call out for Bo to stop. The little
gray mustang was a beauty, clean-limbed and racy, with long black mane
and tail, and a fine, spirited head. There was a blanket strapped on his
back, but no saddle. Bo held the short halter that had been fastened
in a hackamore knot round his nose. She wore no coat; her blouse was
covered with grass and seeds, and it was open at the neck; her hair hung
loose and disheveled; one side of her face bore a stain of grass and
dirt and a suspicion of blood; the other was red and white; her eyes
blazed; beads of sweat stood out on her brow and wet places shone on her
cheeks. As she began to strain on the halter, pulling herself closer
to the fiery pony, the outline of her slender shape stood out lithe and
strong.

Bo had been defeated in her cherished and determined ambition to ride
Dale’s mustang, and she was furious. The mustang did not appear to be
vicious or mean. But he was spirited, tricky, mischievous, and he had
thrown her six times. The scene of Bo’s defeat was at the edge of the
park, where thick moss and grass afforded soft places for her to fall.
It also afforded poor foothold for the gray mustang, obviously placing
him at a disadvantage. Dale did not bridle him, because he had not been
broken to a bridle; and though it was harder for Bo to try to ride him
bareback, there was less risk of her being hurt. Bo had begun in all
eagerness and enthusiasm, loving and petting the mustang, which she
named “Pony.” She had evidently anticipated an adventure, but her
smiling, resolute face had denoted confidence. Pony had stood fairly
well to be mounted, and then had pitched and tossed until Bo had slid
off or been upset or thrown. After each fall Bo bounced up with less of
a smile, and more of spirit, until now the Western passion to master a
horse had suddenly leaped to life within her. It was no longer fun, no
more a daring circus trick to scare Helen and rouse Dale’s admiration.
The issue now lay between Bo and the mustang.

Pony reared, snorting, tossing his head, and pawing with front feet.

“Pull him down!” yelled Dale.

Bo did not have much weight, but she had strength, an she hauled with
all her might, finally bringing him down.

“Now hold hard an’ take up rope an’ get in to him,” called Dale. “Good!
You’re sure not afraid of him. He sees that. Now hold him, talk to him,
tell him you’re goin’ to ride him. Pet him a little. An’ when he quits
shakin’, grab his mane an’ jump up an’ slide a leg over him. Then hook
your feet under him, hard as you can, an’ stick on.”

If Helen had not been so frightened for Bo she would have been able to
enjoy her other sensations. Creeping, cold thrills chased over her as
Bo, supple and quick, slid an arm and a leg over Pony and straightened
up on him with a defiant cry. Pony jerked his head down, brought his
feet together in one jump, and began to bounce. Bo got the swing of him
this time and stayed on.

“You’re ridin’ him,” yelled Dale. “Now squeeze hard with your knees.
Crack him over the head with your rope.... That’s the way. Hang on now
an’ you’ll have him beat.”

The mustang pitched all over the space adjacent to Dale and Helen,
tearing up the moss and grass. Several times he tossed Bo high, but she
slid back to grip him again with her legs, and he could not throw her.
Suddenly he raised his head and bolted. Dale answered Bo’s triumphant
cry. But Pony had not run fifty feet before he tripped and fell,
throwing Bo far over his head. As luck would have it--good luck,
Dale afterward said--she landed in a boggy place and the force of her
momentum was such that she slid several yards, face down, in wet moss
and black ooze.

Helen uttered a scream and ran forward. Bo was getting to her knees when
Dale reached her. He helped her up and half led, half carried her out
of the boggy place. Bo was not recognizable. From head to foot she was
dripping black ooze.

“Oh, Bo! Are you hurt?” cried Helen.

Evidently Bo’s mouth was full of mud.

“Pp--su--tt! Ough! Whew!” she sputtered. “Hurt? No! Can’t you see what I
lit in? Dale, the sun-of-a-gun didn’t throw me. He fell, and I went over
his head.”

“Right. You sure rode him. An’ he tripped an’ slung you a mile,” replied
Dale. “It’s lucky you lit in that bog.”

“Lucky! With eyes and nose stopped up? Oooo! I’m full of mud. And my
nice--new riding-suit!”

Bo’s tones indicated that she was ready to cry. Helen, realizing Bo
had not been hurt, began to laugh. Her sister was the funniest-looking
object that had ever come before her eyes.

“Nell Rayner--are you--laughing--at me?” demanded Bo, in most righteous
amaze and anger.

“Me laugh-ing? N-never, Bo,” replied Helen. “Can’t you see I’m
just--just--”

“See? You idiot! my eyes are full of mud!” flashed Bo. “But I hear you.
I’ll--I’ll get even.”

Dale was laughing, too, but noiselessly, and Bo, being blind for the
moment, could not be aware of that. By this time they had reached camp.
Helen fell flat and laughed as she had never laughed before. When Helen
forgot herself so far as to roll on the ground it was indeed a laughing
matter. Dale’s big frame shook as he possessed himself of a towel and,
wetting it at the spring, began to wipe the mud off Bo’s face. But that
did not serve. Bo asked to be led to the water, where she knelt and,
with splashing, washed out her eyes, and then her face, and then the
bedraggled strands of hair.

“That mustang didn’t break my neck, but he rooted my face in the mud.
I’ll fix him,” she muttered, as she got up. “Please let me have the
towel, now.... Well! Milt Dale, you’re laughing!”

“Ex-cuse me, Bo. I--Haw! haw! haw!” Then Dale lurched off, holding his
sides.

Bo gazed after him and then back at Helen.

“I suppose if I’d been kicked and smashed and killed you’d laugh,” she
said. And then she melted. “Oh, my pretty riding-suit! What a mess! I
must be a sight.... Nell, I rode that wild pony--the sun-of-a-gun! I
rode him! That’s enough for me. YOU try it. Laugh all you want. It was
funny. But if you want to square yourself with me, help me clean my
clothes.”


Late in the night Helen heard Dale sternly calling Pedro. She felt some
little alarm. However, nothing happened, and she soon went to sleep
again. At the morning meal Dale explained.

“Pedro an’ Tom were uneasy last night. I think there are lions workin’
over the ridge somewhere. I heard one scream.”

“Scream?” inquired Bo, with interest.

“Yes, an’ if you ever hear a lion scream you will think it a woman in
mortal agony. The cougar cry, as Roy calls it, is the wildest to be
heard in the woods. A wolf howls. He is sad, hungry, and wild. But a
cougar seems human an’ dyin’ an’ wild. We’ll saddle up an’ ride over
there. Maybe Pedro will tree a lion. Bo, if he does will you shoot it?”

“Sure,” replied Bo, with her mouth full of biscuit.

That was how they came to take a long, slow, steep ride under cover of
dense spruce. Helen liked the ride after they got on the heights. But
they did not get to any point where she could indulge in her pleasure
of gazing afar over the ranges. Dale led up and down, and finally mostly
down, until they came out within sight of sparser wooded ridges with
parks lying below and streams shining in the sun.

More than once Pedro had to be harshly called by Dale. The hound scented
game.

“Here’s an old kill,” said Dale, halting to point at some bleached bones
scattered under a spruce. Tufts of grayish-white hair lay strewn around.

“What was it?” asked Bo.

“Deer, of course. Killed there an’ eaten by a lion. Sometime last fall.
See, even the skull is split. But I could not say that the lion did it.”

Helen shuddered. She thought of the tame deer down at Dale’s camp. How
beautiful and graceful, and responsive to kindness!

They rode out of the woods into a grassy swale with rocks and clumps of
some green bushes bordering it. Here Pedro barked, the first time Helen
had heard him. The hair on his neck bristled, and it required stern
calls from Dale to hold him in. Dale dismounted.

“Hyar, Pede, you get back,” he ordered. “I’ll let you go presently....
Girls, you’re goin’ to see somethin’. But stay on your horses.”

Dale, with the hound tense and bristling beside him, strode here
and there at the edge of the swale. Presently he halted on a slight
elevation and beckoned for the girls to ride over.

“Here, see where the grass is pressed down all nice an’ round,” he said,
pointing. “A lion made that. He sneaked there, watchin’ for deer. That
was done this mornin’. Come on, now. Let’s see if we can trail him.”

Dale stooped now, studying the grass, and holding Pedro. Suddenly he
straightened up with a flash in his gray eyes.

“Here’s where he jumped.”

But Helen could not see any reason why Dale should say that. The man of
the forest took a long stride then another.

“An’ here’s where that lion lit on the back of the deer. It was a big
jump. See the sharp hoof tracks of the deer.” Dale pressed aside tall
grass to show dark, rough, fresh tracks of a deer, evidently made by
violent action.

“Come on,” called Dale, walking swiftly. “You’re sure goin’ to see
somethin’ now.... Here’s where the deer bounded, carryin’ the lion.”

“What!” exclaimed Bo, incredulously.

“The deer was runnin’ here with the lion on his back. I’ll prove it to
you. Come on, now. Pedro, you stay with me. Girls, it’s a fresh trail.”
 Dale walked along, leading his horse, and occasionally he pointed down
into the grass. “There! See that! That’s hair.”

Helen did see some tufts of grayish hair scattered on the ground, and
she believed she saw little, dark separations in the grass, where an
animal had recently passed. All at once Dale halted. When Helen reached
him Bo was already there and they were gazing down at a wide, flattened
space in the grass. Even Helen’s inexperienced eyes could make out
evidences of a struggle. Tufts of gray-white hair lay upon the crushed
grass. Helen did not need to see any more, but Dale silently pointed to
a patch of blood. Then he spoke:

“The lion brought the deer down here an’ killed him. Probably broke his
neck. That deer ran a hundred yards with the lion. See, here’s the trail
left where the lion dragged the deer off.”

A well-defined path showed across the swale.

“Girls, you’ll see that deer pretty quick,” declared Dale, starting
forward. “This work has just been done. Only a few minutes ago.”

“How can you tell?” queried Bo.

“Look! See that grass. It has been bent down by the deer bein’ dragged
over it. Now it’s springin’ up.”

Dale’s next stop was on the other side of the swale, under a spruce with
low, spreading branches. The look of Pedro quickened Helen’s pulse.
He was wild to give chase. Fearfully Helen looked where Dale pointed,
expecting to see the lion. But she saw instead a deer lying prostrate
with tongue out and sightless eyes and bloody hair.

“Girls, that lion heard us an’ left. He’s not far,” said Dale, as he
stooped to lift the head of the deer. “Warm! Neck broken. See the lion’s
teeth an’ claw marks.... It’s a doe. Look here. Don’t be squeamish,
girls. This is only an hourly incident of everyday life in the forest.
See where the lion has rolled the skin down as neat as I could do it,
an’ he’d just begun to bite in there when he heard us.”

“What murderous work, The sight sickens me!” exclaimed Helen.

“It is nature,” said Dale, simply.

“Let’s kill the lion,” added Bo.

For answer Dale took a quick turn at their saddle-girths, and then,
mounting, he called to the hound. “Hunt him up, Pedro.”

Like a shot the hound was off.

“Ride in my tracks an’ keep close to me,” called Dale, as he wheeled his
horse.

“We’re off!” squealed Bo, in wild delight, and she made her mount
plunge.

Helen urged her horse after them and they broke across a corner of the
swale to the woods. Pedro was running straight, with his nose high.
He let out one short bark. He headed into the woods, with Dale not far
behind. Helen was on one of Dale’s best horses, but that fact scarcely
manifested itself, because the others began to increase their lead. They
entered the woods. It was open, and fairly good going. Bo’s horse ran as
fast in the woods as he did in the open. That frightened Helen and she
yelled to Bo to hold him in. She yelled to deaf ears. That was Bo’s
great risk--she did not intend to be careful. Suddenly the forest rang
with Dale’s encouraging yell, meant to aid the girls in following him.
Helen’s horse caught the spirit of the chase. He gained somewhat on
Bo, hurdling logs, sometimes two at once. Helen’s blood leaped with a
strange excitement, utterly unfamiliar and as utterly resistless. Yet
her natural fear, and the intelligence that reckoned with the foolish
risk of this ride, shared alike in her sum of sensations. She tried to
remember Dale’s caution about dodging branches and snags, and sliding
her knees back to avoid knocks from trees. She barely missed some
frightful reaching branches. She received a hard knock, then another,
that unseated her, but frantically she held on and slid back, and at the
end of a long run through comparatively open forest she got a stinging
blow in the face from a far-spreading branch of pine. Bo missed, by what
seemed only an inch, a solid snag that would have broken her in two.
Both Pedro and Dale got out of Helen’s sight. Then Helen, as she began
to lose Bo, felt that she would rather run greater risks than be left
behind to get lost in the forest, and she urged her horse. Dale’s yell
pealed back. Then it seemed even more thrilling to follow by sound than
by sight. Wind and brush tore at her. The air was heavily pungent with
odor of pine. Helen heard a wild, full bay of the hound, ringing back,
full of savage eagerness, and she believed Pedro had roused out the lion
from some covert. It lent more stir to her blood and it surely urged her
horse on faster.

Then the swift pace slackened. A windfall of timber delayed Helen. She
caught a glimpse of Dale far ahead, climbing a slope. The forest seemed
full of his ringing yell. Helen strangely wished for level ground and
the former swift motion. Next she saw Bo working down to the right, and
Dale’s yell now came from that direction. Helen followed, got out of the
timber, and made better time on a gradual slope down to another park.

When she reached the open she saw Bo almost across this narrow open
ground. Here Helen did not need to urge her mount. He snorted and
plunged at the level and he got to going so fast that Helen would
have screamed aloud in mingled fear and delight if she had not been
breathless.

Her horse had the bad luck to cross soft ground. He went to his knees
and Helen sailed out of the saddle over his head. Soft willows and wet
grass broke her fall. She was surprised to find herself unhurt. Up she
bounded and certainly did not know this new Helen Rayner. Her horse was
coming, and he had patience with her, but he wanted to hurry. Helen made
the quickest mount of her experience and somehow felt a pride in it.
She would tell Bo that. But just then Bo flashed into the woods out of
sight. Helen fairly charged into that green foliage, breaking brush and
branches. She broke through into open forest. Bo was inside, riding down
an aisle between pines and spruces. At that juncture Helen heard Dale’s
melodious yell near at hand. Coming into still more open forest, with
rocks here and there, she saw Dale dismounted under a pine, and Pedro
standing with fore paws upon the tree-trunk, and then high up on a
branch a huge tawny colored lion, just like Tom.

Bo’s horse slowed up and showed fear, but he kept on as far as Dale’s
horse. But Helen’s refused to go any nearer. She had difficulty in
halting him. Presently she dismounted and, throwing her bridle over a
stump, she ran on, panting and fearful, yet tingling all over, up to her
sister and Dale.

“Nell, you did pretty good for a tenderfoot,” was Bo’s greeting.

“It was a fine chase,” said Dale. “You both rode well. I wish you could
have seen the lion on the ground. He bounded--great long bounds with
his tail up in the air--very funny. An’ Pedro almost caught up with him.
That scared me, because he would have killed the hound. Pedro was close
to him when he treed. An’ there he is--the yellow deer-killer. He’s a
male an’ full grown.”

With that Dale pulled his rifle from its saddle-sheath and looked
expectantly at Bo. But she was gazing with great interest and admiration
up at the lion.

“Isn’t he just beautiful?” she burst out. “Oh, look at him spit! Just
like a cat! Dale, he looks afraid he might fall off.”

“He sure does. Lions are never sure of their balance in a tree. But I
never saw one make a misstep. He knows he doesn’t belong there.”

To Helen the lion looked splendid perched up there. He was long and
round and graceful and tawny. His tongue hung out and his plump sides
heaved, showing what a quick, hard run he had been driven to. What
struck Helen most forcibly about him was something in his face as he
looked down at the hound. He was scared. He realized his peril. It was
not possible for Helen to watch him killed, yet she could not bring
herself to beg Bo not to shoot. Helen confessed she was a tenderfoot.

“Get down, Bo, an’ let’s see how good a shot you are, said Dale. Bo
slowly withdrew her fascinated gaze from the lion and looked with a
rueful smile at Dale.

“I’ve changed my mind. I said I would kill him, but now I can’t. He
looks so--so different from what I’d imagined.”

Dale’s answer was a rare smile of understanding and approval that warmed
Helen’s heart toward him. All the same, he was amused. Sheathing the
gun, he mounted his horse.

“Come on, Pedro,” he called. “Come, I tell you,” he added, sharply,
“Well, girls, we treed him, anyhow, an’ it was fun. Now we’ll ride back
to the deer he killed an’ pack a haunch to camp for our own use.”

“Will the lion go back to his--his kill, I think you called it?” asked
Bo.

“I’ve chased one away from his kill half a dozen times. Lions are not
plentiful here an’ they don’t get overfed. I reckon the balance is
pretty even.”

This last remark made Helen inquisitive. And as they slowly rode on the
back-trail Dale talked.

“You girls, bein’ tender-hearted an’ not knowin’ the life of the forest,
what’s good an’ what’s bad, think it was a pity the poor deer was
killed by a murderous lion. But you’re wrong. As I told you, the lion is
absolutely necessary to the health an’ joy of wild life--or deer’s wild
life, so to speak. When deer were created or came into existence,
then the lion must have come, too. They can’t live without each other.
Wolves, now, are not particularly deer-killers. They live off elk an’
anythin’ they can catch. So will lions, for that matter. But I mean
lions follow the deer to an’ fro from winter to summer feedin’-grounds.
Where there’s no deer you will find no lions. Well, now, if left alone
deer would multiply very fast. In a few years there would be hundreds
where now there’s only one. An’ in time, as the generations passed,
they’d lose the fear, the alertness, the speed an’ strength, the
eternal vigilance that is love of life--they’d lose that an’ begin
to deteriorate, an’ disease would carry them off. I saw one season of
black-tongue among deer. It killed them off, an’ I believe that is one
of the diseases of over-production. The lions, now, are forever on the
trail of the deer. They have learned. Wariness is an instinct born in
the fawn. It makes him keen, quick, active, fearful, an’ so he grows up
strong an’ healthy to become the smooth, sleek, beautiful, soft-eyed,
an’ wild-lookin’ deer you girls love to watch. But if it wasn’t for
the lions, the deer would not thrive. Only the strongest an’ swiftest
survive. That is the meanin’ of nature. There is always a perfect
balance kept by nature. It may vary in different years, but on the
whole, in the long years, it averages an even balance.”

“How wonderfully you put it!” exclaimed Bo, with all her impulsiveness.
“Oh, I’m glad I didn’t kill the lion.”

“What you say somehow hurts me,” said Helen, wistfully, to the hunter.
“I see--I feel how true--how inevitable it is. But it changes my--my
feelings. Almost I’d rather not acquire such knowledge as yours. This
balance of nature--how tragic--how sad!”

“But why?” asked Dale. “You love birds, an’ birds are the greatest
killers in the forest.”

“Don’t tell me that--don’t prove it,” implored Helen. “It is not so much
the love of life in a deer or any creature, and the terrible clinging to
life, that gives me distress. It is suffering. I can’t bear to see pain.
I can STAND pain myself, but I can’t BEAR to see or think of it.”

“Well,” replied. Dale, thoughtfully, “There you stump me again. I’ve
lived long in the forest an’ when a man’s alone he does a heap of
thinkin’. An’ always I couldn’t understand a reason or a meanin’
for pain. Of all the bafflin’ things of life, that is the hardest to
understand an’ to forgive--pain!”


That evening, as they sat in restful places round the camp-fire, with
the still twilight fading into night, Dale seriously asked the girls
what the day’s chase had meant to them. His manner of asking was
productive of thought. Both girls were silent for a moment.

“Glorious!” was Bo’s brief and eloquent reply.

“Why?” asked. Dale, curiously. “You are a girl. You’ve been used to
home, people, love, comfort, safety, quiet.”

“Maybe that is just why it was glorious,” said Bo, earnestly. “I can
hardly explain. I loved the motion of the horse, the feel of wind in
my face, the smell of the pine, the sight of slope and forest glade and
windfall and rocks, and the black shade under the spruces. My blood
beat and burned. My teeth clicked. My nerves all quivered. My heart
sometimes, at dangerous moments, almost choked me, and all the time it
pounded hard. Now my skin was hot and then it was cold. But I think the
best of that chase for me was that I was on a fast horse, guiding him,
controlling him. He was alive. Oh, how I felt his running!”

“Well, what you say is as natural to me as if I felt it,” said Dale. “I
wondered. You’re certainly full of fire, An’, Helen, what do you say?”

“Bo has answered you with her feelings,” replied Helen, “I could not do
that and be honest. The fact that Bo wouldn’t shoot the lion after we
treed him acquits her. Nevertheless, her answer is purely physical. You
know, Mr. Dale, how you talk about the physical. I should say my sister
was just a young, wild, highly sensitive, hot-blooded female of the
species. She exulted in that chase as an Indian. Her sensations were
inherited ones--certainly not acquired by education. Bo always hated
study. The ride was a revelation to me. I had a good many of Bo’s
feelings--though not so strong. But over against them was the opposition
of reason, of consciousness. A new-born side of my nature confronted me,
strange, surprising, violent, irresistible. It was as if another side of
my personality suddenly said: ‘Here I am. Reckon with me now!’ And there
was no use for the moment to oppose that strange side. I--the thinking
Helen Rayner, was powerless. Oh yes, I had such thoughts even when the
branches were stinging my face and I was thrilling to the bay of the
hound. Once my horse fell and threw me.... You needn’t look alarmed.
It was fine. I went into a soft place and was unhurt. But when I was
sailing through the air a thought flashed: this is the end of me! It was
like a dream when you are falling dreadfully. Much of what I felt and
thought on that chase must have been because of what I have studied and
read and taught. The reality of it, the action and flash, were splendid.
But fear of danger, pity for the chased lion, consciousness of foolish
risk, of a reckless disregard for the serious responsibility I have
taken--all these worked in my mind and held back what might have been a
sheer physical, primitive joy of the wild moment.”

Dale listened intently, and after Helen had finished he studied the fire
and thoughtfully poked the red embers with his stick. His face was still
and serene, untroubled and unlined, but to Helen his eyes seemed sad,
pensive, expressive of an unsatisfied yearning and wonder. She had
carefully and earnestly spoken, because she was very curious to hear
what he might say.

“I understand you,” he replied, presently. “An’ I’m sure surprised that
I can. I’ve read my books--an’ reread them, but no one ever talked like
that to me. What I make of it is this. You’ve the same blood in you
that’s in Bo. An’ blood is stronger than brain. Remember that blood is
life. It would be good for you to have it run an’ beat an’ burn, as
Bo’s did. Your blood did that a thousand years or ten thousand before
intellect was born in your ancestors. Instinct may not be greater than
reason, but it’s a million years older. Don’t fight your instincts so
hard. If they were not good the God of Creation would not have given
them to you. To-day your mind was full of self-restraint that did not
altogether restrain. You couldn’t forget yourself. You couldn’t FEEL
only, as Bo did. You couldn’t be true to your real nature.”

“I don’t agree with you,” replied Helen, quickly. “I don’t have to be an
Indian to be true to myself.”

“Why, yes you do,” said Dale.

“But I couldn’t be an Indian,” declared Helen, spiritedly. “I couldn’t
FEEL only, as you say Bo did. I couldn’t go back in the scale, as you
hint. What would all my education amount to--though goodness knows it’s
little enough--if I had no control over primitive feelings that happened
to be born in me?”

“You’ll have little or no control over them when the right time comes,”
 replied Dale. “Your sheltered life an’ education have led you away from
natural instincts. But they’re in you an’ you’ll learn the proof of that
out here.”

“No. Not if I lived a hundred years in the West,” asserted Helen.

“But, child, do you know what you’re talkin’ about?”

Here Bo let out a blissful peal of laughter.

“Mr. Dale!” exclaimed Helen, almost affronted. She was stirred. “I know
MYSELF, at least.”

“But you do not. You’ve no idea of yourself. You’ve education, yes, but
not in nature an’ life. An’ after all, they are the real things. Answer
me, now--honestly, will you?”

“Certainly, if I can. Some of your questions are hard to answer.”

“Have you ever been starved?” he asked.

“No,” replied Helen.

“Have you ever been lost away from home?”

“No.”

“Have you ever faced death--real stark an’ naked death, close an’
terrible?”

“No, indeed.”

“Have you ever wanted to kill any one with your bare hands?”

“Oh, Mr. Dale, you--you amaze me. No!... No!”

“I reckon I know your answer to my last question, but I’ll ask it,
anyhow.... Have you ever been so madly in love with a man that you could
not live without him?”

Bo fell off her seat with a high, trilling laugh. “Oh, you two are
great!”

“Thank Heaven, I haven’t been,” replied Helen, shortly.

“Then you don’t know anythin’ about life,” declared Dale, with finality.

Helen was not to be put down by that, dubious and troubled as it made
her.

“Have you experienced all those things?” she queried, stubbornly.

“All but the last one. Love never came my way. How could it? I live
alone. I seldom go to the villages where there are girls. No girl would
ever care for me. I have nothin’.... But, all the same, I understand
love a little, just by comparison with strong feelin’s I’ve lived.”

Helen watched the hunter and marveled at his simplicity. His sad and
penetrating gaze was on the fire, as if in its white heart to read the
secret denied him. He had said that no girl would ever love him. She
imagined he might know considerably less about the nature of girls than
of the forest.

“To come back to myself,” said Helen, wanting to continue the argument.
“You declared I didn’t know myself. That I would have no self-control. I
will!”

“I meant the big things of life,” he said, patiently.

“What things?”

“I told you. By askin’ what had never happened to you I learned what
will happen.”

“Those experiences to come to ME!” breathed Helen, incredulously.
“Never!”

“Sister Nell, they sure will--particularly the last-named one--the mad
love,” chimed in Bo, mischievously, yet believingly.

Neither Dale nor Helen appeared to hear her interruption.

“Let me put it simpler,” began Dale, evidently racking his brain for
analogy. His perplexity appeared painful to him, because he had a great
faith, a great conviction that he could not make clear. “Here I am,
the natural physical man, livin’ in the wilds. An’ here you come, the
complex, intellectual woman. Remember, for my argument’s sake, that
you’re here. An’ suppose circumstances forced you to stay here. You’d
fight the elements with me an’ work with me to sustain life. There
must be a great change in either you or me, accordin’ to the other’s
influence. An’ can’t you see that change must come in you, not because
of anythin’ superior in me--I’m really inferior to you--but because of
our environment? You’d lose your complexity. An’ in years to come you’d
be a natural physical woman, because you’d live through an’ by the
physical.”

“Oh dear, will not education be of help to the Western woman?” queried
Helen, almost in despair.

“Sure it will,” answered Dale, promptly. “What the West needs is women
who can raise an’ teach children. But you don’t understand me. You don’t
get under your skin. I reckon I can’t make you see my argument as I feel
it. You take my word for this, though. Sooner or later you WILL wake up
an’ forget yourself. Remember.”

“Nell, I’ll bet you do, too,” said Bo, seriously for her. “It may seem
strange to you, but I understand Dale. I feel what he means. It’s a sort
of shock. Nell, we’re not what we seem. We’re not what we fondly imagine
we are. We’ve lived too long with people--too far away from the earth.
You know the Bible says something like this: ‘Dust thou art and to dust
thou shalt return.’ Where DO we come from?”



CHAPTER XII

Days passed.

Every morning Helen awoke with a wondering question as to what this
day would bring forth, especially with regard to possible news from her
uncle. It must come sometime and she was anxious for it. Something about
this simple, wild camp life had begun to grip her. She found herself
shirking daily attention to the clothes she had brought West. They
needed it, but she had begun to see how superficial they really were.
On the other hand, camp-fire tasks had come to be a pleasure. She had
learned a great deal more about them than had Bo. Worry and dread
were always impinging upon the fringe of her thoughts--always vaguely
present, though seldom annoying. They were like shadows in dreams. She
wanted to get to her uncle’s ranch, to take up the duties of her new
life. But she was not prepared to believe she would not regret this wild
experience. She must get away from that in order to see it clearly, and
she began to have doubts of herself.

Meanwhile the active and restful outdoor life went on. Bo leaned more
and more toward utter reconciliation to it. Her eyes had a wonderful
flash, like blue lightning; her cheeks were gold and brown; her hands
tanned dark as an Indian’s.

She could vault upon the gray mustang, or, for that matter, clear over
his back. She learned to shoot a rifle accurately enough to win Dale’s
praise, and vowed she would like to draw a bead upon a grizzly bear or
upon Snake Anson.

“Bo, if you met that grizzly Dale said has been prowling round camp
lately you’d run right up a tree,” declared Helen, one morning, when Bo
seemed particularly boastful.

“Don’t fool yourself,” retorted Bo.

“But I’ve seen you run from a mouse!”

“Sister, couldn’t I be afraid of a mouse and not a bear?”

“I don’t see how.”

“Well, bears, lions, outlaws, and other wild beasts are to be met with
here in the West, and my mind’s made up,” said Bo, in slow-nodding
deliberation.

They argued as they had always argued, Helen for reason and common sense
and restraint, Bo on the principle that if she must fight it was better
to get in the first blow.

The morning on which this argument took place Dale was a long time in
catching the horses. When he did come in he shook his head seriously.

“Some varmint’s been chasin’ the horses,” he said, as he reached for his
saddle. “Did you hear them snortin’ an’ runnin’ last night?”

Neither of the girls had been awakened.

“I missed one of the colts,” went on Dale, “an’ I’m goin’ to ride across
the park.”

Dale’s movements were quick and stern. It was significant that he chose
his heavier rifle, and, mounting, with a sharp call to Pedro, he rode
off without another word to the girls.

Bo watched him for a moment and then began to saddle the mustang.

“You won’t follow him?” asked Helen, quickly.

“I sure will,” replied Bo. “He didn’t forbid it.”

“But he certainly did not want us.”

“He might not want you, but I’ll bet he wouldn’t object to me,
whatever’s up,” said Bo, shortly.

“Oh! So you think--” exclaimed Helen, keenly hurt. She bit her tongue to
keep back a hot reply. And it was certain that a bursting gush of anger
flooded over her. Was she, then, such a coward? Did Dale think this
slip of a sister, so wild and wilful, was a stronger woman than she? A
moment’s silent strife convinced her that no doubt he thought so and
no doubt he was right. Then the anger centered upon herself, and Helen
neither understood nor trusted herself.

The outcome proved an uncontrollable impulse. Helen began to saddle her
horse. She had the task half accomplished when Bo’s call made her look
up.

“Listen!”

Helen heard a ringing, wild bay of the hound.

“That’s Pedro,” she said, with a thrill.

“Sure. He’s running. We never heard him bay like that before.”

“Where’s Dale?”

“He rode out of sight across there,” replied Bo, pointing. “And Pedro’s
running toward us along that slope. He must be a mile--two miles from
Dale.”

“But Dale will follow.”

“Sure. But he’d need wings to get near that hound now. Pedro couldn’t
have gone across there with him... just listen.”

The wild note of the hound manifestly stirred Bo to irrepressible
action. Snatching up Dale’s lighter rifle, she shoved it into her
saddle-sheath, and, leaping on the mustang, she ran him over brush and
brook, straight down the park toward the place Pedro was climbing. For
an instant Helen stood amazed beyond speech. When Bo sailed over a big
log, like a steeple-chaser, then Helen answered to further unconsidered
impulse by frantically getting her saddle fastened. Without coat or hat
she mounted. The nervous horse bolted almost before she got into the
saddle. A strange, trenchant trembling coursed through all her veins.
She wanted to scream for Bo to wait. Bo was out of sight, but the deep,
muddy tracks in wet places and the path through the long grass afforded
Helen an easy trail to follow. In fact, her horse needed no guiding. He
ran in and out of the straggling spruces along the edge of the park, and
suddenly wheeled around a corner of trees to come upon the gray mustang
standing still. Bo was looking up and listening.

“There he is!” cried Bo, as the hound bayed ringingly, closer to them
this time, and she spurred away.

Helen’s horse followed without urging. He was excited. His ears were up.
Something was in the wind. Helen had never ridden along this broken end
of the park, and Bo was not easy to keep up with. She led across bogs,
brooks, swales, rocky little ridges, through stretches of timber and
groves of aspen so thick Helen could scarcely squeeze through. Then
Bo came out into a large open offshoot of the park, right under the
mountain slope, and here she sat, her horse watching and listening.
Helen rode up to her, imagining once that she had heard the hound.

“Look! Look!” Bo’s scream made her mustang stand almost straight up.

Helen gazed up to see a big brown bear with a frosted coat go lumbering
across an opening on the slope.

“It’s a grizzly! He’ll kill Pedro! Oh, where is Dale!” cried Bo, with
intense excitement.

“Bo! That bear is running down! We--we must get--out of his road,”
 panted Helen, in breathless alarm.

“Dale hasn’t had time to be close.... Oh, I wish he’d come! I don’t know
what to do.”

“Ride back. At least wait for him.”

Just then Pedro spoke differently, in savage barks, and following that
came a loud growl and crashings in the brush. These sounds appeared to
be not far up the slope.

“Nell! Do you hear? Pedro’s fighting the bear,” burst out Bo. Her face
paled, her eyes flashed like blue steel. “The bear ‘ll kill him!”

“Oh, that would be dreadful!” replied Helen, in distress. “But what on
earth can we do?”

“HEL-LO, DALE!” called Bo, at the highest pitch of her piercing voice.

No answer came. A heavy crash of brush, a rolling of stones, another
growl from the slope told Helen that the hound had brought the bear to
bay.

“Nell, I’m going up,” said Bo, deliberately.

“No-no! Are you mad?” returned Helen.

“The bear will kill Pedro.”

“He might kill you.”

“You ride that way and yell for Dale,” rejoined Bo.

“What will--you do?” gasped Helen.

“I’ll shoot at the bear--scare him off. If he chases me he can’t catch
me coming downhill. Dale said that.”

“You’re crazy!” cried Helen, as Bo looked up the slope, searching for
open ground. Then she pulled the rifle from its sheath.

But Bo did not hear or did not care. She spurred the mustang, and he,
wild to run, flung grass and dirt from his heels. What Helen would have
done then she never knew, but the fact was that her horse bolted after
the mustang. In an instant, seemingly, Bo had disappeared in the gold
and green of the forest slope. Helen’s mount climbed on a run, snorting
and heaving, through aspens, brush, and timber, to come out into a
narrow, long opening extending lengthwise up the slope.

A sudden prolonged crash ahead alarmed Helen and halted her horse. She
saw a shaking of aspens. Then a huge brown beast leaped as a cat out of
the woods. It was a bear of enormous size. Helen’s heart stopped--her
tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. The bear turned. His mouth was
open, red and dripping. He looked shaggy, gray. He let out a terrible
bawl. Helen’s every muscle froze stiff. Her horse plunged high and
sidewise, wheeling almost in the air, neighing his terror. Like a stone
she dropped from the saddle. She did not see the horse break into the
woods, but she heard him. Her gaze never left the bear even while she
was falling, and it seemed she alighted in an upright position with her
back against a bush. It upheld her. The bear wagged his huge head from
side to side. Then, as the hound barked close at hand, he turned to run
heavily uphill and out of the opening.

The instant of his disappearance was one of collapse for Helen. Frozen
with horror, she had been unable to move or feel or think. All at once
she was a quivering mass of cold, helpless flesh, wet with perspiration,
sick with a shuddering, retching, internal convulsion, her mind
liberated from paralyzing shock. The moment was as horrible as that
in which the bear had bawled his frightful rage. A stark, icy, black
emotion seemed in possession of her. She could not lift a hand, yet all
of her body appeared shaking. There was a fluttering, a strangling in
her throat. The crushing weight that surrounded her heart eased before
she recovered use of her limbs. Then, the naked and terrible thing was
gone, like a nightmare giving way to consciousness. What blessed relief!
Helen wildly gazed about her. The bear and hound were out of sight, and
so was her horse. She stood up very dizzy and weak. Thought of Bo then
seemed to revive her, to shock different life and feeling throughout all
her cold extremities. She listened.

She heard a thudding of hoofs down the slope, then Dale’s clear, strong
call. She answered. It appeared long before he burst out of the woods,
riding hard and leading her horse. In that time she recovered fully,
and when he reached her, to put a sudden halt upon the fiery Ranger, she
caught the bridle he threw and swiftly mounted her horse. The feel of
the saddle seemed different. Dale’s piercing gray glance thrilled her
strangely.

“You’re white. Are you hurt?” he said.

“No. I was scared.”

“But he threw you?”

“Yes, he certainly threw me.”

“What happened?”

“We heard the hound and we rode along the timber. Then we saw the
bear--a monster--white--coated--”

“I know. It’s a grizzly. He killed the colt--your pet. Hurry now. What
about Bo?”

“Pedro was fighting the bear. Bo said he’d be killed. She rode right up
here. My horse followed. I couldn’t have stopped him. But we lost Bo.
Right there the bear came out. He roared. My horse threw me and ran off.
Pedro’s barking saved me--my life, I think. Oh! that was awful! Then the
bear went up--there.... And you came.”

“Bo’s followin’ the hound!” ejaculated Dale. And, lifting his hands to
his mouth, he sent out a stentorian yell that rolled up the slope, rang
against the cliffs, pealed and broke and died away. Then he waited,
listening. From far up the slope came a faint, wild cry, high-pitched
and sweet, to create strange echoes, floating away to die in the
ravines.

“She’s after him!” declared Dale, grimly.

“Bo’s got your rifle,” said Helen. “Oh, we must hurry.”

“You go back,” ordered Dale, wheeling his horse.

“No!” Helen felt that word leave her lips with the force of a bullet.

Dale spurred Ranger and took to the open slope. Helen kept at his heels
until timber was reached. Here a steep trail led up. Dale dismounted.

“Horse tracks--bear tracks--dog tracks,” he said, bending over. “We’ll
have to walk up here. It’ll save our horses an’ maybe time, too.”

“Is Bo riding up there?” asked Helen, eying the steep ascent.

“She sure is.” With that Dale started up, leading his horse. Helen
followed. It was rough and hard work. She was lightly clad, yet soon she
was hot, laboring, and her heart began to hurt. When Dale halted to
rest Helen was just ready to drop. The baying of the hound, though
infrequent, inspirited her. But presently that sound was lost. Dale said
bear and hound had gone over the ridge and as soon as the top was gained
he would hear them again.

“Look there,” he said, presently, pointing to fresh tracks, larger than
those made by Bo’s mustang. “Elk tracks. We’ve scared a big bull an’
he’s right ahead of us. Look sharp an’ you’ll see him.”

Helen never climbed so hard and fast before, and when they reached the
ridge-top she was all tuckered out. It was all she could do to get on
her horse. Dale led along the crest of this wooded ridge toward the
western end, which was considerably higher. In places open rocky ground
split the green timber. Dale pointed toward a promontory.

Helen saw a splendid elk silhouetted against the sky. He was a light
gray over all his hindquarters, with shoulders and head black. His
ponderous, wide-spread antlers towered over him, adding to the wildness
of his magnificent poise as he stood there, looking down into the
valley, no doubt listening for the bay of the hound. When he heard
Dale’s horse he gave one bound, gracefully and wonderfully carrying his
antlers, to disappear in the green.

Again on a bare patch of ground Dale pointed down. Helen saw big round
tracks, toeing in a little, that gave her a chill. She knew these were
grizzly tracks.

Hard riding was not possible on this ridge crest, a fact that gave Helen
time to catch her breath. At length, coming out upon the very summit
of the mountain, Dale heard the hound. Helen’s eyes feasted afar upon
a wild scene of rugged grandeur, before she looked down on this western
slope at her feet to see bare, gradual descent, leading down to sparsely
wooded bench and on to deep-green canuon.

“Ride hard now!” yelled Dale. “I see Bo, an’ I’ll have to ride to catch
her.”

Dale spurred down the slope. Helen rode in his tracks and, though she
plunged so fast that she felt her hair stand up with fright, she saw him
draw away from her. Sometimes her horse slid on his haunches for a
few yards, and at these hazardous moments she got her feet out of the
stirrups so as to fall free from him if he went down. She let him choose
the way, while she gazed ahead at Dale, and then farther on, in the hope
of seeing Bo. At last she was rewarded. Far Down the wooded bench she
saw a gray flash of the little mustang and a bright glint of Bo’s hair.
Her heart swelled. Dale would soon overhaul Bo and come between her and
peril. And on the instant, though Helen was unconscious of it then,
a remarkable change came over her spirit. Fear left her. And a hot,
exalting, incomprehensible something took possession of her.

She let the horse run, and when he had plunged to the foot of that slope
of soft ground he broke out across the open bench at a pace that made
the wind bite Helen’s cheeks and roar in her ears. She lost sight of
Dale. It gave her a strange, grim exultance. She bent her eager gaze to
find the tracks of his horse, and she found them. Also she made out the
tracks of Bo’s mustang and the bear and the hound. Her horse, scenting
game, perhaps, and afraid to be left alone, settled into a fleet and
powerful stride, sailing over logs and brush. That open bench had looked
short, but it was long, and Helen rode down the gradual descent at
breakneck speed. She would not be left behind. She had awakened to a
heedlessness of risk. Something burned steadily within her. A grim, hard
anger of joy! When she saw, far down another open, gradual descent, that
Dale had passed Bo and that Bo was riding the little mustang as never
before, then Helen flamed with a madness to catch her, to beat her in
that wonderful chase, to show her and Dale what there really was in the
depths of Helen Rayner.

Her ambition was to be short-lived, she divined from the lay of the land
ahead, but the ride she lived then for a flying mile was something that
would always blanch her cheeks and prick her skin in remembrance.

The open ground was only too short. That thundering pace soon brought
Helen’s horse to the timber. Here it took all her strength to check his
headlong flight over deadfalls and between small jack-pines. Helen lost
sight of Bo, and she realized it would take all her wits to keep from
getting lost. She had to follow the trail, and in some places it was
hard to see from horseback.

Besides, her horse was mettlesome, thoroughly aroused, and he wanted a
free rein and his own way. Helen tried that, only to lose the trail and
to get sundry knocks from trees and branches. She could not hear the
hound, nor Dale. The pines were small, close together, and tough. They
were hard to bend. Helen hurt her hands, scratched her face, barked her
knees. The horse formed a habit suddenly of deciding to go the way he
liked instead of the way Helen guided him, and when he plunged between
saplings too close to permit easy passage it was exceedingly hard on
her. That did not make any difference to Helen. Once worked into a
frenzy, her blood stayed at high pressure. She did not argue with
herself about a need of desperate hurry. Even a blow on the head that
nearly blinded her did not in the least retard her. The horse could
hardly be held, and not at all in the few open places.

At last Helen reached another slope. Coming out upon canuon rim, she
heard Dale’s clear call, far down, and Bo’s answering peal, high and
piercing, with its note of exultant wildness. Helen also heard the bear
and the hound fighting at the bottom of this canuon.

Here Helen again missed the tracks made by Dale and Bo. The descent
looked impassable. She rode back along the rim, then forward. Finally
she found where the ground had been plowed deep by hoofs, down over
little banks. Helen’s horse balked at these jumps. When she goaded him
over them she went forward on his neck. It seemed like riding straight
downhill. The mad spirit of that chase grew more stingingly keen to
Helen as the obstacles grew. Then, once more the bay of the hound and
the bawl of the bear made a demon of her horse. He snorted a shrill
defiance. He plunged with fore hoofs in the air. He slid and broke a way
down the steep, soft banks, through the thick brush and thick clusters
of saplings, sending loose rocks and earth into avalanches ahead of him.
He fell over one bank, but a thicket of aspens upheld him so that he
rebounded and gained his feet. The sounds of fight ceased, but Dale’s
thrilling call floated up on the pine-scented air.

Before Helen realized it she was at the foot of the slope, in a narrow
canuon-bed, full of rocks and trees, with a soft roar of running water
filling her ears. Tracks were everywhere, and when she came to the first
open place she saw where the grizzly had plunged off a sandy bar into
the water. Here he had fought Pedro. Signs of that battle were easy to
read. Helen saw where his huge tracks, still wet, led up the opposite
sandy bank.

Then down-stream Helen did some more reckless and splendid riding. On
level ground the horse was great. Once he leaped clear across the brook.
Every plunge, every turn Helen expected to come upon Dale and Bo facing
the bear. The canuon narrowed, the stream-bed deepened. She had to slow
down to get through the trees and rocks. Quite unexpectedly she rode
pell-mell upon Dale and Bo and the panting Pedro. Her horse plunged to a
halt, answering the shrill neighs of the other horses.

Dale gazed in admiring amazement at Helen.

“Say, did you meet the bear again?” he queried, blankly.

“No. Didn’t--you--kill him?” panted Helen, slowly sagging in her saddle.

“He got away in the rocks. Rough country down here.”

Helen slid off her horse and fell with a little panting cry of relief.
She saw that she was bloody, dirty, disheveled, and wringing wet with
perspiration. Her riding habit was torn into tatters. Every muscle
seemed to burn and sting, and all her bones seemed broken. But it was
worth all this to meet Dale’s penetrating glance, to see Bo’s utter,
incredulous astonishment.

“Nell--Rayner!” gasped Bo.

“If--my horse ‘d been--any good--in the woods,” panted Helen, “I’d not
lost--so much time--riding down this mountain. And I’d caught you--beat
you.”

“Girl, did you RIDE down this last slope?” queried Dale.

“I sure did,” replied Helen, smiling.

“We walked every step of the way, and was lucky to get down at that,”
 responded Dale, gravely. “No horse should have been ridden down there.
Why, he must have slid down.”

“We slid--yes. But I stayed on him.”

Bo’s incredulity changed to wondering, speechless admiration. And Dale’s
rare smile changed his gravity.

“I’m sorry. It was rash of me. I thought you’d go back.... But all’s
well that ends well.... Helen, did you wake up to-day?”

She dropped her eyes, not caring to meet the questioning gaze upon her.

“Maybe--a little,” she replied, and she covered her face with her hands.
Remembrance of his questions--of his assurance that she did not know
the real meaning of life--of her stubborn antagonism--made her somehow
ashamed. But it was not for long.

“The chase was great,” she said. “I did not know myself. You were
right.”

“In how many ways did you find me right?” he asked.

“I think all--but one,” she replied, with a laugh and a shudder. “I’m
near starved NOW--I was so furious at Bo that I could have choked her. I
faced that horrible brute.... Oh, I know what it is to fear death!... I
was lost twice on the ride--absolutely lost. That’s all.”

Bo found her tongue. “The last thing was for you to fall wildly in love,
wasn’t it?”

“According to Dale, I must add that to my new experiences of
to-day--before I can know real life,” replied Helen, demurely.

The hunter turned away. “Let us go,” he said, soberly.



CHAPTER XIII

After more days of riding the grassy level of that wonderfully gold
and purple park, and dreamily listening by day to the ever-low and
ever-changing murmur of the waterfall, and by night to the wild, lonely
mourn of a hunting wolf, and climbing to the dizzy heights where the
wind stung sweetly, Helen Rayner lost track of time and forgot her
peril.

Roy Beeman did not return. If occasionally Dale mentioned Roy and his
quest, the girls had little to say beyond a recurrent anxiety for the
old uncle, and then they forgot again. Paradise Park, lived in a little
while at that season of the year, would have claimed any one, and ever
afterward haunted sleeping or waking dreams.

Bo gave up to the wild life, to the horses and rides, to the many pets,
and especially to the cougar, Tom. The big cat followed her everywhere,
played with her, rolling and pawing, kitten-like, and he would lay
his massive head in her lap to purr his content. Bo had little fear of
anything, and here in the wilds she soon lost that.

Another of Dale’s pets was a half-grown black bear named Muss. He was
abnormally jealous of little Bud and he had a well-developed hatred
of Tom, otherwise he was a very good-tempered bear, and enjoyed Dale’s
impartial regard. Tom, however, chased Muss out of camp whenever Dale’s
back was turned, and sometimes Muss stayed away, shifting for himself.
With the advent of Bo, who spent a good deal of time on the animals,
Muss manifestly found the camp more attractive. Whereupon, Dale
predicted trouble between Tom and Muss.

Bo liked nothing better than a rough-and-tumble frolic with the black
bear. Muss was not very big nor very heavy, and in a wrestling bout with
the strong and wiry girl he sometimes came out second best. It spoke
well of him that he seemed to be careful not to hurt Bo. He never bit
or scratched, though he sometimes gave her sounding slaps with his paws.
Whereupon, Bo would clench her gauntleted fists and sail into him in
earnest.

One afternoon before the early supper they always had, Dale and Helen
were watching Bo teasing the bear. She was in her most vixenish mood,
full of life and fight. Tom lay his long length on the grass, watching
with narrow, gleaming eyes.

When Bo and Muss locked in an embrace and went down to roll over and
over, Dale called Helen’s attention to the cougar.

“Tom’s jealous. It’s strange how animals are like people. Pretty soon
I’ll have to corral Muss, or there’ll be a fight.”

Helen could not see anything wrong with Tom except that he did not look
playful.

During supper-time both bear and cougar disappeared, though this was not
remarked until afterward. Dale whistled and called, but the rival pets
did not return. Next morning Tom was there, curled up snugly at the foot
of Bo’s bed, and when she arose he followed her around as usual. But
Muss did not return.

The circumstance made Dale anxious. He left camp, taking Tom with him,
and upon returning stated that he had followed Muss’s track as far as
possible, and then had tried to put Tom on the trail, but the cougar
would not or could not follow it. Dale said Tom never liked a bear
trail, anyway, cougars and bears being common enemies. So, whether by
accident or design, Bo lost one of her playmates.

The hunter searched some of the slopes next day and even went up on one
of the mountains. He did not discover any sign of Muss, but he said he
had found something else.

“Bo you girls want some more real excitement?” he asked.

Helen smiled her acquiescence and Bo replied with one of her forceful
speeches.

“Don’t mind bein’ good an’ scared?” he went on.

“You can’t scare me,” bantered Bo. But Helen looked doubtful.

“Up in one of the parks I ran across one of my horses--a lame bay you
haven’t seen. Well, he had been killed by that old silvertip. The one we
chased. Hadn’t been dead over an hour. Blood was still runnin’ an’ only
a little meat eaten. That bear heard me or saw me an’ made off into the
woods. But he’ll come back to-night. I’m goin’ up there, lay for him,
an’ kill him this time. Reckon you’d better go, because I don’t want to
leave you here alone at night.”

“Are you going to take Tom?” asked Bo.

“No. The bear might get his scent. An’, besides, Tom ain’t reliable on
bears. I’ll leave Pedro home, too.”

When they had hurried supper, and Dale had gotten in the horses, the sun
had set and the valley was shadowing low down, while the ramparts were
still golden. The long zigzag trail Dale followed up the slope took
nearly an hour to climb, so that when that was surmounted and he led
out of the woods twilight had fallen. A rolling park extended as far as
Helen could see, bordered by forest that in places sent out straggling
stretches of trees. Here and there, like islands, were isolated patches
of timber.

At ten thousand feet elevation the twilight of this clear and cold night
was a rich and rare atmospheric effect. It looked as if it was seen
through perfectly clear smoked glass. Objects were singularly visible,
even at long range, and seemed magnified. In the west, where the
afterglow of sunset lingered over the dark, ragged, spruce-speared
horizon-line, there was such a transparent golden line melting into
vivid star-fired blue that Helen could only gaze and gaze in wondering
admiration.

Dale spurred his horse into a lope and the spirited mounts of the girls
kept up with him. The ground was rough, with tufts of grass growing
close together, yet the horses did not stumble. Their action and
snorting betrayed excitement. Dale led around several clumps of timber,
up a long grassy swale, and then straight westward across an open flat
toward where the dark-fringed forest-line raised itself wild and clear
against the cold sky. The horses went swiftly, and the wind cut like a
blade of ice. Helen could barely get her breath and she panted as if she
had just climbed a laborsome hill. The stars began to blink out of the
blue, and the gold paled somewhat, and yet twilight lingered. It seemed
long across that flat, but really was short. Coming to a thin line of
trees that led down over a slope to a deeper but still isolated patch
of woods, Dale dismounted and tied his horse. When the girls got off he
haltered their horses also.

“Stick close to me an’ put your feet down easy,” he whispered. How tall
and dark he loomed in the fading light! Helen thrilled, as she had often
of late, at the strange, potential force of the man. Stepping softly,
without the least sound, Dale entered this straggly bit of woods, which
appeared to have narrow byways and nooks. Then presently he came to
the top of a well-wooded slope, dark as pitch, apparently. But as Helen
followed she perceived the trees, and they were thin dwarf spruce,
partly dead. The slope was soft and springy, easy to step upon without
noise. Dale went so cautiously that Helen could not hear him, and
sometimes in the gloom she could not see him. Then the chill thrills ran
over her. Bo kept holding on to Helen, which fact hampered Helen as
well as worked somewhat to disprove Bo’s boast. At last level ground was
reached. Helen made out a light-gray background crossed by black bars.
Another glance showed this to be the dark tree-trunks against the open
park.

Dale halted, and with a touch brought Helen to a straining pause. He was
listening. It seemed wonderful to watch him bend his head and stand as
silent and motionless as one of the dark trees.

“He’s not there yet,” Dale whispered, and he stepped forward very
slowly. Helen and Bo began to come up against thin dead branches that
were invisible and then cracked. Then Dale knelt down, seemed to melt
into the ground.

“You’ll have to crawl,” he whispered.

How strange and thrilling that was for Helen, and hard work! The ground
bore twigs and dead branches, which had to be carefully crawled over;
and lying flat, as was necessary, it took prodigious effort to drag her
body inch by inch. Like a huge snake, Dale wormed his way along.

Gradually the wood lightened. They were nearing the edge of the park.
Helen now saw a strip of open with a high, black wall of spruce beyond.
The afterglow flashed or changed, like a dimming northern light, and
then failed. Dale crawled on farther to halt at length between two
tree-trunks at the edge of the wood.

“Come up beside me,” he whispered.

Helen crawled on, and presently Bo was beside her panting, with pale
face and great, staring eyes, plain to be seen in the wan light.

“Moon’s comin’ up. We’re just in time. The old grizzly’s not there yet,
but I see coyotes. Look.”

Dale pointed across the open neck of park to a dim blurred patch
standing apart some little distance from the black wall.

“That’s the dead horse,” whispered Dale. “An’ if you watch close you can
see the coyotes. They’re gray an’ they move.... Can’t you hear them?”

Helen’s excited ears, so full of throbs and imaginings, presently
registered low snaps and snarls. Bo gave her arm a squeeze.

“I hear them. They’re fighting. Oh, gee!” she panted, and drew a long,
full breath of unutterable excitement.

“Keep quiet now an’ watch an’ listen,” said the hunter.

Slowly the black, ragged forest-line seemed to grow blacker and lift;
slowly the gray neck of park lightened under some invisible influence;
slowly the stars paled and the sky filled over. Somewhere the moon was
rising. And slowly that vague blurred patch grew a little clearer.

Through the tips of the spruce, now seen to be rather close at hand,
shone a slender, silver crescent moon, darkening, hiding, shining again,
climbing until its exquisite sickle-point topped the trees, and then,
magically, it cleared them, radiant and cold. While the eastern black
wall shaded still blacker, the park blanched and the border-line
opposite began to stand out as trees.

“Look! Look!” cried Bo, very low and fearfully, as she pointed.

“Not so loud,” whispered Dale.

“But I see something!”

“Keep quiet,” he admonished.

Helen, in the direction Bo pointed, could not see anything but
moon-blanched bare ground, rising close at hand to a little ridge.

“Lie still,” whispered Dale. “I’m goin’ to crawl around to get a look
from another angle. I’ll be right back.”

He moved noiselessly backward and disappeared. With him gone, Helen felt
a palpitating of her heart and a prickling of her skin.

“Oh, my! Nell! Look!” whispered Bo, in fright. “I know I saw something.”

On top of the little ridge a round object moved slowly, getting farther
out into the light. Helen watched with suspended breath. It moved out
to be silhouetted against the sky--apparently a huge, round, bristling
animal, frosty in color. One instant it seemed huge--the next
small--then close at hand--and far away. It swerved to come directly
toward them. Suddenly Helen realized that the beast was not a dozen
yards distant. She was just beginning a new experience--a real
and horrifying terror in which her blood curdled, her heart gave a
tremendous leap and then stood still, and she wanted to fly, but was
rooted to the spot--when Dale returned to her side.

“That’s a pesky porcupine,” he whispered. “Almost crawled over you. He
sure would have stuck you full of quills.”

Whereupon he threw a stick at the animal. It bounced straight up to turn
round with startling quickness, and it gave forth a rattling sound; then
it crawled out of sight.

“Por--cu--pine!” whispered Bo, pantingly. “It might--as well--have
been--an elephant!”

Helen uttered a long, eloquent sigh. She would not have cared to
describe her emotions at sight of a harmless hedgehog.

“Listen!” warned Dale, very low. His big hand closed over Helen’s
gauntleted one. “There you have--the real cry of the wild.”

Sharp and cold on the night air split the cry of a wolf, distant, yet
wonderfully distinct. How wild and mournful and hungry! How marvelously
pure! Helen shuddered through all her frame with the thrill of its
music, the wild and unutterable and deep emotions it aroused. Again
a sound of this forest had pierced beyond her life, back into the dim
remote past from which she had come.

The cry was not repeated. The coyotes were still. And silence fell,
absolutely unbroken.

Dale nudged Helen, and then reached over to give Bo a tap. He was
peering keenly ahead and his strained intensity could be felt. Helen
looked with all her might and she saw the shadowy gray forms of the
coyotes skulk away, out of the moonlight into the gloom of the woods,
where they disappeared. Not only Dale’s intensity, but the very silence,
the wildness of the moment and place, seemed fraught with wonderful
potency. Bo must have felt it, too, for she was trembling all over, and
holding tightly to Helen, and breathing quick and fast.

“A-huh!” muttered Dale, under his breath.

Helen caught the relief and certainty in his exclamation, and she
divined, then, something of what the moment must have been to a hunter.

Then her roving, alert glance was arrested by a looming gray shadow
coming out of the forest. It moved, but surely that huge thing could not
be a bear. It passed out of gloom into silver moonlight. Helen’s heart
bounded. For it was a great frosty-coated bear lumbering along toward
the dead horse. Instinctively Helen’s hand sought the arm of the hunter.
It felt like iron under a rippling surface. The touch eased away the
oppression over her lungs, the tightness of her throat. What must have
been fear left her, and only a powerful excitement remained. A sharp
expulsion of breath from Bo and a violent jerk of her frame were signs
that she had sighted the grizzly.

In the moonlight he looked of immense size, and that wild park with
the gloomy blackness of forest furnished a fit setting for him. Helen’s
quick mind, so taken up with emotion, still had a thought for the wonder
and the meaning of that scene. She wanted the bear killed, yet that
seemed a pity.

He had a wagging, rolling, slow walk which took several moments to reach
his quarry. When at length he reached it he walked around with sniffs
plainly heard and then a cross growl. Evidently he had discovered that
his meal had been messed over. As a whole the big bear could be seen
distinctly, but only in outline and color. The distance was perhaps two
hundred yards. Then it looked as if he had begun to tug at the carcass.
Indeed, he was dragging it, very slowly, but surely.

“Look at that!” whispered Dale. “If he ain’t strong!... Reckon I’ll have
to stop him.”

The grizzly, however, stopped of his own accord, just outside of the
shadow-line of the forest. Then he hunched in a big frosty heap over his
prey and began to tear and rend.

“Jess was a mighty good horse,” muttered Dale, grimly; “too good to make
a meal for a hog silvertip.”

Then the hunter silently rose to a kneeling position, swinging the
rifle in front of him. He glanced up into the low branches of the tree
overhead.

“Girls, there’s no tellin’ what a grizzly will do. If I yell, you climb
up in this tree, an’ do it quick.”

With that he leveled the rifle, resting his left elbow on his knee. The
front end of the rifle, reaching out of the shade, shone silver in the
moonlight. Man and weapon became still as stone. Helen held her breath.
But Dale relaxed, lowering the barrel.

“Can’t see the sights very well,” he whispered, shaking his head.
“Remember, now--if I yell you climb!”

Again he aimed and slowly grew rigid. Helen could not take her
fascinated eyes off him. He knelt, bareheaded, and in the shadow she
could make out the gleam of his clear-cut profile, stern and cold.

A streak of fire and a heavy report startled her. Then she heard the
bullet hit. Shifting her glance, she saw the bear lurch with convulsive
action, rearing on his hind legs. Loud clicking snaps must have been a
clashing of his jaws in rage. But there was no other sound. Then again
Dale’s heavy gun boomed. Helen heard again that singular spatting thud
of striking lead. The bear went down with a flop as if he had been dealt
a terrific blow. But just as quickly he was up on all-fours and began
to whirl with hoarse, savage bawls of agony and fury. His action quickly
carried him out of the moonlight into the shadow, where he disappeared.
There the bawls gave place to gnashing snarls, and crashings in the
brush, and snapping of branches, as he made his way into the forest.

“Sure he’s mad,” said Dale, rising to his feet. “An’ I reckon hard hit.
But I won’t follow him to-night.”

Both the girls got up, and Helen found she was shaky on her feet and
very cold.

“Oh-h, wasn’t--it--won-wonder-ful!” cried Bo.

“Are you scared? Your teeth are chatterin’,” queried Dale.

“I’m--cold.”

“Well, it sure is cold, all right,” he responded. “Now the fun’s over,
you’ll feel it.... Nell, you’re froze, too?”

Helen nodded. She was, indeed, as cold as she had ever been before. But
that did not prevent a strange warmness along her veins and a quickened
pulse, the cause of which she did not conjecture.

“Let’s rustle,” said Dale, and led the way out of the wood and skirted
its edge around to the slope. There they climbed to the flat, and went
through the straggling line of trees to where the horses were tethered.

Up here the wind began to blow, not hard through the forest, but still
strong and steady out in the open, and bitterly cold. Dale helped Bo to
mount, and then Helen.

“I’m--numb,” she said. “I’ll fall off--sure.”

“No. You’ll be warm in a jiffy,” he replied, “because we’ll ride some
goin’ back. Let Ranger pick the way an’ you hang on.”

With Ranger’s first jump Helen’s blood began to run. Out he shot, his
lean, dark head beside Dale’s horse. The wild park lay clear and bright
in the moonlight, with strange, silvery radiance on the grass. The
patches of timber, like spired black islands in a moon-blanched lake,
seemed to harbor shadows, and places for bears to hide, ready to spring
out. As Helen neared each little grove her pulses shook and her heart
beat. Half a mile of rapid riding burned out the cold. And all seemed
glorious--the sailing moon, white in a dark-blue sky, the white,
passionless stars, so solemn, so far away, the beckoning fringe of
forest-land at once mysterious and friendly, and the fleet horses,
running with soft, rhythmic thuds over the grass, leaping the ditches
and the hollows, making the bitter wind sting and cut. Coming up
that park the ride had been long; going back was as short as it was
thrilling. In Helen, experiences gathered realization slowly, and it
was this swift ride, the horses neck and neck, and all the wildness and
beauty, that completed the slow, insidious work of years. The tears
of excitement froze on her cheeks and her heart heaved full. All that
pertained to this night got into her blood. It was only to feel, to live
now, but it could be understood and remembered forever afterward.

Dale’s horse, a little in advance, sailed over a ditch. Ranger made a
splendid leap, but he alighted among some grassy tufts and fell. Helen
shot over his head. She struck lengthwise, her arms stretched, and slid
hard to a shocking impact that stunned her.

Bo’s scream rang in her ears; she felt the wet grass under her face and
then the strong hands that lifted her. Dale loomed over her, bending
down to look into her face; Bo was clutching her with frantic hands. And
Helen could only gasp. Her breast seemed caved in. The need to breathe
was torture.

“Nell!--you’re not hurt. You fell light, like a feather. All grass
here.... You can’t be hurt!” said Dale, sharply.

His anxious voice penetrated beyond her hearing, and his strong hands
went swiftly over her arms and shoulders, feeling for broken bones.

“Just had the wind knocked out of you,” went on Dale. “It feels awful,
but it’s nothin’.”

Helen got a little air, that was like hot pin-points in her lungs, and
then a deeper breath, and then full, gasping respiration.

“I guess--I’m not hurt--not a bit,” she choked out.

“You sure had a header. Never saw a prettier spill. Ranger doesn’t do
that often. I reckon we were travelin’ too fast. But it was fun, don’t
you think?”

It was Bo who answered. “Oh, glorious!... But, gee! I was scared.”

Dale still held Helen’s hands. She released them while looking up at
him. The moment was realization for her of what for days had been a
vague, sweet uncertainty, becoming near and strange, disturbing and
present. This accident had been a sudden, violent end to the wonderful
ride. But its effect, the knowledge of what had got into her blood,
would never change. And inseparable from it was this man of the forest.



CHAPTER XIV

On the next morning Helen was awakened by what she imagined had been a
dream of some one shouting. With a start she sat up. The sunshine showed
pink and gold on the ragged spruce line of the mountain rims. Bo was on
her knees, braiding her hair with shaking hands, and at the same time
trying to peep out.

And the echoes of a ringing cry were cracking back from the cliffs. That
had been Dale’s voice.

“Nell! Nell! Wake up!” called Bo, wildly. “Oh, some one’s come! Horses
and men!”

Helen got to her knees and peered out over Bo’s shoulder. Dale, standing
tall and striking beside the campfire, was waving his sombrero. Away
down the open edge of the park came a string of pack-burros with mounted
men behind. In the foremost rider Helen recognized Roy Beeman.

“That first one’s Roy!” she exclaimed. “I’d never forget him on a
horse.... Bo, it must mean Uncle Al’s come!”

“Sure! We’re born lucky. Here we are safe and sound--and all this grand
camp trip.... Look at the cowboys.... LOOK! Oh, maybe this isn’t great!”
 babbled Bo.

Dale wheeled to see the girls peeping out.

“It’s time you’re up!” he called. “Your uncle Al is here.”

For an instant after Helen sank back out of Dale’s sight she sat there
perfectly motionless, so struck was she by the singular tone of Dale’s
voice. She imagined that he regretted what this visiting cavalcade of
horsemen meant--they had come to take her to her ranch in Pine. Helen’s
heart suddenly began to beat fast, but thickly, as if muffled within her
breast.

“Hurry now, girls,” called Dale.

Bo was already out, kneeling on the flat stone at the little brook,
splashing water in a great hurry. Helen’s hands trembled so that she
could scarcely lace her boots or brush her hair, and she was long behind
Bo in making herself presentable. When Helen stepped out, a short,
powerfully built man in coarse garb and heavy boots stood holding Bo’s
hands.

“Wal, wal! You favor the Rayners,” he was saying, “I remember your dad,
an’ a fine feller he was.”

Beside them stood Dale and Roy, and beyond was a group of horses and
riders.

“Uncle, here comes Nell,” said Bo, softly.

“Aw!” The old cattle-man breathed hard as he turned.

Helen hurried. She had not expected to remember this uncle, but one look
into the brown, beaming face, with the blue eyes flashing, yet sad, and
she recognized him, at the same instant recalling her mother.

He held out his arms to receive her.

“Nell Auchincloss all over again!” he exclaimed, in deep voice, as he
kissed her. “I’d have knowed you anywhere!”

“Uncle Al!” murmured Helen. “I remember you--though I was only four.”

“Wal, wal,--that’s fine,” he replied. “I remember you straddled my knee
once, an’ your hair was brighter--an’ curly. It ain’t neither now....
Sixteen years! An’ you’re twenty now? What a fine, broad-shouldered girl
you are! An’, Nell, you’re the handsomest Auchincloss I ever seen!”

Helen found herself blushing, and withdrew her hands from his as Roy
stepped forward to pay his respects. He stood bareheaded, lean and tall,
with neither his clear eyes nor his still face, nor the proffered hand
expressing anything of the proven quality of fidelity, of achievement,
that Helen sensed in him.

“Howdy, Miss Helen? Howdy, Bo?” he said. “You all both look fine an’
brown.... I reckon I was shore slow rustlin’ your uncle Al up here. But
I was figgerin’ you’d like Milt’s camp for a while.”

“We sure did,” replied Bo, archly.

“Aw!” breathed Auchincloss, heavily. “Lemme set down.”

He drew the girls to the rustic seat Dale had built for them under the
big pine.

“Oh, you must be tired! How--how are you?” asked Helen, anxiously.

“Tired! Wal, if I am it’s jest this here minit. When Joe Beeman rode
in on me with thet news of you--wal, I jest fergot I was a worn-out old
hoss. Haven’t felt so good in years. Mebbe two such young an’ pretty
nieces will make a new man of me.”

“Uncle Al, you look strong and well to me,” said Bo. “And young, too,
and--”

“Haw! Haw! Thet ‘ll do,” interrupted Al. “I see through you. What you’ll
do to Uncle Al will be aplenty.... Yes, girls, I’m feelin’ fine. But
strange--strange! Mebbe thet’s my joy at seein’ you safe--safe when I
feared so thet damned greaser Beasley--”

In Helen’s grave gaze his face changed swiftly--and all the serried
years of toil and battle and privation showed, with something that was
not age, nor resignation, yet as tragic as both.

“Wal, never mind him--now,” he added, slowly, and the warmer light
returned to his face. “Dale--come here.”

The hunter stepped closer.

“I reckon I owe you more ‘n I can ever pay,” said Auchincloss, with an
arm around each niece.

“No, Al, you don’t owe me anythin’,” returned Dale, thoughtfully, as he
looked away.

“A-huh!” grunted Al. “You hear him, girls.... Now listen, you wild
hunter. An’ you girls listen.... Milt, I never thought you much good,
‘cept for the wilds. But I reckon I’ll have to swallow thet. I do.
Comin’ to me as you did--an’ after bein’ druv off--keepin’ your council
an’ savin’ my girls from thet hold-up, wal, it’s the biggest deal any
man ever did for me.... An’ I’m ashamed of my hard feelin’s, an’ here’s
my hand.”

“Thanks, Al,” replied Dale, with his fleeting smile, and he met the
proffered hand. “Now, will you be makin’ camp here?”

“Wal, no. I’ll rest a little, an’ you can pack the girls’ outfit--then
we’ll go. Sure you’re goin’ with us?”

“I’ll call the girls to breakfast,” replied Dale, and he moved away
without answering Auchincloss’s query.

Helen divined that Dale did not mean to go down to Pine with them, and
the knowledge gave her a blank feeling of surprise. Had she expected him
to go?

“Come here, Jeff,” called Al, to one of his men.

A short, bow-legged horseman with dusty garb and sun-bleached face
hobbled forth from the group. He was not young, but he had a boyish grin
and bright little eyes. Awkwardly he doffed his slouch sombrero.

“Jeff, shake hands with my nieces,” said Al. “This ‘s Helen, an’ your
boss from now on. An’ this ‘s Bo, fer short. Her name was Nancy, but
when she lay a baby in her cradle I called her Bo-Peep, an’ the name’s
stuck.... Girls, this here’s my foreman, Jeff Mulvey, who’s been with me
twenty years.”

The introduction caused embarrassment to all three principals,
particularly to Jeff.

“Jeff, throw the packs an’ saddles fer a rest,” was Al’s order to his
foreman.

“Nell, reckon you’ll have fun bossin’ thet outfit,” chuckled Al. “None
of ‘em’s got a wife. Lot of scalawags they are; no women would have
them!”

“Uncle, I hope I’ll never have to be their boss,” replied Helen.

“Wal, you’re goin’ to be, right off,” declared Al. “They ain’t a bad
lot, after all. An’ I got a likely new man.”

With that he turned to Bo, and, after studying her pretty face,
he asked, in apparently severe tone, “Did you send a cowboy named
Carmichael to ask me for a job?”

Bo looked quite startled.

“Carmichael! Why, Uncle, I never heard that name before,” replied Bo,
bewilderedly.

“A-huh! Reckoned the young rascal was lyin’,” said Auchincloss. “But I
liked the fellar’s looks an’ so let him stay.”

Then the rancher turned to the group of lounging riders.

“Las Vegas, come here,” he ordered, in a loud voice.

Helen thrilled at sight of a tall, superbly built cowboy reluctantly
detaching himself from the group. He had a red-bronze face, young like a
boy’s. Helen recognized it, and the flowing red scarf, and the swinging
gun, and the slow, spur-clinking gait. No other than Bo’s Las Vegas
cowboy admirer!

Then Helen flashed a look at Bo, which look gave her a delicious,
almost irresistible desire to laugh. That young lady also recognized the
reluctant individual approaching with flushed and downcast face. Helen
recorded her first experience of Bo’s utter discomfiture. Bo turned
white then red as a rose.

“Say, my niece said she never heard of the name Carmichael,” declared
Al, severely, as the cowboy halted before him. Helen knew her uncle had
the repute of dealing hard with his men, but here she was reassured and
pleased at the twinkle in his eye.

“Shore, boss, I can’t help thet,” drawled the cowboy. “It’s good old
Texas stock.”

He did not appear shamefaced now, but just as cool, easy, clear-eyed,
and lazy as the day Helen had liked his warm young face and intent gaze.

“Texas! You fellars from the Pan Handle are always hollerin’ Texas.
I never seen thet Texans had any one else beat--say from Missouri,”
 returned Al, testily.

Carmichael maintained a discreet silence, and carefully avoided looking
at the girls.

“Wal, reckon we’ll all call you Las Vegas, anyway,” continued the
rancher. “Didn’t you say my niece sent you to me for a job?”

Whereupon Carmichael’s easy manner vanished.

“Now, boss, shore my memory’s pore,” he said. “I only says--”

“Don’t tell me thet. My memory’s not p-o-r-e,” replied Al, mimicking
the drawl. “What you said was thet my niece would speak a good word for
you.”

Here Carmichael stole a timid glance at Bo, the result of which was
to render him utterly crestfallen. Not improbably he had taken Bo’s
expression to mean something it did not, for Helen read it as a mingling
of consternation and fright. Her eyes were big and blazing; a red spot
was growing in each cheek as she gathered strength from his confusion.

“Well, didn’t you?” demanded Al.

From the glance the old rancher shot from the cowboy to the others of
his employ it seemed to Helen that they were having fun at Carmichael’s
expense.

“Yes, sir, I did,” suddenly replied the cowboy.

“A-huh! All right, here’s my niece. Now see thet she speaks the good
word.”

Carmichael looked at Bo and Bo looked at him. Their glances were
strange, wondering, and they grew shy. Bo dropped hers. The cowboy
apparently forgot what had been demanded of him.

Helen put a hand on the old rancher’s arm.

“Uncle, what happened was my fault,” she said. “The train stopped at Las
Vegas. This young man saw us at the open window. He must have guessed we
were lonely, homesick girls, getting lost in the West. For he spoke to
us--nice and friendly. He knew of you. And he asked, in what I took
for fun, if we thought you would give him a job. And I replied, just to
tease Bo, that she would surely speak a good word for him.”

“Haw! Haw! So thet’s it,” replied Al, and he turned to Bo with merry
eyes. “Wal, I kept this here Las Vegas Carmichael on his say-so. Come on
with your good word, unless you want to see him lose his job.”

Bo did not grasp her uncle’s bantering, because she was seriously gazing
at the cowboy. But she had grasped something.

“He--he was the first person--out West--to speak kindly to us,” she
said, facing her uncle.

“Wal, thet’s a pretty good word, but it ain’t enough,” responded Al.

Subdued laughter came from the listening group. Carmichael shifted from
side to side.

“He--he looks as if he might ride a horse well,” ventured Bo.

“Best hossman I ever seen,” agreed Al, heartily.

“And--and shoot?” added Bo, hopefully.

“Bo, he packs thet gun low, like Jim Wilson an’ all them Texas
gun-fighters. Reckon thet ain’t no good word.”

“Then--I’ll vouch for him,” said Bo, with finality.

“Thet settles it.” Auchincloss turned to the cowboy. “Las Vegas, you’re
a stranger to us. But you’re welcome to a place in the outfit an’ I hope
you won’t never disappoint us.”

Auchincloss’s tone, passing from jest to earnest, betrayed to Helen the
old rancher’s need of new and true men, and hinted of trying days to
come.

Carmichael stood before Bo, sombrero in hand, rolling it round and
round, manifestly bursting with words he could not speak. And the girl
looked very young and sweet with her flushed face and shining eyes.
Helen saw in the moment more than that little by-play of confusion.

“Miss--Miss Rayner--I shore--am obliged,” he stammered, presently.

“You’re very welcome,” she replied, softly. “I--I got on the next
train,” he added.

When he said that Bo was looking straight at him, but she seemed not to
have heard.

“What’s your name?” suddenly she asked.

“Carmichael.”

“I heard that. But didn’t uncle call you Las Vegas?”

“Shore. But it wasn’t my fault. Thet cow-punchin’ outfit saddled it on
me, right off. They Don’t know no better. Shore I jest won’t answer to
thet handle.... Now--Miss Bo--my real name is Tom.”

“I simply could not call you--any name but Las Vegas,” replied Bo, very
sweetly.

“But--beggin’ your pardon--I--I don’t like thet,” blustered Carmichael.

“People often get called names--they don’t like,” she said, with deep
intent.

The cowboy blushed scarlet. Helen as well as he got Bo’s inference to
that last audacious epithet he had boldly called out as the train was
leaving Las Vegas. She also sensed something of the disaster in store
for Mr. Carmichael. Just then the embarrassed young man was saved by
Dale’s call to the girls to come to breakfast.

That meal, the last for Helen in Paradise Park, gave rise to a strange
and inexplicable restraint. She had little to say. Bo was in the highest
spirits, teasing the pets, joking with her uncle and Roy, and even
poking fun at Dale. The hunter seemed somewhat somber. Roy was his usual
dry, genial self. And Auchincloss, who sat near by, was an interested
spectator. When Tom put in an appearance, lounging with his feline grace
into the camp, as if he knew he was a privileged pet, the rancher could
scarcely contain himself.

“Dale, it’s thet damn cougar!” he ejaculated.

“Sure, that’s Tom.”

“He ought to be corralled or chained. I’ve no use for cougars,”
 protested Al.

“Tom is as tame an’ safe as a kitten.”

“A-huh! Wal, you tell thet to the girls if you like. But not me! I’m an
old hoss, I am.”

“Uncle Al, Tom sleeps curled up at the foot of my bed,” said Bo.

“Aw--what?”

“Honest Injun,” she responded. “Well, isn’t it so?”

Helen smilingly nodded her corroboration. Then Bo called Tom to her and
made him lie with his head on his stretched paws, right beside her, and
beg for bits to eat.

“Wal! I’d never have believed thet!” exclaimed Al, shaking his big head.
“Dale, it’s one on me. I’ve had them big cats foller me on the trails,
through the woods, moonlight an’ dark. An’ I’ve heard ‘em let out thet
awful cry. They ain’t any wild sound on earth thet can beat a cougar’s.
Does this Tom ever let out one of them wails?”

“Sometimes at night,” replied Dale.

“Wal, excuse me. Hope you don’t fetch the yaller rascal down to Pine.”

“I won’t.”

“What’ll you do with this menagerie?”

Dale regarded the rancher attentively. “Reckon, Al, I’ll take care of
them.”

“But you’re goin’ down to my ranch.”

“What for?”

Al scratched his head and gazed perplexedly at the hunter. “Wal, ain’t
it customary to visit friends?”

“Thanks, Al. Next time I ride down Pine way--in the spring,
perhaps--I’ll run over an’ see how you are.”

“Spring!” ejaculated Auchincloss. Then he shook his head sadly and a
far-away look filmed his eyes. “Reckon you’d call some late.”

“Al, you’ll get well now. These, girls--now--they’ll cure you. Reckon I
never saw you look so good.”

Auchincloss did not press his point farther at that time, but after the
meal, when the other men came to see Dale’s camp and pets, Helen’s quick
ears caught the renewal of the subject.

“I’m askin’ you--will you come?” Auchincloss said, low and eagerly.

“No. I wouldn’t fit in down there,” replied Dale.

“Milt, talk sense. You can’t go on forever huntin’ bear an’ tamin’
cats,” protested the old rancher.

“Why not?” asked the hunter, thoughtfully.

Auchincloss stood up and, shaking himself as if to ward off his testy
temper, he put a hand on Dale’s arm.

“One reason is you’re needed in Pine.”

“How? Who needs me?”

“I do. I’m playin’ out fast. An’ Beasley’s my enemy. The ranch an’ all I
got will go to Nell. Thet ranch will have to be run by a man an’ HELD
by a man. Do you savvy? It’s a big job. An’ I’m offerin’ to make you my
foreman right now.”

“Al, you sort of take my breath,” replied Dale. “An’ I’m sure grateful.
But the fact is, even if I could handle the job, I--I don’t believe I’d
want to.”

“Make yourself want to, then. Thet ‘d soon come. You’d get interested.
This country will develop. I seen thet years ago. The government is
goin’ to chase the Apaches out of here. Soon homesteaders will be
flockin’ in. Big future, Dale. You want to get in now. An’--”

Here Auchincloss hesitated, then spoke lower:

“An’ take your chance with the girl!... I’ll be on your side.”

A slight vibrating start ran over Dale’s stalwart form.

“Al--you’re plumb dotty!” he exclaimed.

“Dotty! Me? Dotty!” ejaculated Auchincloss. Then he swore. “In a minit
I’ll tell you what you are.”

“But, Al, that talk’s so--so--like an old fool’s.”

“Huh! An’ why so?”

“Because that--wonderful girl would never look at me,” Dale replied,
simply.

“I seen her lookin’ already,” declared Al, bluntly.

Dale shook his head as if arguing with the old rancher was hopeless.

“Never mind thet,” went on Al. “Mebbe I am a dotty old fool--‘specially
for takin’ a shine to you. But I say again--will you come down to Pine
and be my foreman?”

“No,” replied Dale.

“Milt, I’ve no son--an’ I’m--afraid of Beasley.” This was uttered in an
agitated whisper.

“Al, you make me ashamed,” said Dale, hoarsely. “I can’t come. I’ve no
nerve.”

“You’ve no what?”

“Al, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. But I’m afraid I’d find out if I
came down there.”

“A-huh! It’s the girl!”

“I don’t know, but I’m afraid so. An’ I won’t come.”

“Aw yes, you will--”

Helen rose with beating heart and tingling ears, and moved away out of
hearing. She had listened too long to what had not been intended for her
ears, yet she could not be sorry. She walked a few rods along the brook,
out from under the pines, and, standing in the open edge of the park,
she felt the beautiful scene still her agitation. The following
moments, then, were the happiest she had spent in Paradise Park, and the
profoundest of her whole life.

Presently her uncle called her.

“Nell, this here hunter wants to give you thet black hoss. An’ I say you
take him.”

“Ranger deserves better care than I can give him,” said Dale. “He runs
free in the woods most of the time. I’d be obliged if she’d have him.
An’ the hound, Pedro, too.”

Bo swept a saucy glance from Dale to her sister.

“Sure she’ll have Ranger. Just offer him to ME!”

Dale stood there expectantly, holding a blanket in his hand, ready to
saddle the horse. Carmichael walked around Ranger with that appraising
eye so keen in cowboys.

“Las Vegas, do you know anything about horses?” asked Bo.

“Me! Wal, if you ever buy or trade a hoss you shore have me there,”
 replied Carmichael.

“What do you think of Ranger?” went on Bo.

“Shore I’d buy him sudden, if I could.”

“Mr. Las Vegas, you’re too late,” asserted Helen, as she advanced to lay
a hand on the horse.

“Ranger is mine.”

Dale smoothed out the blanket and, folding it, he threw it over the
horse; and then with one powerful swing he set the saddle in place.

“Thank you very much for him,” said Helen, softly.

“You’re welcome, an’ I’m sure glad,” responded Dale, and then, after a
few deft, strong pulls at the straps, he continued. “There, he’s ready
for you.”

With that he laid an arm over the saddle, and faced Helen as she stood
patting and smoothing Ranger. Helen, strong and calm now, in feminine
possession of her secret and his, as well as her composure, looked
frankly and steadily at Dale. He seemed composed, too, yet the bronze of
his fine face was a trifle pale.

“But I can’t thank you--I’ll never be able to repay you--for your
service to me and my sister,” said Helen.

“I reckon you needn’t try,” Dale returned. “An’ my service, as you call
it, has been good for me.”

“Are you going down to Pine with us?”

“No.”

“But you will come soon?”

“Not very soon, I reckon,” he replied, and averted his gaze.

“When?”

“Hardly before spring.”

“Spring?... That is a long time. Won’t you come to see me sooner than
that?”

“If I can get down to Pine.”

“You’re the first friend I’ve made in the West,” said Helen, earnestly.

“You’ll make many more--an’ I reckon soon forget him you called the man
of the forest.”

“I never forget any of my friends. And you’ve been the--the biggest
friend I ever had.”

“I’ll be proud to remember.”

“But will you remember--will you promise to come to Pine?”

“I reckon.”

“Thank you. All’s well, then.... My friend, goodby.”

“Good-by,” he said, clasping her hand. His glance was clear, warm,
beautiful, yet it was sad.

Auchincloss’s hearty voice broke the spell. Then Helen saw that the
others were mounted. Bo had ridden up close; her face was earnest
and happy and grieved all at once, as she bade good-by to Dale. The
pack-burros were hobbling along toward the green slope. Helen was the
last to mount, but Roy was the last to leave the hunter. Pedro came
reluctantly.

It was a merry, singing train which climbed that brown odorous trail,
under the dark spruces. Helen assuredly was happy, yet a pang abided in
her breast.

She remembered that half-way up the slope there was a turn in the trail
where it came out upon an open bluff. The time seemed long, but at last
she got there. And she checked Ranger so as to have a moment’s gaze down
into the park.

It yawned there, a dark-green and bright-gold gulf, asleep under a
westering sun, exquisite, wild, lonesome. Then she saw Dale standing in
the open space between the pines and the spruces. He waved to her. And
she returned the salute.

Roy caught up with her then and halted his horse. He waved his sombrero
to Dale and let out a piercing yell that awoke the sleeping echoes,
splitting strangely from cliff to cliff.

“Shore Milt never knowed what it was to be lonesome,” said Roy, as if
thinking aloud. “But he’ll know now.”

Ranger stepped out of his own accord and, turning off the ledge, entered
the spruce forest. Helen lost sight of Paradise Park. For hours then
she rode along a shady, fragrant trail, seeing the beauty of color and
wildness, hearing the murmur and rush and roar of water, but all the
while her mind revolved the sweet and momentous realization which had
thrilled her--that the hunter, this strange man of the forest, so deeply
versed in nature and so unfamiliar with emotion, aloof and simple and
strong like the elements which had developed him, had fallen in love
with her and did not know it.



CHAPTER XV

Dale stood with face and arm upraised, and he watched Helen ride off the
ledge to disappear in the forest. That vast spruce slope seemed to have
swallowed her. She was gone! Slowly Dale lowered his arm with gesture
expressive of a strange finality, an eloquent despair, of which he was
unconscious.

He turned to the park, to his camp, and the many duties of a hunter. The
park did not seem the same, nor his home, nor his work.

“I reckon this feelin’s natural,” he soliloquized, resignedly, “but it’s
sure queer for me. That’s what comes of makin’ friends. Nell an’ Bo,
now, they made a difference, an’ a difference I never knew before.”

He calculated that this difference had been simply one of
responsibility, and then the charm and liveliness of the companionship
of girls, and finally friendship. These would pass now that the causes
were removed.

Before he had worked an hour around camp he realized a change had come,
but it was not the one anticipated. Always before he had put his mind on
his tasks, whatever they might be; now he worked while his thoughts were
strangely involved.

The little bear cub whined at his heels; the tame deer seemed to regard
him with deep, questioning eyes, the big cougar padded softly here and
there as if searching for something.

“You all miss them--now--I reckon,” said Dale. “Well, they’re gone an’
you’ll have to get along with me.”

Some vague approach to irritation with his pets surprised him. Presently
he grew both irritated and surprised with himself--a state of mind
totally unfamiliar. Several times, as old habit brought momentary
abstraction, he found himself suddenly looking around for Helen and
Bo. And each time the shock grew stronger. They were gone, but their
presence lingered. After his camp chores were completed he went over to
pull down the lean-to which the girls had utilized as a tent. The spruce
boughs had dried out brown and sear; the wind had blown the roof awry;
the sides were leaning in. As there was now no further use for
this little habitation, he might better pull it down. Dale did not
acknowledge that his gaze had involuntarily wandered toward it many
times. Therefore he strode over with the intention of destroying it.

For the first time since Roy and he had built the lean-to he stepped
inside. Nothing was more certain than the fact that he experienced a
strange sensation, perfectly incomprehensible to him. The blankets
lay there on the spruce boughs, disarranged and thrown back by hurried
hands, yet still holding something of round folds where the slender
forms had nestled. A black scarf often worn by Bo lay covering the
pillow of pine-needles; a red ribbon that Helen had worn on her hair
hung from a twig. These articles were all that had been forgotten. Dale
gazed at them attentively, then at the blankets, and all around the
fragrant little shelter; and he stepped outside with an uncomfortable
knowledge that he could not destroy the place where Helen and Bo had
spent so many hours.

Whereupon, in studious mood, Dale took up his rifle and strode out to
hunt. His winter supply of venison had not yet been laid in. Action
suited his mood; he climbed far and passed by many a watching buck
to slay which seemed murder; at last he jumped one that was wild and
bounded away. This he shot, and set himself a Herculean task in packing
the whole carcass back to camp. Burdened thus, he staggered under the
trees, sweating freely, many times laboring for breath, aching with
toil, until at last he had reached camp. There he slid the deer carcass
off his shoulders, and, standing over it, he gazed down while his breast
labored. It was one of the finest young bucks he had ever seen. But
neither in stalking it, nor making a wonderful shot, nor in packing home
a weight that would have burdened two men, nor in gazing down at his
beautiful quarry, did Dale experience any of the old joy of the hunter.

“I’m a little off my feed,” he mused, as he wiped sweat from his heated
face. “Maybe a little dotty, as I called Al. But that’ll pass.”

Whatever his state, it did not pass. As of old, after a long day’s hunt,
he reclined beside the camp-fire and watched the golden sunset glows
change on the ramparts; as of old he laid a hand on the soft, furry head
of the pet cougar; as of old he watched the gold change to red and then
to dark, and twilight fall like a blanket; as of old he listened to
the dreamy, lulling murmur of the water fall. The old familiar beauty,
wildness, silence, and loneliness were there, but the old content seemed
strangely gone.

Soberly he confessed then that he missed the happy company of the girls.
He did not distinguish Helen from Bo in his slow introspection. When
he sought his bed he did not at once fall to sleep. Always, after a
few moments of wakefulness, while the silence settled down or the wind
moaned through the pines, he had fallen asleep. This night he found
different. Though he was tired, sleep would not soon come. The
wilderness, the mountains, the park, the camp--all seemed to have lost
something. Even the darkness seemed empty. And when at length Dale fell
asleep it was to be troubled by restless dreams.

Up with the keen-edged, steely-bright dawn, he went at the his tasks
with the springy stride of the deer-stalker.

At the end of that strenuous day, which was singularly full of the old
excitement and action and danger, and of new observations, he was bound
to confess that no longer did the chase suffice for him.

Many times on the heights that day, with the wind keen in his face, and
the vast green billows of spruce below him, he had found that he was
gazing without seeing, halting without object, dreaming as he had never
dreamed before.

Once, when a magnificent elk came out upon a rocky ridge and, whistling
a challenge to invisible rivals, stood there a target to stir any
hunter’s pulse, Dale did not even raise his rifle. Into his ear just
then rang Helen’s voice: “Milt Dale, you are no Indian. Giving yourself
to a hunter’s wildlife is selfish. It is wrong. You love this lonely
life, but it is not work. Work that does not help others is not a real
man’s work.”

From that moment conscience tormented him. It was not what he loved,
but what he ought to do, that counted in the sum of good achieved in the
world. Old Al Auchincloss had been right. Dale was wasting strength and
intelligence that should go to do his share in the development of the
West. Now that he had reached maturity, if through his knowledge of
nature’s law he had come to see the meaning of the strife of men for
existence, for place, for possession, and to hold them in contempt, that
was no reason why he should keep himself aloof from them, from some work
that was needed in an incomprehensible world.

Dale did not hate work, but he loved freedom. To be alone, to live with
nature, to feel the elements, to labor and dream and idle and climb
and sleep unhampered by duty, by worry, by restriction, by the petty
interests of men--this had always been his ideal of living. Cowboys,
riders, sheep-herders, farmers--these toiled on from one place and
one job to another for the little money doled out to them. Nothing
beautiful, nothing significant had ever existed in that for him. He had
worked as a boy at every kind of range-work, and of all that humdrum
waste of effort he had liked sawing wood best. Once he had quit a job
of branding cattle because the smell of burning hide, the bawl of the
terrified calf, had sickened him. If men were honest there would be no
need to scar cattle. He had never in the least desired to own land and
droves of stock, and make deals with ranchmen, deals advantageous to
himself. Why should a man want to make a deal or trade a horse or do a
piece of work to another man’s disadvantage? Self-preservation was the
first law of life. But as the plants and trees and birds and beasts
interpreted that law, merciless and inevitable as they were, they had
neither greed nor dishonesty. They lived by the grand rule of what was
best for the greatest number.

But Dale’s philosophy, cold and clear and inevitable, like nature
itself, began to be pierced by the human appeal in Helen Rayner’s words.
What did she mean? Not that he should lose his love of the wilderness,
but that he realize himself! Many chance words of that girl had depth.
He was young, strong, intelligent, free from taint of disease or the
fever of drink. He could do something for others. Who? If that mattered,
there, for instance, was poor old Mrs. Cass, aged and lame now; there
was Al Auchincloss, dying in his boots, afraid of enemies, and wistful
for his blood and his property to receive the fruit of his labors; there
were the two girls, Helen and Bo, new and strange to the West, about to
be confronted by a big problem of ranch life and rival interests. Dale
thought of still more people in the little village of Pine--of others
who had failed, whose lives were hard, who could have been made happier
by kindness and assistance.

What, then, was the duty of Milt Dale to himself? Because men preyed on
one another and on the weak, should he turn his back upon a so-called
civilization or should he grow like them? Clear as a bell came the
answer that his duty was to do neither. And then he saw how the little
village of Pine, as well as the whole world, needed men like him. He had
gone to nature, to the forest, to the wilderness for his development;
and all the judgments and efforts of his future would be a result of
that education.

Thus Dale, lying in the darkness and silence of his lonely park, arrived
at a conclusion that he divined was but the beginning of a struggle.

It took long introspection to determine the exact nature of that
struggle, but at length it evolved into the paradox that Helen Rayner
had opened his eyes to his duty as a man, that he accepted it, yet found
a strange obstacle in the perplexing, tumultuous, sweet fear of ever
going near her again.

Suddenly, then, all his thought revolved around the girl, and, thrown
off his balance, he weltered in a wilderness of unfamiliar strange
ideas.

When he awoke next day the fight was on in earnest. In his sleep his
mind had been active. The idea that greeted him, beautiful as the
sunrise, flashed in memory of Auchincloss’s significant words, “Take
your chance with the girl!”

The old rancher was in his dotage. He hinted of things beyond the range
of possibility. That idea of a chance for Dale remained before his
consciousness only an instant. Stars were unattainable; life could
not be fathomed; the secret of nature did not abide alone on the
earth--these theories were not any more impossible of proving than that
Helen Rayner might be for him.

Nevertheless, her strange coming into his life had played havoc, the
extent of which he had only begun to realize.


For a month he tramped through the forest. It was October, a still
golden, fulfilling season of the year; and everywhere in the vast dark
green a glorious blaze of oak and aspen made beautiful contrast. He
carried his rifle, but he never used it. He would climb miles and go
this way and that with no object in view. Yet his eye and ear had
never been keener. Hours he would spend on a promontory, watching
the distance, where the golden patches of aspen shone bright out
of dark-green mountain slopes. He loved to fling himself down in an
aspen-grove at the edge of a senaca, and there lie in that radiance like
a veil of gold and purple and red, with the white tree-trunks striping
the shade. Always, whether there were breeze or not, the aspen-leaves
quivered, ceaselessly, wonderfully, like his pulses, beyond his control.
Often he reclined against a mossy rock beside a mountain stream to
listen, to watch, to feel all that was there, while his mind held a
haunting, dark-eyed vision of a girl. On the lonely heights, like an
eagle, he sat gazing down into Paradise Park, that was more and more
beautiful, but would never again be the same, never fill him with
content, never be all and all to him.

Late in October the first snow fell. It melted at once on the south side
of the park, but the north slopes and the rims and domes above stayed
white.

Dale had worked quick and hard at curing and storing his winter supply
of food, and now he spent days chopping and splitting wood to burn
during the months he would be snowed-in. He watched for the dark-gray,
fast-scudding storm-clouds, and welcomed them when they came. Once there
lay ten feet of snow on the trails he would be snowed-in until spring.
It would be impossible to go down to Pine. And perhaps during the long
winter he would be cured of this strange, nameless disorder of his
feelings.

November brought storms up on the peaks. Flurries of snow fell in
the park every day, but the sunny south side, where Dale’s camp lay,
retained its autumnal color and warmth. Not till late in winter did the
snow creep over this secluded nook.

The morning came at last, piercingly keen and bright, when Dale saw
that the heights were impassable; the realization brought him a poignant
regret. He had not guessed how he had wanted to see Helen Rayner again
until it was too late. That opened his eyes. A raging frenzy of action
followed, in which he only tired himself physically without helping
himself spiritually.

It was sunset when he faced the west, looking up at the pink snow-domes
and the dark-golden fringe of spruce, and in that moment he found the
truth.

“I love that girl! I love that girl!” he spoke aloud, to the distant
white peaks, to the winds, to the loneliness and silence of his prison,
to the great pines and to the murmuring stream, and to his faithful
pets. It was his tragic confession of weakness, of amazing truth, of
hopeless position, of pitiful excuse for the transformation wrought in
him.

Dale’s struggle ended there when he faced his soul. To understand
himself was to be released from strain, worry, ceaseless importuning
doubt and wonder and fear. But the fever of unrest, of uncertainty, had
been nothing compared to a sudden upflashing torment of love.

With somber deliberation he set about the tasks needful, and others
that he might make--his camp-fires and meals, the care of his pets and
horses, the mending of saddles and pack-harness, the curing of buckskin
for moccasins and hunting-suits. So his days were not idle. But all this
work was habit for him and needed no application of mind.

And Dale, like some men of lonely wilderness lives who did not
retrograde toward the savage, was a thinker. Love made him a sufferer.

The surprise and shame of his unconscious surrender, the certain
hopelessness of it, the long years of communion with all that was wild,
lonely, and beautiful, the wonderfully developed insight into nature’s
secrets, and the sudden-dawning revelation that he was no omniscient
being exempt from the ruthless ordinary destiny of man--all these showed
him the strength of his manhood and of his passion, and that the life
he had chosen was of all lives the one calculated to make love sad and
terrible.

Helen Rayner haunted him. In the sunlight there was not a place
around camp which did not picture her lithe, vigorous body, her dark,
thoughtful eyes, her eloquent, resolute lips, and the smile that was so
sweet and strong. At night she was there like a slender specter, pacing
beside him under the moaning pines. Every camp-fire held in its heart
the glowing white radiance of her spirit.

Nature had taught Dale to love solitude and silence, but love itself
taught him their meaning. Solitude had been created for the eagle on his
crag, for the blasted mountain fir, lonely and gnarled on its peak, for
the elk and the wolf. But it had not been intended for man. And to
live always in the silence of wild places was to become obsessed with
self--to think and dream--to be happy, which state, however pursued by
man, was not good for him. Man must be given imperious longings for the
unattainable.

It needed, then, only the memory of an unattainable woman to render
solitude passionately desired by a man, yet almost unendurable. Dale was
alone with his secret; and every pine, everything in that park saw him
shaken and undone.

In the dark, pitchy deadness of night, when there was no wind and the
cold on the peaks had frozen the waterfall, then the silence seemed
insupportable. Many hours that should have been given to slumber were
paced out under the cold, white, pitiless stars, under the lonely pines.

Dale’s memory betrayed him, mocked his restraint, cheated him of
any peace; and his imagination, sharpened by love, created pictures,
fancies, feelings, that drove him frantic.

He thought of Helen Rayner’s strong, shapely brown hand. In a thousand
different actions it haunted him. How quick and deft in camp-fire tasks!
how graceful and swift as she plaited her dark hair! how tender and
skilful in its ministration when one of his pets had been injured! how
eloquent when pressed tight against her breast in a moment of fear on
the dangerous heights! how expressive of unutterable things when laid on
his arm!

Dale saw that beautiful hand slowly creep up his arm, across his
shoulder, and slide round his neck to clasp there. He was powerless to
inhibit the picture. And what he felt then was boundless, unutterable.
No woman had ever yet so much as clasped his hand, and heretofore no
such imaginings had ever crossed his mind, yet deep in him, somewhere
hidden, had been this waiting, sweet, and imperious need. In the bright
day he appeared to ward off such fancies, but at night he was helpless.
And every fancy left him weaker, wilder.

When, at the culmination of this phase of his passion, Dale, who
had never known the touch of a woman’s lips, suddenly yielded to the
illusion of Helen Rayner’s kisses, he found himself quite mad, filled
with rapture and despair, loving her as he hated himself. It seemed as
if he had experienced all these terrible feelings in some former life
and had forgotten them in this life. He had no right to think of her,
but he could not resist it. Imagining the sweet surrender of her lips
was a sacrilege, yet here, in spite of will and honor and shame, he was
lost.

Dale, at length, was vanquished, and he ceased to rail at himself, or
restrain his fancies. He became a dreamy, sad-eyed, camp-fire gazer,
like many another lonely man, separated, by chance or error, from what
the heart hungered most for. But this great experience, when all its
significance had clarified in his mind, immeasurably broadened his
understanding of the principles of nature applied to life.

Love had been in him stronger than in most men, because of his keen,
vigorous, lonely years in the forest, where health of mind and body were
intensified and preserved. How simple, how natural, how inevitable! He
might have loved any fine-spirited, healthy-bodied girl. Like a tree
shooting its branches and leaves, its whole entity, toward the sunlight,
so had he grown toward a woman’s love. Why? Because the thing he revered
in nature, the spirit, the universal, the life that was God, had created
at his birth or before his birth the three tremendous instincts of
nature--to fight for life, to feed himself, to reproduce his kind. That
was all there was to it. But oh! the mystery, the beauty, the torment,
and the terror of this third instinct--this hunger for the sweetness and
the glory of a woman’s love!



CHAPTER XVI

Helen Rayner dropped her knitting into her lap and sat pensively gazing
out of the window over the bare yellow ranges of her uncle’s ranch.

The winter day was bright, but steely, and the wind that whipped down
from the white-capped mountains had a keen, frosty edge. A scant snow
lay in protected places; cattle stood bunched in the lee of ridges; low
sheets of dust scurried across the flats.

The big living-room of the ranch-house was warm and comfortable with its
red adobe walls, its huge stone fireplace where cedar logs blazed, and
its many-colored blankets. Bo Rayner sat before the fire, curled up in
an armchair, absorbed in a book. On the floor lay the hound Pedro, his
racy, fine head stretched toward the warmth.

“Did uncle call?” asked Helen, with a start out of her reverie.

“I didn’t hear him,” replied Bo.

Helen rose to tiptoe across the floor, and, softly parting some
curtains, she looked into the room where her uncle lay. He was asleep.
Sometimes he called out in his slumbers. For weeks now he had been
confined to his bed, slowly growing weaker. With a sigh Helen returned
to her window-seat and took up her work.

“Bo, the sun is bright,” she said. “The days are growing longer. I’m so
glad.”

“Nell, you’re always wishing time away. For me it passes quickly
enough,” replied the sister.

“But I love spring and summer and fall--and I guess I hate winter,”
 returned Helen, thoughtfully.

The yellow ranges rolled away up to the black ridges and they in turn
swept up to the cold, white mountains. Helen’s gaze seemed to go beyond
that snowy barrier. And Bo’s keen eyes studied her sister’s earnest, sad
face.

“Nell, do you ever think of Dale?” she queried, suddenly.

The question startled Helen. A slow blush suffused neck and cheek.

“Of course,” she replied, as if surprised that Bo should ask such a
thing.

“I--I shouldn’t have asked that,” said Bo, softly, and then bent again
over her book.

Helen gazed tenderly at that bright, bowed head. In this swift-flying,
eventful, busy winter, during which the management of the ranch had
devolved wholly upon Helen, the little sister had grown away from her.
Bo had insisted upon her own free will and she had followed it, to
the amusement of her uncle, to the concern of Helen, to the dismay and
bewilderment of the faithful Mexican housekeeper, and to the undoing of
all the young men on the ranch.

Helen had always been hoping and waiting for a favorable hour in which
she might find this wilful sister once more susceptible to wise and
loving influence. But while she hesitated to speak, slow footsteps and a
jingle of spurs sounded without, and then came a timid knock. Bo looked
up brightly and ran to open the door.

“Oh! It’s only--YOU!” she uttered, in withering scorn, to the one who
knocked.

Helen thought she could guess who that was.

“How are you-all?” asked a drawling voice.

“Well, Mister Carmichael, if that interests you--I’m quite ill,” replied
Bo, freezingly.

“Ill! Aw no, now?”

“It’s a fact. If I don’t die right off I’ll have to be taken back to
Missouri,” said Bo, casually.

“Are you goin’ to ask me in?” queried Carmichael, bluntly. “It’s
cold--an’ I’ve got somethin’ to say to--”

“To ME? Well, you’re not backward, I declare,” retorted Bo.

“Miss Rayner, I reckon it ‘ll be strange to you--findin’ out I didn’t
come to see you.”

“Indeed! No. But what was strange was the deluded idea I had--that you
meant to apologize to me--like a gentleman.... Come in, Mr. Carmichael.
My sister is here.”

The door closed as Helen turned round. Carmichael stood just inside with
his sombrero in hand, and as he gazed at Bo his lean face seemed hard.
In the few months since autumn he had changed--aged, it seemed, and the
once young, frank, alert, and careless cowboy traits had merged into the
making of a man. Helen knew just how much of a man he really was. He had
been her mainstay during all the complex working of the ranch that had
fallen upon her shoulders.

“Wal, I reckon you was deluded, all right--if you thought I’d crawl like
them other lovers of yours,” he said, with cool deliberation.

Bo turned pale, and her eyes fairly blazed, yet even in what must have
been her fury Helen saw amaze and pain.

“OTHER lovers? I think the biggest delusion here is the way you flatter
yourself,” replied Bo, stingingly.

“Me flatter myself? Nope. You don’t savvy me. I’m shore hatin’ myself
these days.”

“Small wonder. I certainly hate you--with all my heart!”

At this retort the cowboy dropped his head and did not see Bo flaunt
herself out of the room. But he heard the door close, and then slowly
came toward Helen.

“Cheer up, Las Vegas,” said Helen, smiling. “Bo’s hot-tempered.”

“Miss Nell, I’m just like a dog. The meaner she treats me the more I
love her,” he replied, dejectedly.

To Helen’s first instinct of liking for this cowboy there had been added
admiration, respect, and a growing appreciation of strong, faithful,
developing character. Carmichael’s face and hands were red and chapped
from winter winds; the leather of wrist-bands, belt, and boots was all
worn shiny and thin; little streaks of dust fell from him as he breathed
heavily. He no longer looked the dashing cowboy, ready for a dance or
lark or fight.

“How in the world did you offend her so?” asked Helen. “Bo is furious. I
never saw her so angry as that.”

“Miss Nell, it was jest this way,” began Carmichael. “Shore Bo’s knowed
I was in love with her. I asked her to marry me an’ she wouldn’t say
yes or no.... An’, mean as it sounds--she never run away from it, thet’s
shore. We’ve had some quarrels--two of them bad, an’ this last’s the
worst.”

“Bo told me about one quarrel,” said Helen. “It was--because you
drank--that time.”

“Shore it was. She took one of her cold spells an’ I jest got drunk.”

“But that was wrong,” protested Helen.

“I ain’t so shore. You see, I used to get drunk often--before I come
here. An’ I’ve been drunk only once. Back at Las Vegas the outfit would
never believe thet. Wal, I promised Bo I wouldn’t do it again, an’ I’ve
kept my word.”

“That is fine of you. But tell me, why is she angry now?”

“Bo makes up to all the fellars,” confessed Carmichael, hanging his
head. “I took her to the dance last week--over in the town-hall. Thet’s
the first time she’d gone anywhere with me. I shore was proud.... But
thet dance was hell. Bo carried on somethin’ turrible, an’ I--”

“Tell me. What did she do?” demanded Helen, anxiously. “I’m responsible
for her. I’ve got to see that she behaves.”

“Aw, I ain’t sayin’ she didn’t behave like a lady,” replied Carmichael.
“It was--she--wal, all them fellars are fools over her--an’ Bo wasn’t
true to me.”

“My dear boy, is Bo engaged to you?”

“Lord--if she only was!” he sighed.

“Then how can you say she wasn’t true to you? Be reasonable.”

“I reckon now, Miss Nell, thet no one can be in love an’ act
reasonable,” rejoined the cowboy. “I don’t know how to explain, but the
fact is I feel thet Bo has played the--the devil with me an’ all the
other fellars.”

“You mean she has flirted?”

“I reckon.”

“Las Vegas, I’m afraid you’re right,” said Helen, with growing
apprehension. “Go on. Tell me what’s happened.”

“Wal, thet Turner boy, who rides for Beasley, he was hot after Bo,”
 returned Carmichael, and he spoke as if memory hurt him. “Reckon I’ve
no use for Turner. He’s a fine-lookin’, strappin’, big cow-puncher, an’
calculated to win the girls. He brags thet he can, an’ I reckon he’s
right. Wal, he was always hangin’ round Bo. An’ he stole one of my
dances with Bo. I only had three, an’ he comes up to say this one was
his; Bo, very innocent--oh, she’s a cute one!--she says, ‘Why, Mister
Turner--is it really yours?’ An’ she looked so full of joy thet when he
says to me, ‘Excoose us, friend Carmichael,’ I sat there like a locoed
jackass an’ let them go. But I wasn’t mad at thet. He was a better
dancer than me an’ I wanted her to have a good time. What started the
hell was I seen him put his arm round her when it wasn’t just time,
accordin’ to the dance, an’ Bo--she didn’t break any records gettin’
away from him. She pushed him away--after a little--after I near died.
Wal, on the way home I had to tell her. I shore did. An’ she said what
I’d love to forget. Then--then, Miss Nell, I grabbed her--it was outside
here by the porch an’ all bright moonlight--I grabbed her an’ hugged an’
kissed her good. When I let her go I says, sorta brave, but I was plumb
scared--I says, ‘Wal, are you goin’ to marry me now?’”

He concluded with a gulp, and looked at Helen with woe in his eyes.

“Oh! What did Bo do?” breathlessly queried Helen.

“She slapped me,” he replied. “An’ then she says, I did like you best,
but NOW I hate you!’ An’ she slammed the door in my face.”

“I think you made a great mistake,” said Helen, gravely.

“Wal, if I thought so I’d beg her forgiveness. But I reckon I don’t.
What’s more, I feel better than before. I’m only a cowboy an’ never was
much good till I met her. Then I braced. I got to havin’ hopes, studyin’
books, an’ you know how I’ve been lookin’ into this ranchin’ game. I
stopped drinkin’ an’ saved my money. Wal, she knows all thet. Once she
said she was proud of me. But it didn’t seem to count big with her.
An’ if it can’t count big I don’t want it to count at all. I reckon the
madder Bo is at me the more chance I’ve got. She knows I love her--thet
I’d die for her--thet I’m a changed man. An’ she knows I never before
thought of darin’ to touch her hand. An’ she knows she flirted with
Turner.”

“She’s only a child,” replied Helen. “And all this change--the West--the
wildness--and you boys making much of her--why, it’s turned her head.
But Bo will come out of it true blue. She is good, loving. Her heart is
gold.”

“I reckon I know, an’ my faith can’t be shook,” rejoined Carmichael,
simply. “But she ought to believe thet she’ll make bad blood out
here. The West is the West. Any kind of girls are scarce. An’ one like
Bo--Lord! we cowboys never seen none to compare with her. She’ll make
bad blood an’ some of it will be spilled.”

“Uncle Al encourages her,” said Helen, apprehensively. “It tickles him
to hear how the boys are after her. Oh, she doesn’t tell him. But he
hears. And I, who must stand in mother’s place to her, what can I do?”

“Miss Nell, are you on my side?” asked the cowboy, wistfully. He was
strong and elemental, caught in the toils of some power beyond him.

Yesterday Helen might have hesitated at that question. But to-day
Carmichael brought some proven quality of loyalty, some strange depth of
rugged sincerity, as if she had learned his future worth.

“Yes, I am,” Helen replied, earnestly. And she offered her hand.

“Wal, then it ‘ll shore turn out happy,” he said, squeezing her hand.
His smile was grateful, but there was nothing in it of the victory he
hinted at. Some of his ruddy color had gone. “An’ now I want to tell you
why I come.”

He had lowered his voice. “Is Al asleep?” he whispered.

“Yes,” replied Helen. “He was a little while ago.”

“Reckon I’d better shut his door.”

Helen watched the cowboy glide across the room and carefully close the
door, then return to her with intent eyes. She sensed events in his
look, and she divined suddenly that he must feel as if he were her
brother.

“Shore I’m the one thet fetches all the bad news to you,” he said,
regretfully.

Helen caught her breath. There had indeed been many little calamities
to mar her management of the ranch--loss of cattle, horses, sheep--the
desertion of herders to Beasley--failure of freighters to arrive
when most needed--fights among the cowboys--and disagreements over
long-arranged deals.

“Your uncle Al makes a heap of this here Jeff Mulvey,” asserted
Carmichael.

“Yes, indeed. Uncle absolutely relies on Jeff,” replied Helen.

“Wal, I hate to tell you, Miss Nell,” said the cowboy, bitterly, “thet
Mulvey ain’t the man he seems.”

“Oh, what do you mean?”

“When your uncle dies Mulvey is goin’ over to Beasley an’ he’s goin’ to
take all the fellars who’ll stick to him.”

“Could Jeff be so faithless--after so many years my uncle’s foreman? Oh,
how do you know?”

“Reckon I guessed long ago. But wasn’t shore. Miss Nell, there’s a
lot in the wind lately, as poor old Al grows weaker. Mulvey has been
particular friendly to me an’ I’ve nursed him along, ‘cept I wouldn’t
drink. An’ his pards have been particular friends with me, too, more
an’ more as I loosened up. You see, they was shy of me when I first got
here. To-day the whole deal showed clear to me like a hoof track in soft
ground. Bud Lewis, who’s bunked with me, come out an’ tried to win me
over to Beasley--soon as Auchincloss dies. I palavered with Bud an’ I
wanted to know. But Bud would only say he was goin’ along with Jeff an’
others of the outfit. I told him I’d reckon over it an’ let him know. He
thinks I’ll come round.”

“Why--why will these men leave me when--when--Oh, poor uncle! They
bargain on his death. But why--tell me why?”

“Beasley has worked on them--won them over,” replied Carmichael, grimly.
“After Al dies the ranch will go to you. Beasley means to have it. He
an’ Al was pards once, an’ now Beasley has most folks here believin’ he
got the short end of thet deal. He’ll have papers--shore--an’ he’ll have
most of the men. So he’ll just put you off an’ take possession. Thet’s
all, Miss Nell, an’ you can rely on its bein’ true.”

“I--I believe you--but I can’t believe such--such robbery possible,”
 gasped Helen.

“It’s simple as two an’ two. Possession is law out here. Once Beasley
gets on the ground it’s settled. What could you do with no men to fight
for your property?”

“But, surely, some of the men will stay with me?”

“I reckon. But not enough.”

“Then I can hire more. The Beeman boys. And Dale would come to help me.”

“Dale would come. An’ he’d help a heap. I wish he was here,” replied
Carmichael, soberly. “But there’s no way to get him. He’s snowed-up till
May.”

“I dare not confide in uncle,” said Helen, with agitation. “The shock
might kill him. Then to tell him of the unfaithfulness of his old
men--that would be cruel.... Oh, it can’t be so bad as you think.”

“I reckon it couldn’t be no worse. An’--Miss Nell, there’s only one way
to get out of it--an’ thet’s the way of the West.”

“How?” queried Helen, eagerly.

Carmichael lunged himself erect and stood gazing down at her. He seemed
completely detached now from that frank, amiable cowboy of her first
impressions. The redness was totally gone from his face. Something
strange and cold and sure looked out of his eyes.

“I seen Beasley go in the saloon as I rode past. Suppose I go down
there, pick a quarrel with him--an’ kill him?”

Helen sat bolt-upright with a cold shock.

“Carmichael! you’re not serious?” she exclaimed.

“Serious? I shore am. Thet’s the only way, Miss Nell. An’ I reckon it’s
what Al would want. An’ between you an’ me--it would be easier than
ropin’ a calf. These fellars round Pine don’t savvy guns. Now, I come
from where guns mean somethin’. An’ when I tell you I can throw a gun
slick an’ fast, why I shore ain’t braggin’. You needn’t worry none about
me, Miss Nell.”

Helen grasped that he had taken the signs of her shocked sensibility
to mean she feared for his life. But what had sickened her was the mere
idea of bloodshed in her behalf.

“You’d--kill Beasley--just because there are rumors of his--treachery?”
 gasped Helen.

“Shore. It’ll have to be done, anyhow,” replied the cowboy.

“No! No! It’s too dreadful to think of. Why, that would be murder. I--I
can’t understand how you speak of it--so--so calmly.”

“Reckon I ain’t doin’ it calmly. I’m as mad as hell,” said Carmichael,
with a reckless smile.

“Oh, if you are serious then, I say no--no--no! I forbid you. I don’t
believe I’ll be robbed of my property.”

“Wal, supposin’ Beasley does put you off--an’ takes possession. What ‘re
you goin’ to say then?” demanded the cowboy, in slow, cool deliberation.

“I’d say the same then as now,” she replied.

He bent his head thoughtfully while his red hands smoothed his sombrero.

“Shore you girls haven’t been West very long,” he muttered, as if
apologizing for them. “An’ I reckon it takes time to learn the ways of a
country.”

“West or no West, I won’t have fights deliberately picked, and men shot,
even if they do threaten me,” declared Helen, positively.

“All right, Miss Nell, shore I respect your wishes,” he returned. “But
I’ll tell you this. If Beasley turns you an’ Bo out of your home--wal,
I’ll look him up on my own account.”

Helen could only gaze at him as he backed to the door, and she thrilled
and shuddered at what seemed his loyalty to her, his love for Bo, and
that which was inevitable in himself.

“Reckon you might save us all some trouble--now if you’d--just get
mad--an’ let me go after thet greaser.”

“Greaser! Do you mean Beasley?”

“Shore. He’s a half-breed. He was born in Magdalena, where I heard folks
say nary one of his parents was no good.”

“That doesn’t matter. I’m thinking of humanity of law and order. Of what
is right.”

“Wal, Miss Nell, I’ll wait till you get real mad--or till Beasley--”

“But, my friend, I’ll not get mad,” interrupted Helen. “I’ll keep my
temper.”

“I’ll bet you don’t,” he retorted. “Mebbe you think you’ve none of Bo in
you. But I’ll bet you could get so mad--once you started--thet you’d
be turrible. What ‘ve you got them eyes for, Miss Nell, if you ain’t an
Auchincloss?”

He was smiling, yet he meant every word. Helen felt the truth as
something she feared.

“Las Vegas, I won’t bet. But you--you will always come to me--first--if
there’s trouble.”

“I promise,” he replied, soberly, and then went out.

Helen found that she was trembling, and that there was a commotion in
her breast. Carmichael had frightened her. No longer did she hold doubt
of the gravity of the situation. She had seen Beasley often, several
times close at hand, and once she had been forced to meet him. That time
had convinced her that he had evinced personal interest in her. And on
this account, coupled with the fact that Riggs appeared to have nothing
else to do but shadow her, she had been slow in developing her intention
of organizing and teaching a school for the children of Pine. Riggs had
become rather a doubtful celebrity in the settlements. Yet his bold,
apparent badness had made its impression. From all reports he spent his
time gambling, drinking, and bragging. It was no longer news in Pine
what his intentions were toward Helen Rayner. Twice he had ridden up to
the ranch-house, upon one occasion securing an interview with Helen. In
spite of her contempt and indifference, he was actually influencing her
life there in Pine. And it began to appear that the other man, Beasley,
might soon direct stronger significance upon the liberty of her actions.

The responsibility of the ranch had turned out to be a heavy burden. It
could not be managed, at least by her, in the way Auchincloss wanted
it done. He was old, irritable, irrational, and hard. Almost all the
neighbors were set against him, and naturally did not take kindly to
Helen.

She had not found the slightest evidence of unfair dealing on the part
of her uncle, but he had been a hard driver. Then his shrewd, far-seeing
judgment had made all his deals fortunate for him, which fact had not
brought a profit of friendship.

Of late, since Auchincloss had grown weaker and less dominating, Helen
had taken many decisions upon herself, with gratifying and hopeful
results. But the wonderful happiness that she had expected to find in
the West still held aloof. The memory of Paradise Park seemed only a
dream, sweeter and more intangible as time passed, and fuller of vague
regrets. Bo was a comfort, but also a very considerable source of
anxiety. She might have been a help to Helen if she had not assimilated
Western ways so swiftly. Helen wished to decide things in her own way,
which was as yet quite far from Western. So Helen had been thrown more
and more upon her own resources, with the cowboy Carmichael the only one
who had come forward voluntarily to her aid.

For an hour Helen sat alone in the room, looking out of the window, and
facing stern reality with a colder, graver, keener sense of intimacy
than ever before. To hold her property and to live her life in this
community according to her ideas of honesty, justice, and law might well
be beyond her powers. To-day she had been convinced that she could not
do so without fighting for them, and to fight she must have friends.
That conviction warmed her toward Carmichael, and a thoughtful
consideration of all he had done for her proved that she had not fully
appreciated him. She would make up for her oversight.

There were no Mormons in her employ, for the good reason that
Auchincloss would not hire them. But in one of his kindlier hours,
growing rare now, he had admitted that the Mormons were the best and the
most sober, faithful workers on the ranges, and that his sole objection
to them was just this fact of their superiority. Helen decided to hire
the four Beemans and any of their relatives or friends who would come;
and to do this, if possible, without letting her uncle know. His temper
now, as well as his judgment, was a hindrance to efficiency. This
decision regarding the Beemans; brought Helen back to Carmichael’s
fervent wish for Dale, and then to her own.

Soon spring would be at hand, with its multiplicity of range tasks. Dale
had promised to come to Pine then, and Helen knew that promise would be
kept. Her heart beat a little faster, in spite of her business-centered
thoughts. Dale was there, over the black-sloped, snowy-tipped mountain,
shut away from the world. Helen almost envied him. No wonder he loved
loneliness, solitude, the sweet, wild silence and beauty of Paradise
Park! But he was selfish, and Helen meant to show him that. She needed
his help. When she recalled his physical prowess with animals, and
imagined what it must be in relation to men, she actually smiled at the
thought of Beasley forcing her off her property, if Dale were there.
Beasley would only force disaster upon himself. Then Helen experienced
a quick shock. Would Dale answer to this situation as Carmichael had
answered? It afforded her relief to assure herself to the contrary.
The cowboy was one of a blood-letting breed; the hunter was a man of
thought, gentleness, humanity. This situation was one of the kind that
had made him despise the littleness of men. Helen assured herself
that he was different from her uncle and from the cowboy, in all the
relations of life which she had observed while with him. But a doubt
lingered in her mind. She remembered his calm reference to Snake Anson,
and that caused a recurrence of the little shiver Carmichael had given
her. When the doubt augmented to a possibility that she might not be
able to control Dale, then she tried not to think of it any more. It
confused and perplexed her that into her mind should flash a thought
that, though it would be dreadful for Carmichael to kill Beasley, for
Dale to do it would be a calamity--a terrible thing. Helen did not
analyze that strange thought. She was as afraid of it as she was of the
stir in her blood when she visualized Dale.

Her meditation was interrupted by Bo, who entered the room,
rebellious-eyed and very lofty. Her manner changed, which apparently
owed its cause to the fact that Helen was alone.

“Is that--cowboy gone?” she asked.

“Yes. He left quite some time ago,” replied Helen.

“I wondered if he made your eyes shine--your color burn so. Nell, you’re
just beautiful.”

“Is my face burning?” asked Helen, with a little laugh. “So it is.
Well, Bo, you’ve no cause for jealousy. Las Vegas can’t be blamed for my
blushes.”

“Jealous! Me? Of that wild-eyed, soft-voiced, two-faced cow-puncher? I
guess not, Nell Rayner. What ‘d he say about me?”

“Bo, he said a lot,” replied Helen, reflectively. “I’ll tell you
presently. First I want to ask you--has Carmichael ever told you how
he’s helped me?”

“No! When I see him--which hasn’t been often lately--he--I--Well, we
fight. Nell, has he helped you?”

Helen smiled in faint amusement. She was going to be sincere, but she
meant to keep her word to the cowboy. The fact was that reflection had
acquainted her with her indebtedness to Carmichael.

“Bo, you’ve been so wild to ride half-broken mustangs--and carry on with
cowboys--and read--and sew--and keep your secrets that you’ve had no
time for your sister or her troubles.”

“Nell!” burst out Bo, in amaze and pain. She flew to Helen and seized
her hands. “What ‘re you saying?”

“It’s all true,” replied Helen, thrilling and softening. This sweet
sister, once aroused, would be hard to resist. Helen imagined she should
hold to her tone of reproach and severity.

“Sure it’s true,” cried Bo, fiercely. “But what’s my fooling got to do
with the--the rest you said? Nell, are you keeping things from me?”

“My dear, I never get any encouragement to tell you my troubles.”

“But I’ve--I’ve nursed uncle--sat up with him--just the same as you,”
 said Bo, with quivering lips.

“Yes, you’ve been good to him.”

“We’ve no other troubles, have we, Nell?”

“You haven’t, but I have,” responded Helen, reproachfully.

“Why--why didn’t you tell me?” cried Bo, passionately. “What are they?
Tell me now. You must think me a--a selfish, hateful cat.”

“Bo, I’ve had much to worry me--and the worst is yet to come,” replied
Helen. Then she told Bo how complicated and bewildering was the
management of a big ranch--when the owner was ill, testy, defective in
memory, and hard as steel--when he had hoards of gold and notes, but
could not or would not remember his obligations--when the neighbor
ranchers had just claims--when cowboys and sheep-herders were
discontented, and wrangled among themselves--when great herds of cattle
and flocks of sheep had to be fed in winter--when supplies had to be
continually freighted across a muddy desert and lastly, when an enemy
rancher was slowly winning away the best hands with the end in view of
deliberately taking over the property when the owner died. Then Helen
told how she had only that day realized the extent of Carmichael’s
advice and help and labor--how, indeed, he had been a brother to
her--how--

But at this juncture Bo buried her face in Helen’s breast and began to
cry wildly.

“I--I--don’t want--to hear--any more,” she sobbed.

“Well, you’ve got to hear it,” replied Helen, inexorably “I want you to
know how he’s stood by me.”

“But I hate him.”

“Bo, I suspect that’s not true.”

“I do--I do.”

“Well, you act and talk very strangely then.”

“Nell Rayner--are--you--you sticking up for that--that devil?”

“I am, yes, so far as it concerns my conscience,” rejoined Helen,
earnestly. “I never appreciated him as he deserved--not until now. He’s
a man, Bo, every inch of him. I’ve seen him grow up to that in three
months. I’d never have gotten along without him. I think he’s fine,
manly, big. I--”

“I’ll bet--he’s made love--to you, too,” replied Bo, woefully.

“Talk sense,” said Helen, sharply. “He has been a brother to me. But,
Bo Rayner, if he HAD made love to me I--I might have appreciated it more
than you.”

Bo raised her face, flushed in part and also pale, with tear-wet cheeks
and the telltale blaze in the blue eyes.

“I’ve been wild about that fellow. But I hate him, too,” she said, with
flashing spirit. “And I want to go on hating him. So don’t tell me any
more.”

Whereupon Helen briefly and graphically related how Carmichael had
offered to kill Beasley, as the only way to save her property, and how,
when she refused, that he threatened he would do it anyhow.

Bo fell over with a gasp and clung to Helen.

“Oh--Nell! Oh, now I love him more than--ever,” she cried, in mingled
rage and despair.

Helen clasped her closely and tried to comfort her as in the old days,
not so very far back, when troubles were not so serious as now.

“Of course you love him,” she concluded. “I guessed that long ago. And
I’m glad. But you’ve been wilful--foolish. You wouldn’t surrender to it.
You wanted your fling with the other boys. You’re--Oh, Bo, I fear you
have been a sad little flirt.”

“I--I wasn’t very bad till--till he got bossy. Why, Nell, he
acted--right off--just as if he OWNED me. But he didn’t.... And to show
him--I--I really did flirt with that Turner fellow. Then he--he insulted
me.... Oh, I hate him!”

“Nonsense, Bo. You can’t hate any one while you love him,” protested
Helen.

“Much you know about that,” flashed Bo. “You just can! Look here. Did
you ever see a cowboy rope and throw and tie up a mean horse?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Do you have any idea how strong a cowboy is--how his hands and arms are
like iron?”

“Yes, I’m sure I know that, too.”

“And how savage he is?”

“Yes.”

“And how he goes at anything he wants to do?”

“I must admit cowboys are abrupt,” responded Helen, with a smile.

“Well, Miss Rayner, did you ever--when you were standing quiet like a
lady--did you ever have a cowboy dive at you with a terrible lunge--grab
you and hold you so you couldn’t move or breathe or scream--hug you
till all your bones cracked--and kiss you so fierce and so hard that you
wanted to kill him and die?”

Helen had gradually drawn back from this blazing-eyed, eloquent sister,
and when the end of that remarkable question came it was impossible to
reply.

“There! I see you never had that done to you,” resumed Bo, with
satisfaction. “So don’t ever talk to me.”

“I’ve heard his side of the story,” said Helen, constrainedly.

With a start Bo sat up straighter, as if better to defend herself.

“Oh! So you have? And I suppose you’ll take his part--even about
that--that bearish trick.”

“No. I think that rude and bold. But, Bo, I don’t believe he meant to
be either rude or bold. From what he confessed to me I gather that he
believed he’d lose you outright or win you outright by that violence. It
seems girls can’t play at love out here in this wild West. He said there
would be blood shed over you. I begin to realize what he meant. He’s
not sorry for what he did. Think how strange that is. For he has the
instincts of a gentleman. He’s kind, gentle, chivalrous. Evidently he
had tried every way to win your favor except any familiar advance. He
did that as a last resort. In my opinion his motives were to force you
to accept or refuse him, and in case you refused him he’d always have
those forbidden stolen kisses to assuage his self-respect--when he
thought of Turner or any one else daring to be familiar with you. Bo,
I see through Carmichael, even if I don’t make him clear to you. You’ve
got to be honest with yourself. Did that act of his win or lose you? In
other words, do you love him or not?”

Bo hid her face.

“Oh, Nell! it made me see how I loved him--and that made me so--so sick
I hated him.... But now--the hate is all gone.”



CHAPTER XVII

When spring came at last and the willows drooped green and fresh over
the brook and the range rang with bray of burro and whistle of stallion,
old Al Auchincloss had been a month in his grave.

To Helen it seemed longer. The month had been crowded with work, events,
and growing, more hopeful duties, so that it contained a world
of living. The uncle had not been forgotten, but the innumerable
restrictions to development and progress were no longer manifest.
Beasley had not presented himself or any claim upon Helen; and she,
gathering confidence day by day, began to believe all that purport of
trouble had been exaggerated.

In this time she had come to love her work and all that pertained to it.
The estate was large. She had no accurate knowledge of how many acres
she owned, but it was more than two thousand. The fine, old, rambling
ranch-house, set like a fort on the last of the foot-hills, corrals and
fields and barns and meadows, and the rolling green range beyond, and
innumerable sheep, horses, cattle--all these belonged to Helen, to her
ever-wondering realization and ever-growing joy. Still, she was afraid
to let herself go and be perfectly happy. Always there was the fear that
had been too deep and strong to forget so soon.

This bright, fresh morning, in March, Helen came out upon the porch to
revel a little in the warmth of sunshine and the crisp, pine-scented
wind that swept down from the mountains. There was never a morning that
she did not gaze mountainward, trying to see, with a folly she realized,
if the snow had melted more perceptibly away on the bold white ridge.
For all she could see it had not melted an inch, and she would
not confess why she sighed. The desert had become green and fresh,
stretching away there far below her range, growing dark and purple in
the distance with vague buttes rising. The air was full of sound--notes
of blackbirds and the baas of sheep, and blasts from the corrals, and
the clatter of light hoofs on the court below.

Bo was riding in from the stables. Helen loved to watch her on one of
those fiery little mustangs, but the sight was likewise given to rousing
apprehensions. This morning Bo appeared particularly bent on frightening
Helen. Down the lane Carmichael appeared, waving his arms, and Helen
at once connected him with Bo’s manifest desire to fly away from that
particular place. Since that day, a month back, when Bo had confessed
her love for Carmichael, she and Helen had not spoken of it or of the
cowboy. The boy and girl were still at odds. But this did not worry
Helen. Bo had changed much for the better, especially in that she
devoted herself to Helen and to her work. Helen knew that all would
turn out well in the end, and so she had been careful of her rather
precarious position between these two young firebrands.

Bo reined in the mustang at the porch steps. She wore a buckskin
riding-suit which she had made herself, and its soft gray with the
touches of red beads was mightily becoming to her. Then she had grown
considerably during the winter and now looked too flashing and pretty to
resemble a boy, yet singularly healthy and strong and lithe. Red spots
shone in her cheeks and her eyes held that ever-dangerous blaze.

“Nell, did you give me away to that cowboy?” she demanded.

“Give you away!” exclaimed Helen, blankly.

“Yes. You know I told you--awhile back--that I was wildly in love with
him. Did you give me away--tell on me?”

She might have been furious, but she certainly was not confused.

“Why, Bo! How could you? No. I did not,” replied Helen.

“Never gave him a hint?”

“Not even a hint. You have my word for that. Why? What’s happened?”

“He makes me sick.”

Bo would not say any more, owing to the near approach of the cowboy.

“Mawnin’, Miss Nell,” he drawled. “I was just tellin’ this here Miss
Bo-Peep Rayner--”

“Don’t call me that!” broke in Bo, with fire in her voice.

“Wal, I was just tellin’ her thet she wasn’t goin’ off on any more of
them long rides. Honest now, Miss Nell, it ain’t safe, an’--”

“You’re not my boss,” retorted Bo.

“Indeed, sister, I agree with him. You won’t obey me.”

“Reckon some one’s got to be your boss,” drawled Carmichael. “Shore I
ain’t hankerin’ for the job. You could ride to Kingdom Come or off among
the Apaches--or over here a ways”--at this he grinned knowingly--“or
anywheres, for all I cared. But I’m workin’ for Miss Nell, an’ she’s
boss. An’ if she says you’re not to take them rides--you won’t. Savvy
that, miss?”

It was a treat for Helen to see Bo look at the cowboy.

“Mis-ter Carmichael, may I ask how you are going to prevent me from
riding where I like?”

“Wal, if you’re goin’ worse locoed this way I’ll keep you off’n a hoss
if I have to rope you an’ tie you up. By golly, I will!”

His dry humor was gone and manifestly he meant what he said.

“Wal,” she drawled it very softly and sweetly, but venomously,
“if--you--ever--touch--me again!”

At this he flushed, then made a quick, passionate gesture with his hand,
expressive of heat and shame.

“You an’ me will never get along,” he said, with a dignity full of
pathos. “I seen thet a month back when you changed sudden-like to me.
But nothin’ I say to you has any reckonin’ of mine. I’m talkin’ for your
sister. It’s for her sake. An’ your own.... I never told her an’ I never
told you thet I’ve seen Riggs sneakin’ after you twice on them desert
rides. Wal, I tell you now.”

The intelligence apparently had not the slightest effect on Bo. But
Helen was astonished and alarmed.

“Riggs! Oh, Bo, I’ve seen him myself--riding around. He does not mean
well. You must be careful.”

“If I ketch him again,” went on Carmichael, with his mouth lining hard,
“I’m goin’ after him.”

He gave her a cool, intent, piercing look, then he dropped his head and
turned away, to stride back toward the corrals.

Helen could make little of the manner in which her sister watched the
cowboy pass out of sight.

“A month back--when I changed sudden-like,” mused Bo. “I wonder what he
meant by that.... Nell, did I change--right after the talk you had with
me--about him?”

“Indeed you did, Bo,” replied Helen. “But it was for the better. Only
he can’t see it. How proud and sensitive he is! You wouldn’t guess it
at first. Bo, your reserve has wounded him more than your flirting. He
thinks it’s indifference.”

“Maybe that ‘ll be good for him,” declared Bo. “Does he expect me to
fall on his neck? He’s that thick-headed! Why, he’s the locoed one, not
me.”

“I’d like to ask you, Bo, if you’ve seen how he has changed?” queried
Helen, earnestly. “He’s older. He’s worried. Either his heart is
breaking for you or else he fears trouble for us. I fear it’s both. How
he watches you! Bo, he knows all you do--where you go. That about Riggs
sickens me.”

“If Riggs follows me and tries any of his four-flush desperado games
he’ll have his hands full,” said Bo, grimly. “And that without my cowboy
protector! But I just wish Riggs would do something. Then we’ll see what
Las Vegas Tom Carmichael cares. Then we’ll see!”

Bo bit out the last words passionately and jealously, then she lifted
her bridle to the spirited mustang.

“Nell, don’t you fear for me,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”

Helen watched her ride away, all but willing to confess that there
might be truth in what Bo said. Then Helen went about her work, which
consisted of routine duties as well as an earnest study to familiarize
herself with continually new and complex conditions of ranch life. Every
day brought new problems. She made notes of all that she observed, and
all that was told her, which habit she had found, after a few weeks of
trial, was going to be exceedingly valuable to her. She did not intend
always to be dependent upon the knowledge of hired men, however faithful
some of them might be.

This morning on her rounds she had expected developments of some kind,
owing to the presence of Roy Beeman and two of his brothers, who had
arrived yesterday. And she was to discover that Jeff Mulvey, accompanied
by six of his co-workers and associates, had deserted her without a word
or even sending for their pay. Carmichael had predicted this. Helen had
half doubted. It was a relief now to be confronted with facts, however
disturbing. She had fortified herself to withstand a great deal more
trouble than had happened. At the gateway of the main corral, a huge
inclosure fenced high with peeled logs, she met Roy Beeman, lasso in
hand, the same tall, lean, limping figure she remembered so well.
Sight of him gave her an inexplicable thrill--a flashing memory of an
unforgettable night ride. Roy was to have charge of the horses on the
ranch, of which there were several hundred, not counting many lost on
range and mountain, or the unbranded colts.

Roy took off his sombrero and greeted her. This Mormon had a courtesy
for women that spoke well for him. Helen wished she had more employees
like him.

“It’s jest as Las Vegas told us it ‘d be,” he said, regretfully. “Mulvey
an’ his pards lit out this mornin’. I’m sorry, Miss Helen. Reckon thet’s
all because I come over.”

“I heard the news,” replied Helen. “You needn’t be sorry, Roy, for I’m
not. I’m glad. I want to know whom I can trust.”

“Las Vegas says we’re shore in for it now.”

“Roy, what do you think?”

“I reckon so. Still, Las Vegas is powerful cross these days an’ always
lookin’ on the dark side. With us boys, now, it’s sufficient unto the
day is the evil thereof. But, Miss Helen, if Beasley forces the deal
there will be serious trouble. I’ve seen thet happen. Four or five years
ago Beasley rode some greasers off their farms an’ no one ever knowed if
he had a just claim.”

“Beasley has no claim on my property. My uncle solemnly swore that on
his death-bed. And I find nothing in his books or papers of those years
when he employed Beasley. In fact, Beasley was never uncle’s partner.
The truth is that my uncle took Beasley up when he was a poor, homeless
boy.”

“So my old dad says,” replied Roy. “But what’s right don’t always
prevail in these parts.”

“Roy, you’re the keenest man I’ve met since I came West. Tell me what
you think will happen.”

Beeman appeared flattered, but he hesitated to reply. Helen had long
been aware of the reticence of these outdoor men.

“I reckon you mean cause an’ effect, as Milt Dale would say,” responded
Roy, thoughtfully.

“Yes. If Beasley attempts to force me off my ranch what will happen?”

Roy looked up and met her gaze. Helen remembered that singular
stillness, intentness of his face.

“Wal, if Dale an’ John get here in time I reckon we can bluff thet
Beasley outfit.”

“You mean my friends--my men would confront Beasley--refuse his
demands--and if necessary fight him off?”

“I shore do,” replied Roy.

“But suppose you’re not all here? Beasley would be smart enough to
choose an opportune time. Suppose he did put me off and take possession?
What then?”

“Then it ‘d only be a matter of how soon Dale or Carmichael--or I--got
to Beasley.”

“Roy! I feared just that. It haunts me. Carmichael asked me to let him
go pick a fight with Beasley. Asked me, just as he would ask me about
his work! I was shocked. And now you say Dale--and you--”

Helen choked in her agitation.

“Miss Helen, what else could you look for? Las Vegas is in love with
Miss Bo. Shore he told me so. An’ Dale’s in love with you!... Why, you
couldn’t stop them any more ‘n you could stop the wind from blowin’ down
a pine, when it got ready.... Now, it’s some different with me. I’m a
Mormon an’ I’m married. But I’m Dale’s pard, these many years. An’
I care a powerful sight for you an’ Miss Bo. So I reckon I’d draw on
Beasley the first chance I got.”

Helen strove for utterance, but it was denied her. Roy’s simple
statement of Dale’s love had magnified her emotion by completely
changing its direction. She forgot what she had felt wretched about. She
could not look at Roy.

“Miss Helen, don’t feel bad,” he said, kindly. “Shore you’re not to
blame. Your comin’ West hasn’t made any difference in Beasley’s fate,
except mebbe to hurry it a little. My dad is old, an’ when he talks
it’s like history. He looks back on happenin’s. Wal, it’s the nature of
happenin’s that Beasley passes away before his prime. Them of his breed
don’t live old in the West.... So I reckon you needn’t feel bad or
worry. You’ve got friends.”

Helen incoherently thanked him, and, forgetting her usual round of
corrals and stables, she hurried back toward the house, deeply stirred,
throbbing and dim-eyed, with a feeling she could not control. Roy Beeman
had made a statement that had upset her equilibrium. It seemed simple
and natural, yet momentous and staggering. To hear that Dale loved
her--to hear it spoken frankly, earnestly, by Dale’s best friend, was
strange, sweet, terrifying. But was it true? Her own consciousness had
admitted it. Yet that was vastly different from a man’s open statement.
No longer was it a dear dream, a secret that seemed hers alone. How she
had lived on that secret hidden deep in her breast!

Something burned the dimness from her eyes as she looked toward the
mountains and her sight became clear, telescopic with its intensity.
Magnificently the mountains loomed. Black inroads and patches on the
slopes showed where a few days back all bad been white. The snow was
melting fast. Dale would soon be free to ride down to Pine. And that was
an event Helen prayed for, yet feared as she had never feared anything.


The noonday dinner-bell startled Helen from a reverie that was a
pleasant aftermath of her unrestraint. How the hours had flown! This
morning at least must be credited to indolence.

Bo was not in the dining-room, nor in her own room, nor was she in
sight from window or door. This absence had occurred before, but not
particularly to disturb Helen. In this instance, however, she grew
worried. Her nerves presaged strain. There was an overcharge of
sensibility in her feelings or a strange pressure in the very
atmosphere. She ate dinner alone, looking her apprehension, which was
not mitigated by the expressive fears of old Maria, the Mexican woman
who served her.

After dinner she sent word to Roy and Carmichael that they had better
ride out to look for Bo. Then Helen applied herself resolutely to her
books until a rapid clatter of hoofs out in the court caused her to jump
up and hurry to the porch. Roy was riding in.

“Did you find her?” queried Helen, hurriedly.

“Wasn’t no track or sign of her up the north range,” replied Roy, as he
dismounted and threw his bridle. “An’ I was ridin’ back to take up her
tracks from the corral an’ trail her. But I seen Las Vegas comin’ an’ he
waved his sombrero. He was comin’ up from the south. There he is now.”

Carmichael appeared swinging into the lane. He was mounted on Helen’s
big black Ranger, and he made the dust fly.

“Wal, he’s seen her, thet’s shore,” vouchsafed Roy, with relief, as
Carmichael rode up.

“Miss Nell, she’s comin’,” said the cowboy, as he reined in and
slid down with his graceful single motion. Then in a violent action,
characteristic of him, he slammed his sombrero down on the porch and
threw up both arms. “I’ve a hunch it’s come off!”

“Oh, what?” exclaimed Helen.

“Now, Las Vegas, talk sense,” expostulated Roy. “Miss Helen is shore
nervous to-day. Has anythin’ happened?”

“I reckon, but I don’t know what,” replied Carmichael, drawing a long
breath. “Folks, I must be gettin’ old. For I shore felt orful queer till
I seen Bo. She was ridin’ down the ridge across the valley. Ridin’ some
fast, too, an’ she’ll be here right off, if she doesn’t stop in the
village.”

“Wal, I hear her comin’ now,” said Roy. “An’--if you asked me I’d say
she WAS ridin’ some fast.”

Helen heard the light, swift, rhythmic beat of hoofs, and then out on
the curve of the road that led down to Pine she saw Bo’s mustang, white
with lather, coming on a dead run.

“Las Vegas, do you see any Apaches?” asked Roy, quizzingly.

The cowboy made no reply, but he strode out from the porch, directly
in front of the mustang. Bo was pulling hard on the bridle, and had him
slowing down, but not controlled. When he reached the house it could
easily be seen that Bo had pulled him to the limit of her strength,
which was not enough to halt him. Carmichael lunged for the bridle and,
seizing it, hauled him to a standstill.

At close sight of Bo Helen uttered a startled cry. Bo was white; her
sombrero was gone and her hair undone; there were blood and dirt on
her face, and her riding-suit was torn and muddy. She had evidently
sustained a fall. Roy gazed at her in admiring consternation, but
Carmichael never looked at her at all. Apparently he was examining the
horse. “Well, help me off--somebody,” cried Bo, peremptorily. Her voice
was weak, but not her spirit.

Roy sprang to help her off, and when she was down it developed that she
was lame.

“Oh, Bo! You’ve had a tumble,” exclaimed Helen, anxiously, and she ran
to assist Roy. They led her up the porch and to the door. There she
turned to look at Carmichael, who was still examining the spent mustang.

“Tell him--to come in,” she whispered.

“Hey, there, Las Vegas!” called Roy. “Rustle hyar, will you?”

When Bo had been led into the sitting-room and seated in a chair
Carmichael entered. His face was a study, as slowly he walked up to Bo.

“Girl, you--ain’t hurt?” he asked, huskily.

“It’s no fault of yours that I’m not crippled--or dead or worse,”
 retorted Bo. “You said the south range was the only safe ride for me.
And there--I--it happened.”

She panted a little and her bosom heaved. One of her gauntlets was gone,
and the bare band, that was bruised and bloody, trembled as she held it
out.

“Dear, tell us--are you badly hurt?” queried Helen, with hurried
gentleness.

“Not much. I’ve had a spill,” replied Bo. “But oh! I’m mad--I’m
boiling!”

She looked as if she might have exaggerated her doubt of injuries, but
certainly she had not overestimated her state of mind. Any blaze Helen
had heretofore seen in those quick eyes was tame compared to this one.
It actually leaped. Bo was more than pretty then. Manifestly Roy was
admiring her looks, but Carmichael saw beyond her charm. And slowly he
was growing pale.

“I rode out the south range--as I was told,” began Bo, breathing hard
and trying to control her feelings. “That’s the ride you usually take,
Nell, and you bet--if you’d taken it to-day--you’d not be here now....
About three miles out I climbed off the range up that cedar slope. I
always keep to high ground. When I got up I saw two horsemen ride out
of some broken rocks off to the east. They rode as if to come between me
and home. I didn’t like that. I circled south. About a mile farther on I
spied another horseman and he showed up directly in front of me and came
along slow. That I liked still less. It might have been accident, but it
looked to me as if those riders had some intent. All I could do was head
off to the southeast and ride. You bet I did ride. But I got into rough
ground where I’d never been before. It was slow going. At last I made
the cedars and here I cut loose, believing I could circle ahead of those
strange riders and come round through Pine. I had it wrong.”

Here she hesitated, perhaps for breath, for she had spoken rapidly, or
perhaps to get better hold on her subject. Not improbably the effect she
was creating on her listeners began to be significant. Roy sat absorbed,
perfectly motionless, eyes keen as steel, his mouth open. Carmichael
was gazing over Bo’s head, out of the window, and it seemed that he
must know the rest of her narrative. Helen knew that her own wide-eyed
attention alone would have been all-compelling inspiration to Bo Rayner.

“Sure I had it wrong,” resumed Bo. “Pretty soon heard a horse behind. I
looked back. I saw a big bay riding down on me. Oh, but he was running!
He just tore through the cedars. ... I was scared half out of my senses.
But I spurred and beat my mustang. Then began a race! Rough going--thick
cedars--washes and gullies I had to make him run--to keep my saddle--to
pick my way. Oh-h-h! but it was glorious! To race for fun--that’s
one thing; to race for your life is another! My heart was in my
mouth--choking me. I couldn’t have yelled. I was as cold as ice--dizzy
sometimes--blind others--then my stomach turned--and I couldn’t get my
breath. Yet the wild thrills I had!... But I stuck on and held my own
for several miles--to the edge of the cedars. There the big horse gained
on me. He came pounding closer--perhaps as close as a hundred yards--I
could hear him plain enough. Then I had my spill. Oh, my mustang
tripped--threw me ‘way over his head. I hit light, but slid far--and
that’s what scraped me so. I know my knee is raw.... When I got to my
feet the big horse dashed up, throwing gravel all over me--and his rider
jumped off.... Now who do you think he was?”

Helen knew, but she did not voice her conviction. Carmichael knew
positively, yet he kept silent. Roy was smiling, as if the narrative
told did not seem so alarming to him.

“Wal, the fact of you bein’ here, safe an’ sound, sorta makes no
difference who thet son-of-a-gun was,” he said.

“Riggs! Harve Riggs!” blazed Bo. “The instant I recognized him I got
over my scare. And so mad I burned all through like fire. I don’t know
what I said, but it was wild--and it was a whole lot, you bet.

“You sure can ride,’ he said.

“I demanded why he had dared to chase me, and he said he had an
important message for Nell. This was it: ‘Tell your sister that Beasley
means to put her off an’ take the ranch. If she’ll marry me I’ll block
his deal. If she won’t marry me, I’ll go in with Beasley.’ Then he told
me to hurry home and not to breathe a word to any one except Nell. Well,
here I am--and I seem to have been breathing rather fast.”

She looked from Helen to Roy and from Roy to Las Vegas. Her smile was
for the latter, and to any one not overexcited by her story that smile
would have told volumes.

“Wal, I’ll be doggoned!” ejaculated Roy, feelingly.

Helen laughed.

“Indeed, the working of that man’s mind is beyond me.... Marry him to
save my ranch? I wouldn’t marry him to save my life!”

Carmichael suddenly broke his silence.

“Bo, did you see the other men?”

“Yes. I was coming to that,” she replied. “I caught a glimpse of
them back in the cedars. The three were together, or, at least, three
horsemen were there. They had halted behind some trees. Then on the way
home I began to think. Even in my fury I had received impressions. Riggs
was SURPRISED when I got up. I’ll bet he had not expected me to be who I
was. He thought I was NELL!... I look bigger in this buckskin outfit. My
hair was up till I lost my hat, and that was when I had the tumble. He
took me for Nell. Another thing, I remember--he made some sign--some
motion while I was calling him names, and I believe that was to keep
those other men back.... I believe Riggs had a plan with those other men
to waylay Nell and make off with her. I absolutely know it.”

“Bo, you’re so--so--you jump at wild ideas so,” protested Helen, trying
to believe in her own assurance. But inwardly she was trembling.

“Miss Helen, that ain’t a wild idee,” said Roy, seriously. “I reckon
your sister is pretty close on the trail. Las Vegas, don’t you savvy it
thet way?”

Carmichael’s answer was to stalk out of the room.

“Call him back!” cried Helen, apprehensively.

“Hold on, boy!” called Roy, sharply.

Helen reached the door simultaneously with Roy. The cowboy picked up his
sombrero, jammed it on his head, gave his belt a vicious hitch that made
the gun-sheath jump, and then in one giant step he was astride Ranger.

“Carmichael! Stay!” cried Helen.

The cowboy spurred the black, and the stones rang under iron-shod hoofs.

“Bo! Call him back! Please call him back!” importuned Helen, in
distress.

“I won’t,” declared Bo Rayner. Her face shone whiter now and her eyes
were like fiery flint. That was her answer to a loving, gentle-hearted
sister; that was her answer to the call of the West.

“No use,” said Roy, quietly. “An’ I reckon I’d better trail him up.”

He, too, strode out and, mounting his horse, galloped swiftly away.


It turned out that Bo, was more bruised and scraped and shaken than she
had imagined. One knee was rather badly cut, which injury alone would
have kept her from riding again very soon. Helen, who was somewhat
skilled at bandaging wounds, worried a great deal over these sundry
blotches on Bo’s fair skin, and it took considerable time to wash and
dress them. Long after this was done, and during the early supper, and
afterward, Bo’s excitement remained unabated. The whiteness stayed on
her face and the blaze in her eyes. Helen ordered and begged her to go
to bed, for the fact was Bo could not stand up and her hands shook.

“Go to bed? Not much,” she said. “I want to know what he does to Riggs.”

It was that possibility which had Helen in dreadful suspense. If
Carmichael killed Riggs, it seemed to Helen that the bottom would
drop out of this structure of Western life she had begun to build so
earnestly and fearfully. She did not believe that he would do so. But
the uncertainty was torturing.

“Dear Bo,” appealed Helen, “you don’t want--Oh! you do want Carmichael
to--to kill Riggs?”

“No, I don’t, but I wouldn’t care if he did,” replied Bo, bluntly.

“Do you think--he will?”

“Nell, if that cowboy really loves me he read my mind right here before
he left,” declared Bo. “And he knew what I thought he’d do.”

“And what’s--that?” faltered Helen.

“I want him to round Riggs up down in the village--somewhere in a crowd.
I want Riggs shown up as the coward, braggart, four-flush that he is.
And insulted, slapped, kicked--driven out of Pine!”

Her passionate speech still rang throughout the room when there came
footsteps on the porch. Helen hurried to raise the bar from the door and
open it just as a tap sounded on the door-post. Roy’s face stood white
out of the darkness. His eyes were bright. And his smile made Helen’s
fearful query needless.

“How are you-all this evenin’?” he drawled, as he came in.

A fire blazed on the hearth and a lamp burned on the table. By their
light Bo looked white and eager-eyed as she reclined in the big
arm-chair.

“What ‘d he do?” she asked, with all her amazing force.

“Wal, now, ain’t you goin’ to tell me how you are?”

“Roy, I’m all bunged up. I ought to be in bed, but I just couldn’t sleep
till I hear what Las Vegas did. I’d forgive anything except him getting
drunk.”

“Wal, I shore can ease your mind on thet,” replied Roy. “He never drank
a drop.”

Roy was distractingly slow about beginning the tale any child could have
guessed he was eager to tell. For once the hard, intent quietness, the
soul of labor, pain, and endurance so plain in his face was softened by
pleasurable emotion. He poked at the burning logs with the toe of his
boot. Helen observed that he had changed his boots and now wore no
spurs. Then he had gone to his quarters after whatever had happened down
in Pine.

“Where IS he?” asked Bo.

“Who? Riggs? Wal, I don’t know. But I reckon he’s somewhere out in the
woods nursin’ himself.”

“Not Riggs. First tell me where HE is.”

“Shore, then, you must mean Las Vegas. I just left him down at the
cabin. He was gettin’ ready for bed, early as it is. All tired out he
was an’ thet white you wouldn’t have knowed him. But he looked happy at
thet, an’ the last words he said, more to himself than to me, I reckon,
was, ‘I’m some locoed gent, but if she doesn’t call me Tom now she’s no
good!’”

Bo actually clapped her hands, notwithstanding that one of them was
bandaged.

“Call him Tom? I should smile I will,” she declared, in delight. “Hurry
now--what ‘d--”

“It’s shore powerful strange how he hates thet handle Las Vegas,” went
on Roy, imperturbably.

“Roy, tell me what he did--what TOM did--or I’ll scream,” cried Bo.

“Miss Helen, did you ever see the likes of thet girl?” asked Roy,
appealing to Helen.

“No, Roy, I never did,” agreed Helen. “But please--please tell us what
has happened.”

Roy grinned and rubbed his hands together in a dark delight, almost
fiendish in its sudden revelation of a gulf of strange emotion deep
within him. Whatever had happened to Riggs had not been too much for
Roy Beeman. Helen remembered hearing her uncle say that a real Westerner
hated nothing so hard as the swaggering desperado, the make-believe
gunman who pretended to sail under the true, wild, and reckoning colors
of the West.

Roy leaned his lithe, tall form against the stone mantelpiece and faced
the girls.

“When I rode out after Las Vegas I seen him ‘way down the road,” began
Roy, rapidly. “An’ I seen another man ridin’ down into Pine from the
other side. Thet was Riggs, only I didn’t know it then. Las Vegas rode
up to the store, where some fellars was hangin’ round, an’ he spoke to
them. When I come up they was all headin’ for Turner’s saloon. I seen a
dozen hosses hitched to the rails. Las Vegas rode on. But I got off at
Turner’s an’ went in with the bunch. Whatever it was Las Vegas said
to them fellars, shore they didn’t give him away. Pretty soon more men
strolled into Turner’s an’ there got to be ‘most twenty altogether, I
reckon. Jeff Mulvey was there with his pards. They had been drinkin’
sorta free. An’ I didn’t like the way Mulvey watched me. So I went
out an’ into the store, but kept a-lookin’ for Las Vegas. He wasn’t in
sight. But I seen Riggs ridin’ up. Now, Turner’s is where Riggs hangs
out an’ does his braggin’. He looked powerful deep an’ thoughtful,
dismounted slow without seein’ the unusual number of hosses there, an’
then he slouches into Turner’s. No more ‘n a minute after Las Vegas rode
down there like a streak. An’ just as quick he was off an’ through thet
door.”

Roy paused as if to gain force or to choose his words. His tale now
appeared all directed to Bo, who gazed at him, spellbound, a fascinated
listener.

“Before I got to Turner’s door--an’ thet was only a little ways--I heard
Las Vegas yell. Did you ever hear him? Wal, he’s got the wildest yell
of any cow-puncher I ever beard. Quicklike I opened the door an’ slipped
in. There was Riggs an’ Las Vegas alone in the center of the big saloon,
with the crowd edgin’ to the walls an’ slidin’ back of the bar. Riggs
was whiter ‘n a dead man. I didn’t hear an’ I don’t know what Las Vegas
yelled at him. But Riggs knew an’ so did the gang. All of a sudden every
man there shore seen in Las Vegas what Riggs had always bragged HE was.
Thet time comes to every man like Riggs.

“‘What ‘d you call me?’ he asked, his jaw shakin’.

“‘I ‘ain’t called you yet,’ answered Las Vegas. ‘I just whooped.’

“‘What d’ye want?’

“‘You scared my girl.’

“‘The hell ye say! Who’s she?’ blustered Riggs, an’ he began to take
quick looks ‘round. But he never moved a hand. There was somethin’ tight
about the way he stood. Las Vegas had both arms half out, stretched as
if he meant to leap. But he wasn’t. I never seen Las Vegas do thet, but
when I seen him then I understood it.

“‘You know. An’ you threatened her an’ her sister. Go for your gun,’
called Las Vegas, low an’ sharp.

“Thet put the crowd right an’ nobody moved. Riggs turned green then. I
almost felt sorry for him. He began to shake so he’d dropped a gun if he
had pulled one.

“‘Hyar, you’re off--some mistake--I ‘ain’t seen no gurls--I--’

“‘Shut up an’ draw!’ yelled Las Vegas. His voice just pierced holes in
the roof, an’ it might have been a bullet from the way Riggs collapsed.
Every man seen in a second more thet Riggs wouldn’t an’ couldn’t draw.
He was afraid for his life. He was not what he had claimed to be. I
don’t know if he had any friends there. But in the West good men an’ bad
men, all alike, have no use for Riggs’s kind. An’ thet stony quiet broke
with haw--haw. It shore was as pitiful to see Riggs as it was fine to
see Las Vegas.

“When he dropped his arms then I knowed there would be no gun-play. An’
then Las Vegas got red in the face. He slapped Riggs with one hand,
then with the other. An’ he began to cuss him. I shore never knowed
thet nice-spoken Las Vegas Carmichael could use such language. It was a
stream of the baddest names known out here, an’ lots I never heard of.
Now an’ then I caught somethin’ like low-down an’ sneak an’ four-flush
an’ long-haired skunk, but for the most part they was just the cussedest
kind of names. An’ Las Vegas spouted them till he was black in the face,
an’ foamin’ at the mouth, an’ hoarser ‘n a bawlin’ cow.

“When he got out of breath from cussin’ he punched Riggs all about the
saloon, threw him outdoors, knocked him down an’ kicked him till he got
kickin’ him down the road with the whole haw-hawed gang behind. An’ he
drove him out of town!”



CHAPTER XVIII

For two days Bo was confined to her bed, suffering considerable pain,
and subject to fever, during which she talked irrationally. Some of this
talk afforded Helen as vast an amusement as she was certain it would
have lifted Tom Carmichael to a seventh heaven.

The third day, however, Bo was better, and, refusing to remain in bed,
she hobbled to the sitting-room, where she divided her time between
staring out of the window toward the corrals and pestering Helen with
questions she tried to make appear casual. But Helen saw through her
case and was in a state of glee. What she hoped most for was that
Carmichael would suddenly develop a little less inclination for Bo. It
was that kind of treatment the young lady needed. And now was the great
opportunity. Helen almost felt tempted to give the cowboy a hint.

Neither this day, nor the next, however, did he put in an appearance
at the house, though Helen saw him twice on her rounds. He was busy, as
usual, and greeted her as if nothing particular had happened.

Roy called twice, once in the afternoon, and again during the evening.
He grew more likable upon longer acquaintance. This last visit he
rendered Bo speechless by teasing her about another girl Carmichael was
going to take to a dance. Bo’s face showed that her vanity could not
believe this statement, but that her intelligence of young men credited
it with being possible. Roy evidently was as penetrating as he was kind.
He made a dry, casual little remark about the snow never melting on the
mountains during the latter part of March; and the look with which he
accompanied this remark brought a blush to Helen’s cheek.

After Roy had departed Bo said to Helen: “Confound that fellow! He sees
right through me.”

“My dear, you’re rather transparent these days,” murmured Helen.

“You needn’t talk. He gave you a dig,” retorted Bo. “He just knows
you’re dying to see the snow melt.”

“Gracious! I hope I’m not so bad as that. Of course I want the snow
melted and spring to come, and flowers--”

“Hal Ha! Ha!” taunted Bo. “Nell Rayner, do you see any green in my eyes?
Spring to come! Yes, the poet said in the spring a young man’s fancy
lightly turns to thoughts of love. But that poet meant a young woman.”

Helen gazed out of the window at the white stars.

“Nell, have you seen him--since I was hurt?” continued Bo, with an
effort.

“Him? Who?”

“Oh, whom do you suppose? I mean Tom!” she responded, and the last word
came with a burst.

“Tom? Who’s he? Ah, you mean Las Vegas. Yes, I’ve seen him.”

“Well, did he ask a-about me?”

“I believe he did ask how you were--something like that.”

“Humph! Nell, I don’t always trust you.” After that she relapsed into
silence, read awhile, and dreamed awhile, looking into the fire, and
then she limped over to kiss Helen good night and left the room.

Next day she was rather quiet, seeming upon the verge of one of the
dispirited spells she got infrequently. Early in the evening, just after
the lights had been lit and she had joined Helen in the sitting-room, a
familiar step sounded on the loose boards of the porch.

Helen went to the door to admit Carmichael. He was clean-shaven,
dressed in his dark suit, which presented such marked contrast from
his riding-garb, and he wore a flower in his buttonhole. Nevertheless,
despite all this style, he seemed more than usually the cool, easy,
careless cowboy.

“Evenin’, Miss Helen,” he said, as he stalked in. “Evenin’, Miss Bo. How
are you-all?”

Helen returned his greeting with a welcoming smile.

“Good evening--TOM,” said Bo, demurely.

That assuredly was the first time she had ever called him Tom. As she
spoke she looked distractingly pretty and tantalizing. But if she had
calculated to floor Carmichael with the initial, half-promising, wholly
mocking use of his name she had reckoned without cause. The cowboy
received that greeting as if he had heard her use it a thousand times
or had not heard it at all. Helen decided if he was acting a part he
was certainly a clever actor. He puzzled her somewhat, but she liked his
look, and his easy manner, and the something about him that must have
been his unconscious sense of pride. He had gone far enough, perhaps too
far, in his overtures to Bo.

“How are you feelin’?” he asked.

“I’m better to-day,” she replied, with downcast eyes. “But I’m lame
yet.”

“Reckon that bronc piled you up. Miss Helen said there shore wasn’t any
joke about the cut on your knee. Now, a fellar’s knee is a bad place to
hurt, if he has to keep on ridin’.”

“Oh, I’ll be well soon. How’s Sam? I hope he wasn’t crippled.”

“Thet Sam--why, he’s so tough he never knowed he had a fall.”

“Tom--I--I want to thank you for giving Riggs what he deserved.”

She spoke it earnestly, eloquently, and for once she had no sly little
intonation or pert allurement, such as was her wont to use on this
infatuated young man.

“Aw, you heard about that,” replied Carmichael, with a wave of his hand
to make light of it. “Nothin’ much. It had to be done. An’ shore I was
afraid of Roy. He’d been bad. An’ so would any of the other boys. I’m
sorta lookin’ out for all of them, you know, actin’ as Miss Helen’s
foreman now.”

Helen was unutterably tickled. The effect of his speech upon Bo was
stupendous. He had disarmed her. He had, with the finesse and tact
and suavity of a diplomat, removed himself from obligation, and the
detachment of self, the casual thing be apparently made out of his
magnificent championship, was bewildering and humiliating to Bo. She
sat silent for a moment or two while Helen tried to fit easily into
the conversation. It was not likely that Bo would long be at a loss
for words, and also it was immensely probable that with a flash of her
wonderful spirit she would turn the tables on her perverse lover in a
twinkling. Anyway, plain it was that a lesson had sunk deep. She looked
startled, hurt, wistful, and finally sweetly defiant.

“But--you told Riggs I was your girl!” Thus Bo unmasked her battery. And
Helen could not imagine how Carmichael would ever resist that and the
soft, arch glance which accompanied it.

Helen did not yet know the cowboy, any more than did Bo.

“Shore. I had to say thet. I had to make it strong before thet gang. I
reckon it was presumin’ of me, an’ I shore apologize.”

Bo stared at him, and then, giving a little gasp, she drooped.

“Wal, I just run in to say howdy an’ to inquire after you-all,” said
Carmichael. “I’m goin’ to the dance, an’ as Flo lives out of town a ways
I’d shore better rustle.... Good night, Miss Bo; I hope you’ll be ridin’
Sam soon. An’ good night, Miss Helen.”

Bo roused to a very friendly and laconic little speech, much overdone.
Carmichael strode out, and Helen, bidding him good-by, closed the door
after him.

The instant he had departed Bo’s transformation was tragic.

“Flo! He meant Flo Stubbs--that ugly, cross-eyed, bold, little frump!”

“Bo!” expostulated Helen. “The young lady is not beautiful, I grant, but
she’s very nice and pleasant. I liked her.”

“Nell Rayner, men are no good! And cowboys are the worst!” declared Bo,
terribly.

“Why didn’t you appreciate Tom when you had him?” asked Helen.

Bo had been growing furious, but now the allusion, in past tense, to
the conquest she had suddenly and amazingly found dear quite broke her
spirit. It was a very pale, unsteady, and miserable girl who avoided
Helen’s gaze and left the room.

Next day Bo was not approachable from any direction. Helen found her
a victim to a multiplicity of moods, ranging from woe to dire, dark
broodings, from them to’ wistfulness, and at last to a pride that
sustained her.

Late in the afternoon, at Helen’s leisure hour, when she and Bo were in
the sitting-room, horses tramped into the court and footsteps mounted
the porch. Opening to a loud knock, Helen was surprised to see Beasley.
And out in the court were several mounted horsemen. Helen’s heart sank.
This visit, indeed, had been foreshadowed.

“Afternoon, Miss Rayner,” said Beasley, doffing his sombrero. “I’ve
called on a little business deal. Will you see me?”

Helen acknowledged his greeting while she thought rapidly. She might
just as well see him and have that inevitable interview done with.

“Come in,” she said, and when he had entered she closed the door. “My
sister, Mr. Beasley.”

“How d’ you do, Miss?” said the rancher, in bluff, loud voice.

Bo acknowledged the introduction with a frigid little bow.

At close range Beasley seemed a forceful personality as well as a rather
handsome man of perhaps thirty-five, heavy of build, swarthy of skin,
and sloe-black of eye, like that of the Mexicans whose blood was
reported to be in him. He looked crafty, confident, and self-centered.
If Helen had never heard of him before that visit she would have
distrusted him.

“I’d called sooner, but I was waitin’ for old Jose, the Mexican who
herded for me when I was pardner to your uncle,” said Beasley, and he
sat down to put his huge gloved hands on his knees.

“Yes?” queried Helen, interrogatively.

“Jose rustled over from Magdalena, an’ now I can back up my claim....
Miss Rayner, this hyar ranch ought to be mine an’ is mine. It wasn’t so
big or so well stocked when Al Auchincloss beat me out of it. I reckon
I’ll allow for thet. I’ve papers, an’ old Jose for witness. An’ I
calculate you’ll pay me eighty thousand dollars, or else I’ll take over
the ranch.”

Beasley spoke in an ordinary, matter-of-fact tone that certainly seemed
sincere, and his manner was blunt, but perfectly natural.

“Mr. Beasley, your claim is no news to me,” responded Helen, quietly.
“I’ve heard about it. And I questioned my uncle. He swore on his
death-bed that he did not owe you a dollar. Indeed, he claimed the
indebtedness was yours to him. I could find nothing in his papers, so I
must repudiate your claim. I will not take it seriously.”

“Miss Rayner, I can’t blame you for takin’ Al’s word against mine,” said
Beasley. “An’ your stand is natural. But you’re a stranger here an’ you
know nothin’ of stock deals in these ranges. It ain’t fair to speak
bad of the dead, but the truth is thet Al Auchincloss got his start by
stealin’ sheep an’ unbranded cattle. Thet was the start of every rancher
I know. It was mine. An’ we none of us ever thought of it as rustlin’.”

Helen could only stare her surprise and doubt at this statement.

“Talk’s cheap anywhere, an’ in the West talk ain’t much at all,”
 continued Beasley. “I’m no talker. I jest want to tell my case an’ make
a deal if you’ll have it. I can prove more in black an’ white, an’ with
witness, than you can. Thet’s my case. The deal I’d make is this....
Let’s marry an’ settle a bad deal thet way.”

The man’s direct assumption, absolutely without a qualifying
consideration for her woman’s attitude, was amazing, ignorant, and base;
but Helen was so well prepared for it that she hid her disgust.

“Thank you, Mr. Beasley, but I can’t accept your offer,” she replied.

“Would you take time an’ consider?” he asked, spreading wide his huge
gloved hands.

“Absolutely no.”

Beasley rose to his feet. He showed no disappointment or chagrin, but
the bold pleasantness left his face, and, slight as that change was, it
stripped him of the only redeeming quality he showed.

“Thet means I’ll force you to pay me the eighty thousand or put you
off,” he said.

“Mr. Beasley, even if I owed you that, how could I raise so enormous a
sum? I don’t owe it. And I certainly won’t be put off my property. You
can’t put me off.”

“An’ why can’t I?” he demanded, with lowering, dark gaze.

“Because your claim is dishonest. And I can prove it,” declared Helen,
forcibly.

“Who ‘re you goin’ to prove it to--thet I’m dishonest?”

“To my men--to your men--to the people of Pine--to everybody. There’s
not a person who won’t believe me.”

He seemed curious, discomfited, surlily annoyed, and yet fascinated
by her statement or else by the quality and appearance of her as she
spiritedly defended her cause.

“An’ how ‘re you goin’ to prove all thet?” he growled.

“Mr. Beasley, do you remember last fall when you met Snake Anson with
his gang up in the woods--and hired him to make off with me?” asked
Helen, in swift, ringing words.

The dark olive of Beasley’s bold face shaded to a dirty white.

“Wha-at?” he jerked out, hoarsely.

“I see you remember. Well, Milt Dale was hidden in the loft of that
cabin where you met Anson. He heard every word of your deal with the
outlaw.”

Beasley swung his arm in sudden violence, so hard that he flung his
glove to the floor. As he stooped to snatch it up he uttered a sibilant
hiss. Then, stalking to the door, he jerked it open, and slammed it
behind him. His loud voice, hoarse with passion, preceded the scrape and
crack of hoofs.


Shortly after supper that day, when Helen was just recovering her
composure, Carmichael presented himself at the open door. Bo was not
there. In the dimming twilight Helen saw that the cowboy was pale,
somber, grim.

“Oh, what’s happened?” cried Helen.

“Roy’s been shot. It come off in Turner’s saloon But he ain’t dead. We
packed him over to Widow Cass’s. An’ he said for me to tell you he’d
pull through.”

“Shot! Pull through!” repeated Helen, in slow, unrealizing exclamation.
She was conscious of a deep internal tumult and a cold checking of blood
in all her external body.

“Yes, shot,” replied Carmichael, fiercely.

“An’, whatever he says, I reckon he won’t pull through.”

“O Heaven, how terrible!” burst out Helen. “He was so good--such a
man! What a pity! Oh, he must have met that in my behalf. Tell me, what
happened? Who shot him?”

“Wal, I don’t know. An’ thet’s what’s made me hoppin’ mad. I wasn’t
there when it come off. An’ he won’t tell me.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know thet, either. I reckoned first it was because he wanted
to get even. But, after thinkin’ it over, I guess he doesn’t want me
lookin’ up any one right now for fear I might get hurt. An’ you’re goin’
to need your friends. Thet’s all I can make of Roy.”

Then Helen hurriedly related the event of Beasley’s call on her that
afternoon and all that had occurred.

“Wal, the half-breed son-of-a-greaser!” ejaculated Carmichael, in utter
confoundment. “He wanted you to marry him!”

“He certainly did. I must say it was a--a rather abrupt proposal.”

Carmichael appeared to be laboring with speech that had to be smothered
behind his teeth. At last he let out an explosive breath.

“Miss Nell, I’ve shore felt in my bones thet I’m the boy slated to brand
thet big bull.”

“Oh, he must have shot Roy. He left here in a rage.”

“I reckon you can coax it out of Roy. Fact is, all I could learn was
thet Roy come in the saloon alone. Beasley was there, an’ Riggs--”

“Riggs!” interrupted Helen.

“Shore, Riggs. He come back again. But he’d better keep out of my
way.... An’ Jeff Mulvey with his outfit. Turner told me he heard an
argument an’ then a shot. The gang cleared out, leavin’ Roy on the
floor. I come in a little later. Roy was still layin’ there. Nobody was
doin’ anythin’ for him. An’ nobody had. I hold that against Turner. Wal,
I got help an’ packed Roy over to Widow Cass’s. Roy seemed all right.
But he was too bright an’ talky to suit me. The bullet hit his lung,
thet’s shore. An’ he lost a sight of blood before we stopped it. Thet
skunk Turner might have lent a hand. An’ if Roy croaks I reckon I’ll--”

“Tom, why must you always be reckoning to kill somebody?” demanded
Helen, angrily.

“‘Cause somebody’s got to be killed ‘round here. Thet’s why!” he snapped
back.

“Even so--should you risk leaving Bo and me without a friend?” asked
Helen, reproachfully.

At that Carmichael wavered and lost something of his sullen deadliness.

“Aw, Miss Nell, I’m only mad. If you’ll just be patient with me--an’
mebbe coax me.... But I can’t see no other way out.”

“Let’s hope and pray,” said Helen, earnestly. “You spoke of my coaxing
Roy to tell who shot him. When can I see him?”

“To-morrow, I reckon. I’ll come for you. Fetch Bo along with you. We’ve
got to play safe from now on. An’ what do you say to me an’ Hal sleepin’
here at the ranch-house?”

“Indeed I’d feel safer,” she replied. “There are rooms. Please come.”

“Allright. An’ now I’ll be goin’ to fetch Hal. Shore wish I hadn’t made
you pale an’ scared like this.”


About ten o’clock next morning Carmichael drove Helen and Bo into Pine,
and tied up the team before Widow Cass’s cottage.

The peach and apple-trees were mingling blossoms of pink and white; a
drowsy hum of bees filled the fragrant air; rich, dark-green alfalfa
covered the small orchard flat; a wood fire sent up a lazy column of
blue smoke; and birds were singing sweetly.

Helen could scarcely believe that amid all this tranquillity a man
lay perhaps fatally injured. Assuredly Carmichael had been somber and
reticent enough to rouse the gravest fears.

Widow Cass appeared on the little porch, a gray, bent, worn, but
cheerful old woman whom Helen had come to know as her friend.

“My land! I’m thet glad to see you, Miss Helen,” she said. “An’ you’ve
fetched the little lass as I’ve not got acquainted with yet.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Cass. How--how is Roy?” replied Helen, anxiously
scanning the wrinkled face.

“Roy? Now don’t you look so scared. Roy’s ‘most ready to git on his hoss
an’ ride home, if I let him. He knowed you was a-comin’. An’ he made
me hold a lookin’-glass for him to shave. How’s thet fer a man with a
bullet-hole through him! You can’t kill them Mormons, nohow.”

She led them into a little sitting-room, where on a couch underneath a
window Roy Beeman lay. He was wide awake and smiling, but haggard. He
lay partly covered with a blanket. His gray shirt was open at the neck,
disclosing bandages.

“Mornin’--girls,” he drawled. “Shore is good of you, now, comin’ down.”

Helen stood beside him, bent over him, in her earnestness, as she
greeted him. She saw a shade of pain in his eyes and his immobility
struck her, but he did not seem badly off. Bo was pale, round-eyed, and
apparently too agitated to speak. Carmichael placed chairs beside the
couch for the girls.

“Wal, what’s ailin’ you this nice mornin’?” asked Roy, eyes on the
cowboy.

“Huh! Would you expect me to be wearin’ the smile of a fellar goin’ to
be married?” retorted Carmichael.

“Shore you haven’t made up with Bo yet,” returned Roy.

Bo blushed rosy red, and the cowboy’s face lost something of its somber
hue.

“I allow it’s none of your d--darn bizness if SHE ain’t made up with
me,” he said.

“Las Vegas, you’re a wonder with a hoss an’ a rope, an’ I reckon with a
gun, but when it comes to girls you shore ain’t there.”

“I’m no Mormon, by golly! Come, Ma Cass, let’s get out of here, so they
can talk.”

“Folks, I was jest a-goin’ to say thet Roy’s got fever an’ he oughtn’t
t’ talk too much,” said the old woman. Then she and Carmichael went into
the kitchen and closed the door.

Roy looked up at Helen with his keen eyes, more kindly piercing than
ever.

“My brother John was here. He’d just left when you come. He rode home
to tell my folks I’m not so bad hurt, an’ then he’s goin’ to ride a
bee-line into the mountains.”

Helen’s eyes asked what her lips refused to utter.

“He’s goin’ after Dale. I sent him. I reckoned we-all sorta needed sight
of thet doggone hunter.”

Roy had averted his gaze quickly to Bo.

“Don’t you agree with me, lass?”

“I sure do,” replied Bo, heartily.

All within Helen had been stilled for the moment of her realization; and
then came swell and beat of heart, and inconceivable chafing of a tide
at its restraint.

“Can John--fetch Dale out--when the snow’s so deep?” she asked,
unsteadily.

“Shore. He’s takin’ two hosses up to the snow-line. Then, if necessary,
he’ll go over the pass on snow-shoes. But I bet him Dale would ride out.
Snow’s about gone except on the north slopes an’ on the peaks.”

“Then--when may I--we expect to see Dale?”

“Three or four days, I reckon. I wish he was here now.... Miss Helen,
there’s trouble afoot.”

“I realize that. I’m ready. Did Las Vegas tell you about Beasley’s visit
to me?”

“No. You tell me,” replied Roy.

Briefly Helen began to acquaint him with the circumstances of that
visit, and before she had finished she made sure Roy was swearing to
himself.

“He asked you to marry him! Jerusalem!... Thet I’d never have reckoned.
The--low-down coyote of a greaser!... Wal, Miss Helen, when I met up
with Senor Beasley last night he was shore spoilin’ from somethin’; now
I see what thet was. An’ I reckon I picked out the bad time.”

“For what? Roy, what did you do?”

“Wal, I’d made up my mind awhile back to talk to Beasley the first
chance I had. An’ thet was it. I was in the store when I seen him go
into Turner’s. So I followed. It was ‘most dark. Beasley an’ Riggs an’
Mulvey an’ some more were drinkin’ an’ powwowin’. So I just braced him
right then.”

“Roy! Oh, the way you boys court danger!”

“But, Miss Helen, thet’s the only way. To be afraid MAKES more danger.
Beasley ‘peared civil enough first off. Him an’ me kept edgin’ off,
an’ his pards kept edgin’ after us, till we got over in a corner of the
saloon. I don’t know all I said to him. Shore I talked a heap. I told
him what my old man thought. An’ Beasley knowed as well as I thet my old
man’s not only the oldest inhabitant hereabouts, but he’s the wisest,
too. An’ he wouldn’t tell a lie. Wal, I used all his sayin’s in my
argument to show Beasley thet if he didn’t haul up short he’d end almost
as short. Beasley’s thick-headed, an’ powerful conceited. Vain as a
peacock! He couldn’t see, an’ he got mad. I told him he was rich enough
without robbin’ you of your ranch, an’--wal, I shore put up a big talk
for your side. By this time he an’ his gang had me crowded in a corner,
an’ from their looks I begun to get cold feet. But I was in it an’ had
to make the best of it. The argument worked down to his pinnin’ me to my
word that I’d fight for you when thet fight come off. An’ I shore told
him for my own sake I wished it ‘d come off quick.... Then--wal--then
somethin’ did come off quick!”

“Roy, then he shot you!” exclaimed Helen, passionately.

“Now, Miss Helen, I didn’t say who done it,” replied Roy, with his
engaging smile.

“Tell me, then--who did?”

“Wal, I reckon I sha’n’t tell you unless you promise not to tell Las
Vegas. Thet cowboy is plumb off his head. He thinks he knows who shot
me an’ I’ve been lyin’ somethin’ scandalous. You see, if he learns--then
he’ll go gunnin’. An’, Miss Helen, thet Texan is bad. He might get
plugged as I did--an’ there would be another man put off your side when
the big trouble comes.”

“Roy, I promise you I will not tell Las Vegas,” replied Helen,
earnestly.

“Wal, then--it was Riggs!” Roy grew still paler as he confessed this and
his voice, almost a whisper, expressed shame and hate. “Thet four-flush
did it. Shot me from behind Beasley! I had no chance. I couldn’t even
see him draw. But when I fell an’ lay there an’ the others dropped back,
then I seen the smokin’ gun in his hand. He looked powerful important.
An’ Beasley began to cuss him an’ was cussin’ him as they all run out.”

“Oh, coward! the despicable coward!” cried Helen.

“No wonder Tom wants to find out!” exclaimed Bo, low and deep. “I’ll bet
he suspects Riggs.”

“Shore he does, but I wouldn’t give him no satisfaction.”

“Roy, you know that Riggs can’t last out here.”

“Wal, I hope he lasts till I get on my feet again.”

“There you go! Hopeless, all you boys! You must spill blood!” murmured
Helen, shudderingly.

“Dear Miss Helen, don’t take on so. I’m like Dale--no man to hunt up
trouble. But out here there’s a sort of unwritten law--an eye for an
eye--a tooth for a tooth. I believe in God Almighty, an’ killin’ is
against my religion, but Riggs shot me--the same as shootin’ me in the
back.”

“Roy, I’m only a woman--I fear, faint-hearted and unequal to this West.”

“Wait till somethin’ happens to you. ‘Supposin’ Beasley comes an’ grabs
you with his own dirty big paws an’, after maulin’ you some, throws you
out of your home! Or supposin’ Riggs chases you into a corner!”

Helen felt the start of all her physical being--a violent leap of blood.
But she could only judge of her looks from the grim smile of the wounded
man as he watched her with his keen, intent eyes.

“My friend, anythin’ can happen,” he said. “But let’s hope it won’t be
the worst.”

He had begun to show signs of weakness, and Helen, rising at once, said
that she and Bo had better leave him then, but would come to see him the
next day. At her call Carmichael entered again with Mrs. Cass, and
after a few remarks the visit was terminated. Carmichael lingered in the
doorway.

“Wal, Cheer up, you old Mormon!” he called.

“Cheer up yourself, you cross old bachelor!” retorted Roy, quite
unnecessarily loud. “Can’t you raise enough nerve to make up with Bo?”

Carmichael evacuated the doorway as if he had been spurred. He was quite
red in the face while he unhitched the team, and silent during the ride
up to the ranch-house. There he got down and followed the girls into the
sitting room. He appeared still somber, though not sullen, and had fully
regained his composure.

“Did you find out who shot Roy?” he asked, abruptly, of Helen.

“Yes. But I promised Roy I would not tell,” replied Helen, nervously.
She averted her eyes from his searching gaze, intuitively fearing his
next query.

“Was it thet--Riggs?”

“Las Vegas, don’t ask me. I will not break my promise.”

He strode to the window and looked out a moment, and presently, when
he turned toward Bo, he seemed a stronger, loftier, more impelling man,
with all his emotions under control.

“Bo, will you listen to me--if I swear to speak the truth--as I know
it?”

“Why, certainly,” replied Bo, with the color coming swiftly to her face.

“Roy doesn’t want me to know because he wants to meet thet fellar
himself. An’ I want to know because I want to stop him before he can do
more dirt to us or our friends. Thet’s Roy’s reason an’ mine. An’ I’m
askin’ YOU to tell me.”

“But, Tom--I oughtn’t,” replied Bo, haltingly.

“Did you promise Roy not to tell?”

“No.”

“Or your sister?”

“No. I didn’t promise either.”

“Wal, then you tell me. I want you to trust me in this here matter. But
not because I love you an’ once had a wild dream you might care a little
for me--”

“Oh--Tom!” faltered Bo.

“Listen. I want you to trust me because I’m the one who knows what’s
best. I wouldn’t lie an’ I wouldn’t say so if I didn’t know shore. I
swear Dale will back me up. But he can’t be here for some days. An’ thet
gang has got to be bluffed. You ought to see this. I reckon you’ve been
quick in savvyin’ Western ways. I couldn’t pay you no higher compliment,
Bo Rayner.... Now will you tell me?”

“Yes, I will,” replied Bo, with the blaze leaping to her eyes.

“Oh, Bo--please don’t--please don’t. Wait!” implored Helen.

“Bo--it’s between you an’ me,” said Carmichael.

“Tom, I’ll tell you,” whispered Bo. “It was a lowdown, cowardly
trick.... Roy was surrounded--and shot from behind Beasley--by that
four-flush Riggs!”



CHAPTER XIX

The memory of a woman had ruined Milt Dale’s peace, had confounded his
philosophy of self-sufficient, lonely happiness in the solitude of the
wilds, had forced him to come face to face with his soul and the fatal
significance of life.

When he realized his defeat, that things were not as they seemed, that
there was no joy for him in the coming of spring, that he had been blind
in his free, sensorial, Indian relation to existence, he fell into
an inexplicably strange state, a despondency, a gloom as deep as the
silence of his home. Dale reflected that the stronger an animal, the
keener its nerves, the higher its intelligence, the greater must be its
suffering under restraint or injury. He thought of himself as a high
order of animal whose great physical need was action, and now the
incentive to action seemed dead. He grew lax. He did not want to move.
He performed his diminishing duties under compulsion.

He watched for spring as a liberation, but not that he could leave the
valley. He hated the cold, he grew weary of wind and snow; he imagined
the warm sun, the park once more green with grass and bright with
daisies, the return of birds and squirrels and deer to heir old haunts,
would be the means whereby he could break this spell upon him. Then he
might gradually return to past contentment, though it would never be the
same.

But spring, coming early to Paradise Park, brought a fever to Dale’s
blood--a fire of unutterable longing. It was good, perhaps, that
this was so, because he seemed driven to work, climb, tramp, and keep
ceaselessly on the move from dawn till dark. Action strengthened his lax
muscles and kept him from those motionless, senseless hours of brooding.
He at least need not be ashamed of longing for that which could never
be his--the sweetness of a woman--a home full of light, joy, hope, the
meaning and beauty of children. But those dark moods were sinkings into
a pit of hell.

Dale had not kept track of days and weeks. He did not know when the snow
melted off three slopes of Paradise Park. All he knew was that an age
had dragged over his head and that spring had come. During his restless
waking hours, and even when he was asleep, there seemed always in the
back of his mind a growing consciousness that soon he would emerge from
this trial, a changed man, ready to sacrifice his chosen lot, to give up
his lonely life of selfish indulgence in lazy affinity with nature,
and to go wherever his strong hands might perform some real service
to people. Nevertheless, he wanted to linger in this mountain fastness
until his ordeal was over--until he could meet her, and the world,
knowing himself more of a man than ever before.

One bright morning, while he was at his camp-fire, the tame cougar gave
a low, growling warning. Dale was startled. Tom did not act like that
because of a prowling grizzly or a straying stag. Presently Dale espied
a horseman riding slowly out of the straggling spruces. And with that
sight Dale’s heart gave a leap, recalling to him a divination of his
future relation to his kind. Never had he been so glad to see a man!

This visitor resembled one of the Beemans, judging from the way he sat
his horse, and presently Dale recognized him to be John.

At this juncture the jaded horse was spurred into a trot, soon reaching
the pines and the camp.

“Howdy, there, you ole b’ar-hunter!” called John, waving his hand.

For all his hearty greeting his appearance checked a like response from
Dale. The horse was mud to his flanks and John was mud to his knees,
wet, bedraggled, worn, and white. This hue of his face meant more than
fatigue.

“Howdy, John?” replied Dale.

They shook hands. John wearily swung his leg over the pommel, but did
not at once dismount. His clear gray eyes were wonderingly riveted upon
the hunter.

“Milt--what ‘n hell’s wrong?” he queried.

“Why?”

“Bust me if you ain’t changed so I hardly knowed you. You’ve been
sick--all alone here!”

“Do I look sick?”

“Wal, I should smile. Thin an’ pale an’ down in the mouth! Milt, what
ails you?”

“I’ve gone to seed.”

“You’ve gone off your head, jest as Roy said, livin’ alone here. You
overdid it, Milt. An’ you look sick.”

“John, my sickness is here,” replied Dale, soberly, as he laid a hand on
his heart.

“Lung trouble!” ejaculated John. “With thet chest, an’ up in this
air?... Get out!”

“No--not lung trouble,” said Dale.

“I savvy. Had a hunch from Roy, anyhow.”

“What kind of a hunch?”

“Easy now, Dale, ole man.... Don’t you reckon I’m ridin’ in on you
pretty early? Look at thet hoss!” John slid off and waved a hand at
the drooping beast, then began to unsaddle him. “Wal, he done great. We
bogged some comin’ over. An’ I climbed the pass at night on the frozen
snow.”

“You’re welcome as the flowers in May. John, what month is it?”

“By spades! are you as bad as thet?... Let’s see. It’s the twenty-third
of March.”

“March! Well, I’m beat. I’ve lost my reckonin’--an’ a lot more, maybe.”

“Thar!” declared John, slapping the mustang. “You can jest hang up here
till my next trip. Milt, how ‘re your hosses?”

“Wintered fine.”

“Wal, thet’s good. We’ll need two big, strong hosses right off.”

“What for?” queried Dale, sharply. He dropped a stick of wood and
straightened up from the camp-fire.

“You’re goin’ to ride down to Pine with me--thet’s what for.”

Familiarly then came back to Dale the quiet, intent suggestiveness of
the Beemans in moments foreboding trial.

At this certain assurance of John’s, too significant to be doubted,
Dale’s thought of Pine gave slow birth to a strange sensation, as if he
had been dead and was vibrating back to life.

“Tell what you got to tell!” he broke out.

Quick as a flash the Mormon replied: “Roy’s been shot. But he won’t die.
He sent for you. Bad deal’s afoot. Beasley means to force Helen Rayner
out an’ steal her ranch.”

A tremor ran all through Dale. It seemed another painful yet thrilling
connection between his past and this vaguely calling future. His
emotions had been broodings dreams, longings. This thing his friend said
had the sting of real life.

“Then old Al’s dead?” he asked.

“Long ago--I reckon around the middle of February. The property went to
Helen. She’s been doin’ fine. An’ many folks say it’s a pity she’ll lose
it.”

“She won’t lose it,” declared Dale. How strange his voice sounded to his
own ears! It was hoarse and unreal, as if from disuse.

“Wal, we-all have our idees. I say she will. My father says so.
Carmichael says so.”

“Who’s he?”

“Reckon you remember thet cow-puncher who came up with Roy an’
Auchincloss after the girls--last fall?”

“Yes. They called him Las--Las Vegas. I liked his looks.”

“Humph! You’ll like him a heap when you know him. He’s kept the ranch
goin’ for Miss Helen all along. But the deal’s comin’ to a head.
Beasley’s got thick with thet Riggs. You remember him?”

“Yes.”

“Wal, he’s been hangin’ out at Pine all winter, watchin’ for some chance
to get at Miss Helen or Bo. Everybody’s seen thet. An’ jest lately he
chased Bo on hossback--gave the kid a nasty fall. Roy says Riggs was
after Miss Helen. But I think one or t’other of the girls would do thet
varmint. Wal, thet sorta started goin’s-on. Carmichael beat Riggs an’
drove him out of town. But he come back. Beasley called on Miss Helen
an’ offered to marry her so’s not to take the ranch from her, he said.”

Dale awoke with a thundering curse.

“Shore!” exclaimed John. “I’d say the same--only I’m religious. Don’t
thet beady-eyed greaser’s gall make you want to spit all over yourself?
My Gawd! but Roy was mad! Roy’s powerful fond of Miss Helen an’ Bo....
Wal, then, Roy, first chance he got, braced Beasley an’ give him some
straight talk. Beasley was foamin’ at the mouth, Roy said. It was then
Riggs shot Roy. Shot him from behind Beasley when Roy wasn’t lookin’!
An’ Riggs brags of bein’ a gun-fighter. Mebbe thet wasn’t a bad shot for
him!”

“I reckon,” replied Dale, as he swallowed hard. “Now, just what was
Roy’s message to me?”

“Wal, I can’t remember all Roy said,” answered John, dubiously. “But
Roy shore was excited an’ dead in earnest. He says: ‘Tell Milt what’s
happened. Tell him Helen Rayner’s in more danger than she was last fall.
Tell him I’ve seen her look away acrost the mountains toward Paradise
Park with her heart in her eyes. Tell him she needs him most of all!’”

Dale shook all over as with an attack of ague. He was seized by a
whirlwind of passionate, terrible sweetness of sensation, when what
he wildly wanted was to curse Roy and John for their simple-minded
conclusions.

“Roy’s--crazy!” panted Dale.

“Wal, now, Milt--thet’s downright surprisin’ of you. Roy’s the
level-headest of any fellars I know.”

“Man! if he MADE me believe him--an’ it turned out untrue--I’d--I’d kill
him,” replied Dale.

“Untrue! Do you think Roy Beeman would lie?”

“But, John--you fellows can’t see my case. Nell Rayner wants me--needs
me!... It can’t be true!”

“Wal, my love-sick pard--it jest IS true!” exclaimed John, feelingly.
“Thet’s the hell of life--never knowin’. But here it’s joy for you. You
can believe Roy Beeman about women as quick as you’d trust him to track
your lost hoss. Roy’s married three girls. I reckon he’ll marry some
more. Roy’s only twenty-eight an’ he has two big farms. He said he’d
seen Nell Rayner’s heart in her eyes, lookin’ for you--an’ you can jest
bet your life thet’s true. An’ he said it because he means you to rustle
down there an’ fight for thet girl.”

“I’ll--go,” said Dale, in a shaky whisper, as he sat down on a pine log
near the fire. He stared unseeingly at the bluebells in the grass by his
feet while storm after storm possessed his breast. They were fierce and
brief because driven by his will. In those few moments of contending
strife Dale was immeasurably removed from that dark gulf of self which
had made his winter a nightmare. And when he stood erect again it seemed
that the old earth had a stirring, electrifying impetus for his feet.
Something black, bitter, melancholy, and morbid, always unreal to him,
had passed away forever. The great moment had been forced upon him. He
did not believe Roy Beeman’s preposterous hint regarding Helen; but he
had gone back or soared onward, as if by magic, to his old true self.


Mounted on Dale’s strongest horses, with only a light pack, an ax, and
their weapons, the two men had reached the snow-line on the pass by noon
that day. Tom, the tame cougar, trotted along in the rear.

The crust of the snow, now half thawed by the sun, would not hold
the weight of a horse, though it upheld the men on foot. They walked,
leading the horses. Travel was not difficult until the snow began to
deepen; then progress slackened materially. John had not been able to
pick out the line of the trail, so Dale did not follow his tracks. An
old blaze on the trees enabled Dale to keep fairly well to the trail;
and at length the height of the pass was reached, where the snow was
deep. Here the horses labored, plowing through foot by foot. When,
finally, they sank to their flanks, they had to be dragged and goaded
on, and helped by thick flat bunches of spruce boughs placed under their
hoofs. It took three hours of breaking toil to do the few hundred yards
of deep snow on the height of the pass. The cougar did not have great
difficulty in following, though it was evident he did not like such
traveling.

That behind them, the horses gathered heart and worked on to the edge
of the steep descent, where they had all they could do to hold back from
sliding and rolling. Fast time was made on this slope, at the bottom of
which began a dense forest with snow still deep in places and windfalls
hard to locate. The men here performed Herculean labors, but they got
through to a park where the snow was gone. The ground, however, soft and
boggy, in places was more treacherous than the snow; and the travelers
had to skirt the edge of the park to a point opposite, and then go on
through the forest. When they reached bare and solid ground, just before
dark that night, it was high time, for the horses were ready to drop,
and the men likewise.

Camp was made in an open wood. Darkness fell and the men were resting
on bough beds, feet to the fire, with Tom curled up close by, and the
horses still drooping where they had been unsaddled. Morning, however,
discovered them grazing on the long, bleached grass. John shook his head
when he looked at them.

“You reckoned to make Pine by nightfall. How far is it--the way you’ll
go?”

“Fifty mile or thereabouts,” replied Dale.

“Wal, we can’t ride it on them critters.”

“John, we’d do more than that if we had to.”

They were saddled and on the move before sunrise, leaving snow and bog
behind. Level parks and level forests led one after another to long
slopes and steep descents, all growing sunnier and greener as the
altitude diminished. Squirrels and grouse, turkeys and deer, and less
tame denizens of the forest grew more abundant as the travel advanced.
In this game zone, however, Dale had trouble with Tom. The cougar had to
be watched and called often to keep him off of trails.

“Tom doesn’t like a long trip,” said Dale. “But I’m goin’ to take him.
Some way or other he may come in handy.”

“Sic him onto Beasley’s gang,” replied John. “Some men are powerful
scared of cougars. But I never was.”

“Nor me. Though I’ve had cougars give me a darn uncanny feelin’.”

The men talked but little. Dale led the way, with Tom trotting
noiselessly beside his horse. John followed close behind. They loped the
horses across parks, trotted through the forests, walked slow up
what few inclines they met, and slid down the soft, wet, pine-matted
descents. So they averaged from six to eight miles an hour. The horses
held up well under that steady travel, and this without any rest at
noon.

Dale seemed to feel himself in an emotional trance. Yet, despite this,
the same old sensorial perceptions crowded thick and fast upon him,
strangely sweet and vivid after the past dead months when neither sun
nor wind nor cloud nor scent of pine nor anything in nature could stir
him. His mind, his heart, his soul seemed steeped in an intoxicating
wine of expectation, while his eyes and ears and nose had never been
keener to register the facts of the forest-land. He saw the black thing
far ahead that resembled a burned stump, but he knew was a bear before
it vanished; he saw gray flash of deer and wolf and coyote, and the red
of fox, and the small, wary heads of old gobblers just sticking above
the grass; and he saw deep tracks of game as well as the slow-rising
blades of bluebells where some soft-footed beast had just trod. And he
heard the melancholy notes of birds, the twitter of grouse, the sough of
the wind, the light dropping of pine-cones, the near and distant bark of
squirrels, the deep gobble of a turkey close at hand and the challenge
from a rival far away, the cracking of twigs in the thickets, the murmur
of running water, the scream of an eagle and the shrill cry of a hawk,
and always the soft, dull, steady pads of the hoofs of the horses.

The smells, too, were the sweet, stinging ones of spring, warm and
pleasant--the odor of the clean, fresh earth cutting its way through
that thick, strong fragrance of pine, the smell of logs rotting in the
sun, and of fresh new grass and flowers along a brook of snow-water.

“I smell smoke,” said Dale, suddenly, as he reined in, and turned for
corroboration from his companion.

John sniffed the warm air.

“Wal, you’re more of an Injun than me,” he replied, shaking his head.

They traveled on, and presently came out upon the rim of the last slope.
A long league of green slanted below them, breaking up into straggling
lines of trees and groves that joined the cedars, and these in turn
stretched on and down in gray-black patches to the desert, that
glittering and bare, with streaks of somber hue, faded in the obscurity
of distance.

The village of Pine appeared to nestle in a curve of the edge of the
great forest, and the cabins looked like tiny white dots set in green.

“Look there,” said Dale, pointing.

Some miles to the right a gray escarpment of rock cropped out of the
slope, forming a promontory; and from it a thin, pale column of smoke
curled upward to be lost from sight as soon as it had no background of
green.

“Thet’s your smoke, shore enough,” replied John, thoughtfully. “Now, I
jest wonder who’s campin’ there. No water near or grass for hosses.”

“John, that point’s been used for smoke signals many a time.”

“Was jest thinkin’ of thet same. Shall we ride around there an’ take a
peek?”

“No. But we’ll remember that. If Beasley’s got his deep scheme goin’,
he’ll have Snake Anson’s gang somewhere close.”

“Roy said thet same. Wal, it’s some three hours till sundown. The hosses
keep up. I reckon I’m fooled, for we’ll make Pine all right. But old Tom
there, he’s tired or lazy.”

The big cougar was lying down, panting, and his half-shut eyes were on
Dale.

“Tom’s only lazy an’ fat. He could travel at this gait for a week. But
let’s rest a half-hour an’ watch that smoke before movin’ on. We can
make Pine before sundown.”


When travel had been resumed, half-way down the slope Dale’s sharp eyes
caught a broad track where shod horses had passed, climbing in a long
slant toward the promontory. He dismounted to examine it, and John,
coming up, proceeded with alacrity to get off and do likewise. Dale made
his deductions, after which he stood in a brown study beside his horse,
waiting for John.

“Wal, what ‘d you make of these here tracks?” asked that worthy.

“Some horses an’ a pony went along here yesterday, an’ to-day a single
horse made, that fresh track.”

“Wal, Milt, for a hunter you ain’t so bad at hoss tracks,” observed
John, “But how many hosses went yesterday?”

“I couldn’t make out--several--maybe four or five.”

“Six hosses an’ a colt or little mustang, unshod, to be strict-correct.
Wal, supposin’ they did. What ‘s it mean to us?”

“I don’t know as I’d thought anythin’ unusual, if it hadn’t been for
that smoke we saw off the rim, an’ then this here fresh track made along
to-day. Looks queer to me.”

“Wish Roy was here,” replied John, scratching his head. “Milt, I’ve a
hunch, if he was, he’d foller them tracks.”

“Maybe. But we haven’t time for that. We can backtrail them, though, if
they keep clear as they are here. An’ we’ll not lose any time, either.”

That broad track led straight toward Pine, down to the edge of the
cedars, where, amid some jagged rocks, evidences showed that men had
camped there for days. Here it ended as a broad trail. But from the
north came the single fresh track made that very day, and from the east,
more in a line with Pine, came two tracks made the day before. And these
were imprints of big and little hoofs. Manifestly these interested John
more than they did Dale, who had to wait for his companion.

“Milt, it ain’t a colt’s--thet little track,” avowed John.

“Why not--an’ what if it isn’t?” queried Dale.

“Wal, it ain’t, because a colt always straggles back, an’ from one
side to t’other. This little track keeps close to the big one. An’, by
George! it was made by a led mustang.”

John resembled Roy Beeman then with that leaping, intent fire in his
gray eyes. Dale’s reply was to spur his horse into a trot and call
sharply to the lagging cougar.

When they turned into the broad, blossom-bordered road that was the
only thoroughfare of Pine the sun was setting red and gold behind the
mountains. The horses were too tired for any more than a walk. Natives
of the village, catching sight of Dale and Beeman, and the huge gray cat
following like a dog, called excitedly to one another. A group of men
in front of Turner’s gazed intently down the road, and soon manifested
signs of excitement. Dale and his comrade dismounted in front of Widow
Cass’s cottage. And Dale called as he strode up the little path. Mrs.
Cass came out. She was white and shaking, but appeared calm. At sight of
her John Beeman drew a sharp breath.

“Wal, now--” he began, hoarsely, and left off.

“How’s Roy?” queried Dale.

“Lord knows I’m glad to see you, boys! Milt, you’re thin an’
strange-lookin’. Roy’s had a little setback. He got a shock to-day an’
it throwed him off. Fever--an’ now he’s out of his head. It won’t do
no good for you to waste time seein’ him. Take my word for it he’s
all right. But there’s others as--For the land’s sakes, Milt Dale, you
fetched thet cougar back! Don’t let him near me!”

“Tom won’t hurt you, mother,” said Dale, as the cougar came padding up
the path. “You were sayin’ somethin’--about others. Is Miss Helen safe?
Hurry!”

“Ride up to see her--an’ waste no more time here.”

Dale was quick in the saddle, followed by John, but the horses had to be
severely punished to force them even to a trot. And that was a lagging
trot, which now did not leave Torn behind.

The ride up to Auchincloss’s ranch-house seemed endless to Dale. Natives
came out in the road to watch after he had passed. Stern as Dale was in
dominating his feelings, he could not wholly subordinate his mounting
joy to a waiting terrible anticipation of catastrophe. But no matter
what awaited--nor what fateful events might hinge upon this nameless
circumstance about to be disclosed, the wonderful and glorious fact of
the present was that in a moment he would see Helen Rayner.

There were saddled horses in the courtyard, but no riders. A Mexican
boy sat on the porch bench, in the seat where Dale remembered he had
encountered Al Auchincloss. The door of the big sitting-room was open.
The scent of flowers, the murmur of bees, the pounding of hoofs came
vaguely to Dale. His eyes dimmed, so that the ground, when he slid out
of his saddle, seemed far below him. He stepped upon the porch. His
sight suddenly cleared. A tight fullness at his throat made incoherent
the words he said to the Mexican boy. But they were understood, as the
boy ran back around the house. Dale knocked sharply and stepped over the
threshold.

Outside, John, true to his habits, was thinking, even in that moment of
suspense, about the faithful, exhausted horses. As he unsaddled them he
talked: “Fer soft an’ fat hosses, winterin’ high up, wal, you’ve done
somethin’!”

Then Dale heard a voice in another room, a step, a creak of the door. It
opened. A woman in white appeared. He recognized Helen. But instead of
the rich brown bloom and dark-eyed beauty so hauntingly limned on
his memory, he saw a white, beautiful face, strained and quivering in
anguish, and eyes that pierced his heart. He could not speak.

“Oh! my friend--you’ve come!” she whispered.

Dale put out a shaking hand. But she did not see it. She clutched his
shoulders, as if to feel whether or not he was real, and then her arms
went up round his neck.

“Oh, thank God! I knew you would come!” she said, and her head sank to
his shoulder.

Dale divined what he had suspected. Helen’s sister had been carried off.
Yet, while his quick mind grasped Helen’s broken spirit--the unbalance
that was reason for this marvelous and glorious act--he did not
take other meaning of the embrace to himself. He just stood there,
transported, charged like a tree struck by lightning, making sure with
all his keen senses, so that he could feel forever, how she was clinging
round his neck, her face over his bursting heart, her quivering form
close pressed to his.

“It’s--Bo,” he said, unsteadily.

“She went riding yesterday--and--never--came--back!” replied Helen,
brokenly.

“I’ve seen her trail. She’s been taken into the woods. I’ll find her.
I’ll fetch her back,” he replied, rapidly.

With a shock she seemed to absorb his meaning. With another shock she
raised her face--leaned back a little to look at him.

“You’ll find her--fetch her back?”

“Yes,” he answered, instantly.

With that ringing word it seemed to Dale she realized how she was
standing. He felt her shake as she dropped her arms and stepped back,
while the white anguish of her face was flooded out by a wave of
scarlet. But she was brave in her confusion. Her eyes never fell, though
they changed swiftly, darkening with shame, amaze, and with feelings he
could not read.

“I’m almost--out of my head,” she faltered.

“No wonder. I saw that.... But now you must get clear-headed. I’ve no
time to lose.”

He led her to the door.

“John, it’s Bo that’s gone,” he called. “Since yesterday.... Send the
boy to get me a bag of meat an’ bread. You run to the corral an’ get
me a fresh horse. My old horse Ranger if you can find him quick. An’
rustle.”

Without a word John leaped bareback on one of the horses he had just
unsaddled and spurred him across the courtyard.

Then the big cougar, seeing Helen, got up from where he lay on the porch
and came to her.

“Oh, it’s Tom!” cried Helen, and as he rubbed against her knees she
patted his head with trembling hand. “You big, beautiful pet! Oh, how I
remember! Oh, how Bo would love to--”

“Where’s Carmichael?” interrupted Dale. “Out huntin’ Bo?”

“Yes. It was he who missed her first. He rode everywhere yesterday. Last
night when he came back he was wild. I’ve not seen him to-day. He made
all the other men but Hal and Joe stay home on the ranch.”

“Right. An’ John must stay, too,” declared Dale. “But it’s strange.
Carmichael ought to have found the girl’s tracks. She was ridin’ a
pony?”

“Bo rode Sam. He’s a little bronc, very strong and fast.”

“I come across his tracks. How’d Carmichael miss them?”

“He didn’t. He found them--trailed them all along the north range.
That’s where he forbade Bo to go. You see, they’re in love with each
other. They’ve been at odds. Neither will give in. Bo disobeyed him.
There’s hard ground off the north range, so he said. He was able to
follow her tracks only so far.”

“Were there any other tracks along with hers?”

“No.”

“Miss Helen, I found them ‘way southeast of Pine up on the slope of the
mountain. There were seven other horses makin’ that trail--when we run
across it. On the way down we found a camp where men had waited. An’
Bo’s pony, led by a rider on a big horse, come into that camp from the
east--maybe north a little. An’ that tells the story.”

“Riggs ran her down--made off with her!” cried Helen, passionately. “Oh,
the villain! He had men in waiting. That’s Beasley’s work. They were
after me.”

“It may not be just what you said, but that’s close enough. An’ Bo’s
in a bad fix. You must face that an’ try to bear up under--fears of the
worst.”

“My friend! You will save her!”

“I’ll fetch her back, alive or dead.”

“Dead! Oh, my God!” Helen cried, and closed her eyes an instant, to open
them burning black. “But Bo isn’t dead. I know that--I feel it. She’ll
not die very easy. She’s a little savage. She has no fear. She’d fight
like a tigress for her life. She’s strong. You remember how strong. She
can stand anything. Unless they murder her outright she’ll live--a long
time--through any ordeal.... So I beg you, my friend, don’t lose an
hour--don’t ever give up!”

Dale trembled under the clasp of her hands. Loosing his own from her
clinging hold, he stepped out on the porch. At that moment John appeared
on Ranger, coming at a gallop.

“Nell, I’ll never come back without her,” said Dale. “I reckon you can
hope--only be prepared. That’s all. It’s hard. But these damned deals
are common out here in the West.”

“Suppose Beasley comes--here!” exclaimed Helen, and again her hand went
out toward him.

“If he does, you refuse to get off,” replied Dale. “But don’t let him
or his greasers put a dirty hand on you. Should he threaten force--why,
pack some clothes--an’ your valuables--an’ go down to Mrs. Cass’s. An’
wait till I come back!”

“Wait--till you--come back!” she faltered, slowly turning white again.
Her dark eyes dilated. “Milt--you’re like Las Vegas. You’ll kill
Beasley!”

Dale heard his own laugh, very cold and strange, foreign to his ears. A
grim, deadly hate of Beasley vied with the tenderness and pity he felt
for this distressed girl. It was a sore trial to see her leaning there
against the door--to be compelled to leave her alone. Abruptly be
stalked off the porch. Tom followed him. The black horse whinnied his
recognition of Dale and snorted at sight of the cougar. Just then the
Mexican boy returned with a bag. Dale tied this, with the small pack,
behind the saddle.

“John, you stay here with Miss Helen,” said Dale. “An’ if Carmichael
comes back, keep him, too! An’ to-night, if any one rides into Pine from
the way we come, you be sure to spot him.”

“I’ll do thet, Milt,” responded John.

Dale mounted, and, turning for a last word to Helen, he felt the
words of cheer halted on his lips as he saw her standing white and
broken-hearted, with her hands to her bosom. He could not look twice.

“Come on there, you Tom,” he called to the cougar. “Reckon on this track
you’ll pay me for all my trainin’ of you.”

“Oh, my friend!” came Helen’s sad voice, almost a whisper to his
throbbing ears. “Heaven help you--to save her! I--”

Then Ranger started and Dale heard no more. He could not look back. His
eyes were full of tears and his breast ached. By a tremendous effort he
shifted that emotion--called on all the spiritual energy of his being to
the duty of this grim task before him.

He did not ride down through the village, but skirted the northern
border, and worked round to the south, where, coming to the trail he had
made an hour past, he headed on it, straight for the slope now darkening
in the twilight. The big cougar showed more willingness to return on
this trail than he had shown in the coming. Ranger was fresh and wanted
to go, but Dale held him in.

A cool wind blew down from the mountain with the coming of night.
Against the brightening stars Dale saw the promontory lift its bold
outline. It was miles away. It haunted him, strangely calling. A night,
and perhaps a day, separated him from the gang that held Bo Rayner
prisoner. Dale had no plan as yet. He had only a motive as great as the
love he bore Helen Rayner.

Beasley’s evil genius had planned this abduction. Riggs was a tool, a
cowardly knave dominated by a stronger will. Snake Anson and his gang
had lain in wait at that cedar camp; had made that broad hoof track
leading up the mountain. Beasley had been there with them that very day.
All this was as assured to Dale as if he had seen the men.

But the matter of Dale’s recovering the girl and doing it speedily
strung his mental strength to its highest pitch. Many outlines of action
flashed through his mind as he rode on, peering keenly through the
night, listening with practised ears. All were rejected. And at the
outset of every new branching of thought he would gaze down at the
gray form of the cougar, long, graceful, heavy, as he padded beside the
horse. From the first thought of returning to help Helen Rayner he had
conceived an undefined idea of possible value in the qualities of his
pet. Tom had performed wonderful feats of trailing, but he had never
been tried on men. Dale believed he could make him trail anything, yet
he had no proof of this. One fact stood out of all Dale’s conjectures,
and it was that he had known men, and brave men, to fear cougars.

Far up on the slope, in a little hollow where water ran and there was
a little grass for Ranger to pick, Dale haltered him and made ready to
spend the night. He was sparing with his food, giving Tom more than he
took himself. Curled close up to Dale, the big cat went to sleep.

But Dale lay awake for long.

The night was still, with only a faint moan of wind on this sheltered
slope. Dale saw hope in the stars. He did not seem to have promised
himself or Helen that he could save her sister, and then her property.
He seemed to have stated something unconsciously settled, outside of his
thinking. Strange how this certainty was not vague, yet irreconcilable
with any plans he created! Behind it, somehow nameless with
inconceivable power, surged all his wonderful knowledge of forest, of
trails, of scents, of night, of the nature of men lying down to sleep in
the dark, lonely woods, of the nature of this great cat that lived its
every action in accordance with his will.

He grew sleepy, and gradually his mind stilled, with his last conscious
thought a portent that he would awaken to accomplish his desperate task.



CHAPTER XX

Young Burt possessed the keenest eyes of any man in Snake Anson’s
gang, for which reason he was given the post as lookout from the lofty
promontory. His instructions were to keep sharp watch over the open
slopes below and to report any sight of a horse.

A cedar fire with green boughs on top of dead wood sent up a long, pale
column of smoke. This signal-fire had been kept burning since sunrise.

The preceding night camp had been made on a level spot in the cedars
back of the promontory. But manifestly Anson did not expect to remain
there long. For, after breakfast, the packs had been made up and the
horses stood saddled and bridled. They were restless and uneasy, tossing
bits and fighting flies. The sun, now half-way to meridian, was hot and
no breeze blew in that sheltered spot.

Shady Jones had ridden off early to fill the water-bags, and had not yet
returned. Anson, thinner and scalier and more snakelike than ever,
was dealing a greasy, dirty deck of cards, his opponent being the
square-shaped, black-visaged Moze. In lieu of money the gamblers wagered
with cedar-berries, each of which berries represented a pipeful of
tobacco. Jim Wilson brooded under a cedar-tree, his unshaven face a
dirty dust-hue, a smoldering fire in his light eyes, a sullen set to his
jaw. Every little while he would raise his eyes to glance at Riggs, and
it seemed that a quick glance was enough. Riggs paced to and fro in
the open, coatless and hatless, his black-broadcloth trousers and
embroidered vest dusty and torn. An enormous gun bumped awkwardly in
its sheath swinging below his hip. Riggs looked perturbed. His face was
sweating freely, yet it was far from red in color. He did not appear to
mind the sun or the flies. His eyes were staring, dark, wild, shifting
in gaze from everything they encountered. But often that gaze shot back
to the captive girl sitting under a cedar some yards from the man.

Bo Rayner’s little, booted feet were tied together with one end of a
lasso and the other end trailed off over the ground. Her hands were
free. Her riding-habit was dusty and disordered. Her eyes blazed
defiantly out of a small, pale face.

“Harve Riggs, I wouldn’t be standing in those cheap boots of yours for
a million dollars,” she said, sarcastically. Riggs took no notice of her
words.

“You pack that gun-sheath wrong end out. What have you got the gun for,
anyhow?” she added, tauntingly.

Snake Anson let out a hoarse laugh and Moze’s black visage opened in a
huge grin. Jim Wilson seemed to drink in the girl’s words. Sullen and
somber, he bent his lean head, very still, as if listening.

“You’d better shut up,” said Riggs, darkly.

“I will not shut up,” declared Bo.

“Then I’ll gag you,” he threatened.

“Gag me! Why, you dirty, low-down, two-bit of a bluff!” she exclaimed,
hotly, “I’d like to see you try it. I’ll tear that long hair of yours
right off your head.”

Riggs advanced toward her with his hands clutching, as if eager to
throttle her. The girl leaned forward, her face reddening, her eyes
fierce.

“You damned little cat!” muttered Riggs, thickly. “I’ll gag you--if you
don’t stop squallin’.”

“Come on. I dare you to lay a hand on me.... Harve Riggs, I’m not the
least afraid of you. Can’t you savvy that? You’re a liar, a four-flush,
a sneak! Why, you’re not fit to wipe the feet of any of these outlaws.”

Riggs took two long strides and bent over her, his teeth protruding in a
snarl, and he cuffed her hard on the side of the head.

Bo’s head jerked back with the force of the blow, but she uttered no
cry.

“Are you goin’ to keep your jaw shut?” he demanded, stridently, and a
dark tide of blood surged up into his neck.

“I should smile I’m not,” retorted Bo, in cool, deliberate anger
of opposition. “You’ve roped me--and you’ve struck me! Now get a
club--stand off there--out of my reach--and beat me! Oh, if I only knew
cuss words fit for you--I’d call you them!”

Snake Anson had stopped playing cards, and was watching, listening, with
half-disgusted, half-amused expression on his serpent-like face. Jim
Wilson slowly rose to his feet. If any one had observed him it would
have been to note that he now seemed singularly fascinated by this
scene, yet all the while absorbed in himself. Once he loosened the
neck-band of his blouse.

Riggs swung his arm more violently at the girl. But she dodged.

“You dog!” she hissed. “Oh, if I only had a gun!”

Her face then, with its dead whiteness and the eyes of flame, held a
tragic, impelling beauty that stung Anson into remonstrance.

“Aw, Riggs, don’t beat up the kid,” he protested. “Thet won’t do any
good. Let her alone.”

“But she’s got to shut up,” replied Riggs.

“How ‘n hell air you goin’ to shet her up? Mebbe if you get out of her
sight she’ll be quiet.... How about thet, girl?”

Anson gnawed his drooping mustache as he eyed Bo.

“Have I made any kick to you or your men yet?” she queried.

“It strikes me you ‘ain’t,” replied Anson.

“You won’t hear me make any so long as I’m treated decent,” said Bo.
“I don’t know what you’ve got to do with Riggs. He ran me down--roped
me--dragged me to your camp. Now I’ve a hunch you’re waiting for
Beasley.”

“Girl, your hunch ‘s correct,” said Anson.

“Well, do you know I’m the wrong girl?”

“What’s thet? I reckon you’re Nell Rayner, who got left all old
Auchincloss’s property.”

“No. I’m Bo Rayner. Nell is my sister. She owns the ranch. Beasley
wanted her.”

Anson cursed deep and low. Under his sharp, bristling eyebrows he bent
cunning green eyes upon Riggs.

“Say, you! Is what this kid says so?”

“Yes. She’s Nell Rayner’s sister,” replied Riggs, doggedly.

“A-huh! Wal, why in the hell did you drag her into my camp an’ off up
here to signal Beasley? He ain’t wantin’ her. He wants the girl who owns
the ranch. Did you take one fer the other--same as thet day we was with
you?”

“Guess I must have,” replied Riggs, sullenly.

“But you knowed her from her sister afore you come to my camp?”

Riggs shook his head. He was paler now and sweating more freely. The
dank hair hung wet over his forehead. His manner was that of a man
suddenly realizing he had gotten into a tight place.

“Oh, he’s a liar!” exclaimed Bo, with contemptuous ring in her voice.
“He comes from my country. He has known Nell and me for years.”

Snake Anson turned to look at Wilson.

“Jim, now hyar’s a queer deal this feller has rung in on us. I thought
thet kid was pretty young. Don’t you remember Beasley told us Nell
Rayner was a handsome woman?”

“Wal, pard Anson, if this heah gurl ain’t handsome my eyes have gone
pore,” drawled Wilson.

“A-huh! So your Texas chilvaree over the ladies is some operatin’,”
 retorted Anson, with fine sarcasm. “But thet ain’t tellin’ me what you
think?”

“Wal, I ain’t tellin’ you what I think yet. But I know thet kid ain’t
Nell Rayner. For I’ve seen her.”

Anson studied his right-hand man for a moment, then, taking out his
tobacco-pouch, he sat himself down upon a stone and proceeded leisurely
to roll a cigarette. He put it between his thin lips and apparently
forgot to light it. For a few moments he gazed at the yellow ground and
some scant sage-brush. Riggs took to pacing up and down. Wilson leaned
as before against the cedar. The girl slowly recovered from her excess
of anger.

“Kid, see hyar,” said Anson, addressing the girl; “if Riggs knowed you
wasn’t Nell an’ fetched you along anyhow--what ‘d he do thet fur?”

“He chased me--caught me. Then he saw some one after us and he hurried
to your camp. He was afraid--the cur!”

Riggs heard her reply, for he turned a malignant glance upon her.

“Anson, I fetched her because I know Nell Rayner will give up anythin’
on earth for her,” he said, in loud voice.

Anson pondered this statement with an air of considering its apparent
sincerity.

“Don’t you believe him,” declared Bo Rayner, bluntly. “He’s a liar. He’s
double-crossing Beasley and all of you.”

Riggs raised a shaking hand to clench it at her. “Keep still or it ‘ll
be the worse for you.”

“Riggs, shut up yourself,” put in Anson, as he leisurely rose. “Mebbe it
‘ain’t occurred to you thet she might have some talk interestin’ to me.
An’ I’m runnin’ this hyar camp. ... Now, kid, talk up an’ say what you
like.”

“I said he was double-crossing you all,” replied the girl, instantly.
“Why, I’m surprised you’d be caught in his company! My uncle Al and
my sweetheart Carmichael and my friend Dale--they’ve all told me what
Western men are, even down to outlaws, robbers, cutthroat rascals like
you. And I know the West well enough now to be sure that four-flush
doesn’t belong here and can’t last here. He went to Dodge City once
and when he came back he made a bluff at being a bad man. He was a
swaggering, bragging, drinking gun-fighter. He talked of the men he’d
shot, of the fights he’d had. He dressed like some of those gun-throwing
gamblers.... He was in love with my sister Nell. She hated him. He
followed us out West and he has hung on our actions like a sneaking
Indian. Why, Nell and I couldn’t even walk to the store in the village.
He rode after me out on the range--chased me.... For that Carmichael
called Riggs’s bluff down in Turner’s saloon. Dared him to draw! Cussed
him every name on the range! Slapped and beat and kicked him! Drove him
out of Pine!... And now, whatever he has said to Beasley or you, it’s a
dead sure bet he’s playing his own game. That’s to get hold of Nell, and
if not her--then me!... Oh, I’m out of breath--and I’m out of names to
call him. If I talked forever--I’d never be--able to--do him justice.
But lend me--a gun--a minute!”

Jim Wilson’s quiet form vibrated with a start. Anson with his admiring
smile pulled his gun and, taking a couple of steps forward, held it out
butt first. She stretched eagerly for it and he jerked it away.

“Hold on there!” yelled Riggs, in alarm.

“Damme, Jim, if she didn’t mean bizness!” exclaimed the outlaw.

“Wal, now--see heah, Miss. Would you bore him--if you hed a gun?”
 inquired Wilson, with curious interest. There was more of respect in his
demeanor than admiration.

“No. I don’t want his cowardly blood on my hands,” replied the girl.
“But I’d make him dance--I’d make him run.”

“Shore you can handle a gun?”

She nodded her answer while her eyes flashed hate and her resolute lips
twitched.

Then Wilson made a singularly swift motion and his gun was pitched butt
first to within a foot of her hand. She snatched it up, cocked it, aimed
it, all before Anson could move. But he yelled:

“Drop thet gun, you little devil!”

Riggs turned ghastly as the big blue gun lined on him. He also yelled,
but that yell was different from Anson’s.

“Run or dance!” cried the girl.

The big gun boomed and leaped almost out of her hand. She took both
hands, and called derisively as she fired again. The second bullet hit
at Riggs’s feet, scattering the dust and fragments of stone all over
him. He bounded here--there--then darted for the rocks. A third time the
heavy gun spoke and this bullet must have ticked Riggs, for he let out a
hoarse bawl and leaped sheer for the protection of a rock.

“Plug him! Shoot off a leg!” yelled Snake Anson, whooping and stamping,
as Riggs got out of sight.

Jim Wilson watched the whole performance with the same quietness
that had characterized his manner toward the girl. Then, as Riggs
disappeared, Wilson stepped forward and took the gun from the girl’s
trembling hands. She was whiter than ever, but still resolute and
defiant. Wilson took a glance over in the direction Riggs had hidden and
then proceeded to reload the gun. Snake Anson’s roar of laughter ceased
rather suddenly.

“Hyar, Jim, she might have held up the whole gang with thet gun,” he
protested.

“I reckon she ‘ain’t nothin’ ag’in’ us,” replied Wilson.

“A-huh! You know a lot about wimmen now, don’t you? But thet did my
heart good. Jim, what ‘n earth would you have did if thet ‘d been you
instead of Riggs?”

The query seemed important and amazing. Wilson pondered.

“Shore I’d stood there--stock-still--an’ never moved an eye-winker.”

“An’ let her shoot!” ejaculated Anson, nodding his long head. “Me, too!”

So these rough outlaws, inured to all the violence and baseness of their
dishonest calling, rose to the challenging courage of a slip of a girl.
She had the one thing they respected--nerve.

Just then a halloo, from the promontory brought Anson up with a start.
Muttering to himself, he strode out toward the jagged rocks that hid the
outlook. Moze shuffled his burly form after Anson.

“Miss, it shore was grand--thet performance of Mister Gunman Riggs,”
 remarked Jim Wilson, attentively studying the girl.

“Much obliged to you for lending me your gun,” she replied. “I--I hope I
hit him--a little.”

“Wal, if you didn’t sting him, then Jim Wilson knows nothin’ about
lead.”

“Jim Wilson? Are you the man--the outlaw my uncle Al knew?”

“Reckon I am, miss. Fer I knowed Al shore enough. What ‘d he say aboot
me?”

“I remember once he was telling me about Snake Anson’s gang. He
mentioned you. Said you were a real gun-fighter. And what a shame it was
you had to be an outlaw.”

“Wal! An’ so old Al spoke thet nice of me.... It’s tolerable likely I’ll
remember. An’ now, miss, can I do anythin’ for you?”

Swift as a flash she looked at him.

“What do you mean?”

“Wal, shore I don’t mean much, I’m sorry to say. Nothin’ to make
you look like thet.... I hev to be an outlaw, shore as you’re born.
But--mebbe there’s a difference in outlaws.”

She understood him and paid him the compliment not to voice her sudden
upflashing hope that he might be one to betray his leader.

“Please take this rope off my feet. Let me walk a little. Let me have
a--a little privacy. That fool watched every move I made. I promise not
to run away. And, oh! I’m thirsty.”

“Shore you’ve got sense.” He freed her feet and helped her get up.
“There’ll be some fresh water any minit now, if you’ll wait.”

Then he turned his back and walked over to where Riggs sat nursing a
bullet-burn on his leg.

“Say, Riggs, I’m takin’ the responsibility of loosin’ the girl for a
little spell. She can’t get away. An’ there ain’t any sense in bein’
mean.”

Riggs made no reply, and went on rolling down his trousers leg, lapped
a fold over at the bottom and pulled on his boot. Then he strode out
toward the promontory. Half-way there he encountered Anson tramping
back.

“Beasley’s comin’ one way an’ Shady’s comin’ another. We’ll be off this
hot point of rock by noon,” said the outlaw leader.

Riggs went on to the promontory to look for himself.

“Where’s the girl?” demanded Anson, in surprise, when he got back to the
camp.

“Wal, she’s walkin’ ‘round between heah an’ Pine,” drawled Wilson.

“Jim, you let her loose?”

“Shore I did. She’s been hawg-tied all the time. An’ she said she’d not
run off. I’d take thet girl’s word even to a sheep-thief.”

“A-huh. So would I, for all of thet. But, Jim, somethin’s workin’ in
you. Ain’t you sort of rememberin’ a time when you was young--an’ mebbe
knowed pretty kids like this one?”

“Wal, if I am it ‘ll shore turn out bad fer somebody.”

Anson gave him a surprised stare and suddenly lost the bantering tone.

“A-huh! So thet’s how it’s workin’,” he replied, and flung himself down
in the shade.

Young Burt made his appearance then, wiping his sallow face. His
deep-set, hungry eyes, upon which his comrades set such store, roved
around the camp.

“Whar’s the gurl?” he queried.

“Jim let her go out fer a stroll,” replied Anson.

“I seen Jim was gittin’ softy over her. Haw! Haw! Haw!”

But Snake Anson did not crack a smile. The atmosphere appeared not to be
congenial for jokes, a fact Burt rather suddenly divined. Riggs and Moze
returned from the promontory, the latter reporting that Shady Jones was
riding up close. Then the girl walked slowly into sight and approached
to find a seat within ten yards of the group. They waited in silence
until the expected horseman rode up with water-bottles slung on both
sides of his saddle. His advent was welcome. All the men were thirsty.
Wilson took water to the girl before drinking himself.

“Thet’s an all-fired hot ride fer water,” declared the outlaw Shady, who
somehow fitted his name in color and impression. “An’, boss, if it’s the
same to you I won’t take it ag’in.”

“Cheer up, Shady. We’ll be rustlin’ back in the mountains before
sundown,” said Anson.

“Hang me if that ain’t the cheerfulest news I’ve hed in some days. Hey,
Moze?”

The black-faced Moze nodded his shaggy head.

“I’m sick an’ sore of this deal,” broke out Burt, evidently encouraged
by his elders. “Ever since last fall we’ve been hangin’ ‘round--till
jest lately freezin’ in camps--no money--no drink--no grub wuth havin’.
All on promises!”

Not improbably this young and reckless member of the gang had struck
the note of discord. Wilson seemed most detached from any sentiment
prevailing there. Some strong thoughts were revolving in his brain.

“Burt, you ain’t insinuatin’ thet I made promises?” inquired Anson,
ominously.

“No, boss, I ain’t. You allus said we might hit it rich. But them
promises was made to you. An’ it ‘d be jest like thet greaser to go back
on his word now we got the gurl.”

“Son, it happens we got the wrong one. Our long-haired pard hyar--Mister
Riggs--him with the big gun--he waltzes up with this sassy kid instead
of the woman Beasley wanted.”

Burt snorted his disgust while Shady Jones, roundly swearing, pelted
the smoldering camp-fire with stones. Then they all lapsed into surly
silence. The object of their growing scorn, Riggs, sat a little
way apart, facing none of them, but maintaining as bold a front as
apparently he could muster.

Presently a horse shot up his ears, the first indication of scent or
sound imperceptible to the men. But with this cue they all, except
Wilson, sat up attentively. Soon the crack of iron-shod hoofs on stone
broke the silence. Riggs nervously rose to his feet. And the others,
still excepting Wilson, one by one followed suit. In another moment a
rangy bay horse trotted out of the cedars, up to the camp, and his rider
jumped off nimbly for so heavy a man.

“Howdy, Beasley?” was Anson’s greeting.

“Hello, Snake, old man!” replied Beasley, as his bold, snapping black
eyes swept the group. He was dusty and hot, and wet with sweat, yet
evidently too excited to feel discomfort. “I seen your smoke signal
first off an’ jumped my hoss quick. But I rode north of Pine before I
headed ‘round this way. Did you corral the girl or did Riggs? Say!--you
look queer!... What’s wrong here? You haven’t signaled me for nothin’?”

Snake Anson beckoned to Bo.

“Come out of the shade. Let him look you over.”

The girl walked out from under the spreading cedar that had hidden her
from sight.

Beasley stared aghast--his jaw dropped.

“Thet’s the kid sister of the woman I wanted!” he ejaculated.

“So we’ve jest been told.”

Astonishment still held Beasley.

“Told?” he echoed. Suddenly his big body leaped with a start. “Who got
her? Who fetched her?”

“Why, Mister Gunman Riggs hyar,” replied Anson, with a subtle scorn.

“Riggs, you got the wrong girl,” shouted Beasley. “You made thet mistake
once before. What’re you up to?”

“I chased her an’ when I got her, seein’ it wasn’t Nell Rayner--why--I
kept her, anyhow,” replied Riggs. “An’ I’ve got a word for your ear
alone.”

“Man, you’re crazy--queerin’ my deal thet way!” roared Beasley. “You
heard my plans.... Riggs, this girl-stealin’ can’t be done twice. Was
you drinkin’ or locoed or what?”

“Beasley, he was giving you the double-cross,” cut in Bo Rayner’s cool
voice.

The rancher stared speechlessly at her, then at Anson, then at Wilson,
and last at Riggs, when his brown visage shaded dark with rush of purple
blood. With one lunge he knocked Riggs flat, then stood over him with a
convulsive hand at his gun.

“You white-livered card-sharp! I’ve a notion to bore you.... They told
me you had a deal of your own, an’ now I believe it.”

“Yes--I had,” replied Riggs, cautiously getting up. He was ghastly. “But
I wasn’t double-crossin’ you. Your deal was to get the girl away from
home so you could take possession of her property. An’ I wanted her.”

“What for did you fetch the sister, then?” demanded Beasley, his big jaw
bulging.

“Because I’ve a plan to--”

“Plan hell! You’ve spoiled my plan an’ I’ve seen about enough of you.”
 Beasley breathed hard; his lowering gaze boded an uncertain will toward
the man who had crossed him; his hand still hung low and clutching.

“Beasley, tell them to get my horse. I want to go home,” said Bo Rayner.

Slowly Beasley turned. Her words enjoined a silence. What to do with her
now appeared a problem.

“I had nothin’ to do with fetchin’ you here an’ I’ll have nothin’ to do
with sendin’ you back or whatever’s done with you,” declared Beasley.

Then the girl’s face flashed white again and her eyes changed to fire.

“You’re as big a liar as Riggs,” she cried, passionately. “And you’re
a thief, a bully who picks on defenseless girls. Oh, we know your game!
Milt Dale heard your plot with this outlaw Anson to steal my sister. You
ought to be hanged--you half-breed greaser!”

“I’ll cut out your tongue!” hissed Beasley.

“Yes, I’ll bet you would if you had me alone. But these outlaws--these
sheep-thieves--these tools you hire are better than you and Riggs....
What do you suppose Carmichael will do to you? Carmichael! He’s my
sweetheart--that cowboy. You know what he did to Riggs. Have you brains
enough to know what he’ll do to you?”

“He’ll not do much,” growled Beasley. But the thick purplish blood was
receding from his face. “Your cowpuncher--”

“Bah!” she interrupted, and she snapped her fingers in his face. “He’s
from Texas! He’s from TEXAS!”

“Supposin’ he is from Texas?” demanded Beasley, in angry irritation.
“What’s thet? Texans are all over. There’s Jim Wilson, Snake Anson’s
right-hand man. He’s from Texas. But thet ain’t scarin’ any one.”

He pointed toward Wilson, who shifted uneasily from foot to foot. The
girl’s flaming glance followed his hand.

“Are you from Texas?” she asked.

“Yes, Miss, I am--an’ I reckon I don’t deserve it,” replied Wilson. It
was certain that a vague shame attended his confession.

“Oh! I believed even a bandit from Texas would fight for a helpless
girl!” she replied, in withering scorn of disappointment.

Jim Wilson dropped his head. If any one there suspected a serious
turn to Wilson’s attitude toward that situation it was the keen outlaw
leader.

“Beasley, you’re courtin’ death,” he broke in.

“You bet you are!” added Bo, with a passion that made her listeners
quiver. “You’ve put me at the mercy of a gang of outlaws! You may force
my sister out of her home! But your day will come.’ Tom Carmichael will
KILL you.”

Beasley mounted his horse. Sullen, livid, furious, he sat shaking in the
saddle, to glare down at the outlaw leader.

“Snake, thet’s no fault of mine the deal’s miscarried. I was square. I
made my offer for the workin’ out of my plan. It ‘ain’t been done. Now
there’s hell to pay an’ I’m through.”

“Beasley, I reckon I couldn’t hold you to anythin’,” replied Anson,
slowly. “But if you was square you ain’t square now. We’ve hung around
an’ tried hard. My men are all sore. An’ we’re broke, with no outfit to
speak of. Me an’ you never fell out before. But I reckon we might.”

“Do I owe you any money--accordin’ to the deal?” demanded Beasley.

“No, you don’t,” responded Anson, sharply.

“Then thet’s square. I wash my hands of the whole deal. Make Riggs pay
up. He’s got money an’ he’s got plans. Go in with him.”

With that Beasley spurred his horse, wheeled and rode away. The outlaws
gazed after him until he disappeared in the cedars.

“What’d you expect from a greaser?” queried Shady Jones.

“Anson, didn’t I say so?” added Burt.

The black-visaged Moze rolled his eyes like a mad bull and Jim Wilson
studiously examined a stick he held in his hands. Riggs showed immense
relief.

“Anson, stake me to some of your outfit an’ I’ll ride off with the
girl,” he said, eagerly.

“Where’d you go now?” queried Anson, curiously.

Riggs appeared at a loss for a quick answer; his wits were no more equal
to this predicament than his nerve.

“You’re no woodsman. An’ onless you’re plumb locoed you’d never risk
goin’ near Pine or Show Down. There’ll be real trackers huntin’ your
trail.”

The listening girl suddenly appealed to Wilson.

“Don’t let him take me off--alone--in the woods!” she faltered. That was
the first indication of her weakening.

Jim Wilson broke into gruff reply. “I’m not bossin’ this gang.”

“But you’re a man!” she importuned.

“Riggs, you fetch along your precious firebrand an’ come with us,” said
Anson, craftily. “I’m particular curious to see her brand you.”

“Snake, lemme take the girl back to Pine,” said Jim Wilson.

Anson swore his amaze.

“It’s sense,” continued Wilson. “We’ve shore got our own troubles, an’
keepin’ her ‘ll only add to them. I’ve a hunch. Now you know I ain’t
often givin’ to buckin’ your say-so. But this deal ain’t tastin’ good to
me. Thet girl ought to be sent home.”

“But mebbe there’s somethin’ in it for us. Her sister ‘d pay to git her
back.”

“Wal, I shore hope you’ll recollect I offered--thet’s all,” concluded
Wilson.

“Jim, if we wanted to git rid of her we’d let Riggs take her off,”
 remonstrated the outlaw leader. He was perturbed and undecided. Wilson
worried him.

The long Texan veered around full faced. What subtle transformation in
him!

“Like hell we would!” he said.

It could not have been the tone that caused Anson to quail. He might
have been leader here, but he was not the greater man. His face clouded.

“Break camp,” he ordered.

Riggs had probably not heard that last exchange between Anson and
Wilson, for he had walked a few rods aside to get his horse.

In a few moments when they started off, Burt, Jones, and Moze were in
the lead driving the pack-horses, Anson rode next, the girl came between
him and Riggs, and significantly, it seemed, Jim Wilson brought up the
rear.

This start was made a little after the noon hour. They zigzagged up the
slope, took to a deep ravine, and followed it up to where it headed in
the level forest. From there travel was rapid, the pack-horses being
driven at a jogtrot. Once when a troop of deer burst out of a thicket
into a glade, to stand with ears high, young Burt halted the cavalcade.
His well-aimed shot brought down a deer. Then the men rode on, leaving
him behind to dress and pack the meat. The only other halt made was at
the crossing of the first water, a clear, swift brook, where both horses
and men drank thirstily. Here Burt caught up with his comrades.

They traversed glade and park, and wended a crooked trail through the
deepening forest, and climbed, bench after bench, to higher ground,
while the sun sloped to the westward, lower and redder. Sunset had gone,
and twilight was momentarily brightening to the afterglow when Anson,
breaking his silence of the afternoon, ordered a halt.

The place was wild, dismal, a shallow vale between dark slopes of
spruce. Grass, fire-wood, and water were there in abundance. All the
men were off, throwing saddles and packs, before the tired girl made an
effort to get down. Riggs, observing her, made a not ungentle move to
pull her off. She gave him a sounding slap with her gloved hand.

“Keep your paws to yourself,” she said. No evidence of exhaustion was
there in her spirit.

Wilson had observed this by-play, but Anson had not.

“What come off?” he asked.

“Wal, the Honorable Gunman Riggs jest got caressed by the lady--as he
was doin’ the elegant,” replied Moze, who stood nearest.

“Jim, was you watchin’?” queried Anson. His curiosity had held through
the afternoon.

“He tried to yank her off an’ she biffed him,” replied Wilson.

“That Riggs is jest daffy or plain locoed,” said Snake, in an aside to
Moze.

“Boss, you mean plain cussed. Mark my words, he’ll hoodoo this outfit.
Jim was figgerin’ correct.”

“Hoodoo--” cursed Anson, under his breath.

Many hands made quick work. In a few moments a fire was burning
brightly, water was boiling, pots were steaming, the odor of venison
permeated the cool air. The girl had at last slipped off her saddle to
the ground, where she sat while Riggs led the horse away. She sat there
apparently forgotten, a pathetic droop to her head.

Wilson had taken an ax and was vigorously wielding it among the spruces.
One by one they fell with swish and soft crash. Then the sliding ring
of the ax told how he was slicing off the branches with long sweeps.
Presently he appeared in the semi-darkness, dragging half-trimmed
spruces behind him. He made several trips, the last of which was to
stagger under a huge burden of spruce boughs. These he spread under a
low, projecting branch of an aspen. Then he leaned the bushy spruces
slantingly against this branch on both sides, quickly improvising a
V-shaped shelter with narrow aperture in front. Next from one of
the packs he took a blanket and threw that inside the shelter. Then,
touching the girl on the shoulder, he whispered:

“When you’re ready, slip in there. An’ don’t lose no sleep by worryin’,
fer I’ll be layin’ right here.”

He made a motion to indicate his length across the front of the narrow
aperture.

“Oh, thank you! Maybe you really are a Texan,” she whispered back.

“Mebbe,” was his gloomy reply.



CHAPTER XXI

The girl refused to take food proffered her by Riggs, but she ate and
drank a little that Wilson brought her, then she disappeared in the
spruce lean-to.

Whatever loquacity and companionship had previously existed in
Snake Anson’s gang were not manifest in this camp. Each man seemed
preoccupied, as if pondering the dawn in his mind of an ill omen not
clear to him yet and not yet dreamed of by his fellows. They all smoked.
Then Moze and Shady played cards awhile by the light of the fire, but it
was a dull game, in which either seldom spoke. Riggs sought his blanket
first, and the fact was significant that he lay down some distance from
the spruce shelter which contained Bo Rayner. Presently young Burt went
off grumbling to his bed. And not long afterward the card-players did
likewise.

Snake Anson and Jim Wilson were left brooding in silence beside the
dying camp-fire.

The night was dark, with only a few stars showing. A fitful wind moaned
unearthly through the spruce. An occasional thump of hoof sounded from
the dark woods. No cry of wolf or coyote or cat gave reality to the
wildness of forest-land.

By and by those men who had rolled in their blankets were breathing deep
and slow in heavy slumber.

“Jim, I take it this hyar Riggs has queered our deal,” said Snake Anson,
in low voice.

“I reckon,” replied Wilson.

“An’ I’m feared he’s queered this hyar White Mountain country fer us.”

“Shore I ‘ain’t got so far as thet. What d’ ye mean, Snake?”

“Damme if I savvy,” was the gloomy reply. “I only know what was bad
looks growin’ wuss. Last fall--an’ winter--an’ now it’s near April.
We’ve got no outfit to make a long stand in the woods.... Jim, jest how
strong is thet Beasley down in the settlements?”

“I’ve a hunch he ain’t half as strong as he bluffs.”

“Me, too. I got thet idee yesterday. He was scared of the kid--when she
fired up an’ sent thet hot-shot about her cowboy sweetheart killin’ him.
He’ll do it, Jim. I seen that Carmichael at Magdalena some years ago.
Then he was only a youngster. But, whew! Mebbe he wasn’t bad after
toyin’ with a little red liquor.”

“Shore. He was from Texas, she said.”

“Jim, I savvied your feelin’s was hurt--by thet talk about Texas--an’
when she up an’ asked you.”

Wilson had no rejoinder for this remark.

“Wal, Lord knows, I ain’t wonderin’. You wasn’t a hunted outlaw all
your life. An’ neither was I.... Wilson, I never was keen on this girl
deal--now, was I?”

“I reckon it’s honest to say no to thet,” replied Wilson. “But it’s
done. Beasley ‘ll get plugged sooner or later. Thet won’t help us any.
Chasin’ sheep-herders out of the country an’ stealin’ sheep--thet ain’t
stealin’ gurls by a long sight. Beasley ‘ll blame that on us, an’ be
greaser enough to send some of his men out to hunt us. For Pine an’ Show
Down won’t stand thet long. There’s them Mormons. They’ll be hell when
they wake up. Suppose Carmichael got thet hunter Dale an’ them hawk-eyed
Beemans on our trail?”

“Wal, we’d cash in--quick,” replied Anson, gruffly.

“Then why didn’t you let me take the gurl back home?”

“Wal, come to think of thet, Jim, I’m sore, an’ I need money--an’ I
knowed you’d never take a dollar from her sister. An’ I’ve made up my
mind to git somethin’ out of her.”

“Snake, you’re no fool. How ‘ll you do thet same an’ do it quick?”

“‘Ain’t reckoned it out yet.”

“Wal, you got aboot to-morrer an’ thet’s all,” returned Wilson,
gloomily.

“Jim, what’s ailin’ you?”

“I’ll let you figger thet out.”

“Wal, somethin’ ails the whole gang,” declared Anson, savagely.
“With them it’s nothin’ to eat--no whisky--no money to bet with--no
tobacco!... But thet’s not what’s ailin’ you, Jim Wilson, nor me!”

“Wal, what is, then?” queried Wilson.

“With me it’s a strange feelin’ thet my day’s over on these ranges. I
can’t explain, but it jest feels so. Somethin’ in the air. I don’t like
them dark shadows out there under the spruces. Savvy?... An’ as fer you,
Jim--wal, you allus was half decent, an’ my gang’s got too lowdown fer
you.”

“Snake, did I ever fail you?”

“No, you never did. You’re the best pard I ever knowed. In the years
we’ve rustled together we never had a contrary word till I let Beasley
fill my ears with his promises. Thet’s my fault. But, Jim, it’s too
late.”

“It mightn’t have been too late yesterday.”

“Mebbe not. But it is now, an’ I’ll hang on to the girl or git her worth
in gold,” declared the outlaw, grimly.

“Snake, I’ve seen stronger gangs than yours come an’ go. Them Big Bend
gangs in my country--them rustlers--they were all bad men. You have no
likes of them gangs out heah. If they didn’t get wiped out by Rangers
or cowboys, why they jest naturally wiped out themselves. Thet’s a law I
recognize in relation to gangs like them. An’ as for yours--why, Anson,
it wouldn’t hold water against one real gun-slinger.”

“A-huh’ Then if we ran up ag’in’ Carmichael or some such fellar--would
you be suckin’ your finger like a baby?”

“Wal, I wasn’t takin’ count of myself. I was takin’ generalities.”

“Aw, what ‘n hell are them?” asked Anson, disgustedly. “Jim, I know as
well as you thet this hyar gang is hard put. We’re goin’ to be trailed
an’ chased. We’ve got to hide--be on the go all the time--here an’
there--all over, in the roughest woods. An’ wait our chance to work
south.”

“Shore. But, Snake, you ain’t takin’ no count of the feelin’s of the
men--an’ of mine an’ yours.... I’ll bet you my hoss thet in a day or so
this gang will go to pieces.”

“I’m feared you spoke what’s been crowdin’ to git in my mind,” replied
Anson. Then he threw up his hands in a strange gesture of resignation.
The outlaw was brave, but all men of the wilds recognized a force
stronger than themselves. He sat there resembling a brooding snake with
basilisk eyes upon the fire. At length he arose, and without another
word to his comrade he walked wearily to where lay the dark, quiet forms
of the sleepers.

Jim Wilson remained beside the flickering fire. He was reading something
in the red embers, perhaps the past. Shadows were on his face, not all
from the fading flames or the towering spruces. Ever and anon he raised
his head to listen, not apparently that he expected any unusual sound,
but as if involuntarily. Indeed, as Anson had said, there was something
nameless in the air. The black forest breathed heavily, in fitful moans
of wind. It had its secrets. The glances Wilson threw on all sides
betrayed that any hunted man did not love the dark night, though it hid
him. Wilson seemed fascinated by the life inclosed there by the black
circle of spruce. He might have been reflecting on the strange reaction
happening to every man in that group, since a girl had been brought
among them. Nothing was clear, however; the forest kept its secret, as
did the melancholy wind; the outlaws were sleeping like tired beasts,
with their dark secrets locked in their hearts.

After a while Wilson put some sticks on the red embers, then pulled the
end of a log over them. A blaze sputtered up, changing the dark circle
and showing the sleepers with their set, shadowed faces upturned. Wilson
gazed on all of them, a sardonic smile on his lips, and then his look
fixed upon the sleeper apart from the others--Riggs. It might have been
the false light of flame and shadow that created Wilson’s expression of
dark and terrible hate. Or it might have been the truth, expressed
in that lonely, unguarded hour, from the depths of a man born in the
South--a man who by his inheritance of race had reverence for all
womanhood--by whose strange, wild, outlawed bloody life of a gun-fighter
he must hate with the deadliest hate this type that aped and mocked his
fame.

It was a long gaze Wilson rested upon Riggs--as strange and secretive as
the forest wind moaning down the great aisles--and when that dark gaze
was withdrawn Wilson stalked away to make his bed with the stride of one
ill whom spirit had liberated force.

He laid his saddle in front of the spruce shelter where the girl had
entered, and his tarpaulin and blankets likewise and then wearily
stretched his long length to rest.

The camp-fire blazed up, showing the exquisite green and brown-flecked
festooning of the spruce branches, symmetrical and perfect, yet so
irregular, and then it burned out and died down, leaving all in the dim
gray starlight. The horses were not moving around; the moan of night
wind had grown fainter; the low hum of insects was dying away; even
the tinkle of the brook had diminished. And that growth toward absolute
silence continued, yet absolute silence was never attained. Life abided
in the forest; only it had changed its form for the dark hours.


Anson’s gang did not bestir themselves at the usual early sunrise hour
common to all woodsmen, hunters, or outlaws, to whom the break of day
was welcome. These companions--Anson and Riggs included--might have
hated to see the dawn come. It meant only another meager meal, then
the weary packing and the long, long ride to nowhere in particular,
and another meager meal--all toiled for without even the necessities of
satisfactory living, and assuredly without the thrilling hopes that
made their life significant, and certainly with a growing sense of
approaching calamity.

The outlaw leader rose surly and cross-grained. He had to boot Burt
to drive him out for the horses. Riggs followed him. Shady Jones did
nothing except grumble. Wilson, by common consent, always made the
sour-dough bread, and he was slow about it this morning. Anson and Moze
did the rest of the work, without alacrity. The girl did not appear.

“Is she dead?” growled Anson.

“No, she ain’t,” replied Wilson, looking up. “She’s sleepin’. Let her
sleep. She’d shore be a sight better off if she was daid.”

“A-huh! So would all of this hyar outfit,” was Anson’s response.

“Wal, Sna-ake, I shore reckon we’ll all be thet there soon,” drawled
Wilson, in his familiar cool and irritating tone that said so much more
than the content of the words.

Anson did not address the Texas member of his party again.

Burt rode bareback into camp, driving half the number of the horses;
Riggs followed shortly with several more. But three were missed, one
of them being Anson’s favorite. He would not have budged without that
horse. During breakfast he growled about his lazy men, and after the
meal tried to urge them off. Riggs went unwillingly. Burt refused to go
at all.

“Nix. I footed them hills all I’m a-goin’ to,” he said. “An’ from now on
I rustle my own hoss.”

The leader glared his reception of this opposition. Perhaps his sense of
fairness actuated him once more, for he ordered Shady and Moze out to do
their share.

“Jim, you’re the best tracker in this outfit. Suppose you go,” suggested
Anson. “You allus used to be the first one off.”

“Times has changed, Snake,” was the imperturbable reply.

“Wal, won’t you go?” demanded the leader, impatiently.

“I shore won’t.”

Wilson did not look or intimate in any way that he would not leave the
girl in camp with one or any or all of Anson’s gang, but the truth was
as significant as if he had shouted it. The slow-thinking Moze gave
Wilson a sinister look.

“Boss, ain’t it funny how a pretty wench--?” began Shady Jones,
sarcastically.

“Shut up, you fool!” broke in Anson. “Come on, I’ll help rustle them
hosses.”

After they had gone Burt took his rifle and strolled off into the
forest. Then the girl appeared. Her hair was down, her face pale, with
dark shadows. She asked for water to wash her face. Wilson pointed to
the brook, and as she walked slowly toward it he took a comb and a clean
scarf from his pack and carried them to her.

Upon her return to the camp-fire she looked very different with her hair
arranged and the red stains in her cheeks.

“Miss, air you hungry?” asked Wilson.

“Yes, I am,” she replied.

He helped her to portions of bread, venison and gravy, and a cup of
coffee. Evidently she relished the meat, but she had to force down the
rest.

“Where are they all?” she asked.

“Rustlin’ the hosses.”

Probably she divined that he did not want to talk, for the fleeting
glance she gave him attested to a thought that his voice or demeanor had
changed. Presently she sought a seat under the aspen-tree, out of
the sun, and the smoke continually blowing in her face; and there she
stayed, a forlorn little figure, for all the resolute lips and defiant
eyes.

The Texan paced to and fro beside the camp-fire with bent head,
and hands locked behind him. But for the swinging gun he would have
resembled a lanky farmer, coatless and hatless, with his brown vest
open, his trousers stuck in the top of the high boots.

And neither he nor the girl changed their positions relatively for
a long time. At length, however, after peering into the woods, and
listening, he remarked to the girl that he would be back in a moment,
and then walked off around the spruces.

No sooner had he disappeared--in fact, so quickly after-ward that it
presupposed design instead of accident--than Riggs came running from the
opposite side of the glade. He ran straight to the girl, who sprang to
her feet.

“I hid--two of the--horses,” he panted, husky with excitement. “I’ll
take--two saddles. You grab some grub. We’ll run for it.”

“No,” she cried, stepping back.

“But it’s not safe--for us--here,” he said, hurriedly, glancing all
around. “I’ll take you--home. I swear.... Not safe--I tell you--this
gang’s after me. Hurry!”

He laid hold of two saddles, one with each hand. The moment had reddened
his face, brightened his eyes, made his action strong.

“I’m safer--here with this outlaw gang,” she replied.

“You won’t come!” His color began to lighten then, and his face to
distort. He dropped his hold on the saddles.

“Harve Riggs, I’d rather become a toy and a rag for these ruffians than
spend an hour alone with you,” she flashed at him, in unquenchable hate.

“I’ll drag you!”

He seized her, but could not hold her. Breaking away, she screamed.

“Help!”

That whitened his face, drove him to frenzy. Leaping forward, he struck
her a hard blow across the mouth. It staggered her, and, tripping on a
saddle, she fell. His hands flew to her throat, ready to choke her. But
she lay still and held her tongue. Then he dragged her to her feet.

“Hurry now--grab that pack--an’ follow me.” Again Riggs laid hold of the
two saddles. A desperate gleam, baleful and vainglorious, flashed over
his face. He was living his one great adventure.

The girl’s eyes dilated. They looked beyond him. Her lips opened.

“Scream again an’ I’ll kill you!” he cried, hoarsely and swiftly. The
very opening of her lips had terrified Riggs.

“Reckon one scream was enough,” spoke a voice, slow, but without the
drawl, easy and cool, yet incalculable in some terrible sense.

Riggs wheeled with inarticulate cry. Wilson stood a few paces off, with
his gun half leveled, low down. His face seemed as usual, only his eyes
held a quivering, light intensity, like boiling molten silver.

“Girl, what made thet blood on your mouth?”

“Riggs hit me!” she whispered. Then at something she feared or saw or
divined she shrank back, dropped on her knees, and crawled into the
spruce shelter.

“Wal, Riggs, I’d invite you to draw if thet ‘d be any use,” said Wilson.
This speech was reflective, yet it hurried a little.

Riggs could not draw nor move nor speak. He seemed turned to stone,
except his jaw, which slowly fell.

“Harve Riggs, gunman from down Missouri way,” continued the voice of
incalculable intent, “reckon you’ve looked into a heap of gun-barrels in
your day. Shore! Wal, look in this heah one!”

Wilson deliberately leveled the gun on a line with Riggs’s starting
eyes.

“Wasn’t you heard to brag in Turner’s saloon--thet you could see lead
comin’--an’ dodge it? Shore you must be swift!... DODGE THIS HEAH
BULLET!”

The gun spouted flame and boomed. One of Riggs’s starting, popping
eyes--the right one--went out, like a lamp. The other rolled horribly,
then set in blank dead fixedness. Riggs swayed in slow motion until a
lost balance felled him heavily, an inert mass.

Wilson bent over the prostrate form. Strange, violent contrast to the
cool scorn of the preceding moment! Hissing, spitting, as if poisoned by
passion, he burst with the hate that his character had forbidden him to
express on a living counterfeit. Wilson was shaken, as if by a palsy. He
choked over passionate, incoherent invective. It was class hate first,
then the hate of real manhood for a craven, then the hate of disgrace
for a murder. No man so fair as a gun-fighter in the Western creed of an
“even break”!

Wilson’s terrible cataclysm of passion passed. Straightening up, he
sheathed his weapon and began a slow pace before the fire. Not many
moments afterward he jerked his head high and listened. Horses were
softly thudding through the forest. Soon Anson rode into sight with
his men and one of the strayed horses. It chanced, too, that young Burt
appeared on the other side of the glade. He walked quickly, as one who
anticipated news.

Snake Anson as he dismounted espied the dead man.

“Jim--I thought I heard a shot.”

The others exclaimed and leaped off their horses to view the prostrate
form with that curiosity and strange fear common to all men confronted
by sight of sudden death.

That emotion was only momentary.

“Shot his lamp out!” ejaculated Moze.

“Wonder how Gunman Riggs liked thet plumb center peg!” exclaimed Shady
Jones, with a hard laugh.

“Back of his head all gone!” gasped young Burt. Not improbably he had
not seen a great many bullet-marked men.

“Jim!--the long-haired fool didn’t try to draw on you!” exclaimed Snake
Anson, astounded.

Wilson neither spoke nor ceased his pacing.

“What was it over?” added Anson, curiously.

“He hit the gurl,” replied Wilson.

Then there were long-drawn exclamations all around, and glance met
glance.

“Jim, you saved me the job,” continued the outlaw leader. “An’ I’m much
obliged.... Fellars, search Riggs an’ we’ll divvy.... Thet all right,
Jim?”

“Shore, an’ you can have my share.”

They found bank-notes in the man’s pocket and considerable gold worn in
a money-belt around his waist. Shady Jones appropriated his boots, and
Moze his gun. Then they left him as he had fallen.

“Jim, you’ll have to track them lost hosses. Two still missin’ an’ one
of them’s mine,” called Anson as Wilson paced to the end of his beat.

The girl heard Anson, for she put her head out of the spruce shelter and
called: “Riggs said he’d hid two of the horses. They must be close. He
came that way.”

“Howdy, kid! Thet’s good news,” replied Anson. His spirits were rising.
“He must hev wanted you to slope with him?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t go.”

“An’ then he hit you?”

“Yes.”

“Wal, recallin’ your talk of yestiddy, I can’t see as Mister Riggs
lasted much longer hyar than he’d hev lasted in Texas. We’ve some of
thet great country right in our outfit.”

The girl withdrew her white face.

“It’s break camp, boys,” was the leader’s order. “A couple of you look
up them hosses. They’ll be hid in some thick spruces. The rest of us ‘ll
pack.”


Soon the gang was on the move, heading toward the height of land, and
swerving from it only to find soft and grassy ground that would not
leave any tracks.

They did not travel more than a dozen miles during the afternoon, but
they climbed bench after bench until they reached the timbered plateau
that stretched in sheer black slope up to the peaks. Here rose the great
and gloomy forest of firs and pines, with the spruce overshadowed and
thinned out. The last hour of travel was tedious and toilsome, a zigzag,
winding, breaking, climbing hunt for the kind of camp-site suited
to Anson’s fancy. He seemed to be growing strangely irrational about
selecting places to camp. At last, for no reason that could have been
manifest to a good woodsman, he chose a gloomy bowl in the center of the
densest forest that had been traversed. The opening, if such it could
have been called, was not a park or even a glade. A dark cliff, with
strange holes, rose to one side, but not so high as the lofty pines that
brushed it. Along its base babbled a brook, running over such formation
of rock that from different points near at hand it gave forth different
sounds, some singing, others melodious, and one at least of a hollow,
weird, deep sound, not loud, but strangely penetrating.

“Sure spooky I say,” observed Shady, sentiently.

The little uplift of mood, coincident with the rifling of Riggs’s
person, had not worn over to this evening camp. What talk the outlaws
indulged in was necessary and conducted in low tones. The place enjoined
silence.

Wilson performed for the girl very much the same service as he had the
night before. Only he advised her not to starve herself; she must eat
to keep up her strength. She complied at the expense of considerable
effort.

As it had been a back-breaking day, in which all of them, except the
girl, had climbed miles on foot, they did not linger awake long enough
after supper to learn what a wild, weird, and pitch-black spot the
outlaw leader had chosen. The little spaces of open ground between the
huge-trunked pine-trees had no counterpart up in the lofty spreading
foliage. Not a star could blink a wan ray of light into that Stygian
pit. The wind, cutting down over abrupt heights farther up, sang in the
pine-needles as if they were strings vibrant with chords. Dismal creaks
were audible. They were the forest sounds of branch or tree rubbing one
another, but which needed the corrective medium of daylight to convince
any human that they were other than ghostly. Then, despite the wind and
despite the changing murmur of the brook, there seemed to be a silence
insulating them, as deep and impenetrable as the darkness.

But the outlaws, who were fugitives now, slept the sleep of the weary,
and heard nothing. They awoke with the sun, when the forest seemed smoky
in a golden gloom, when light and bird and squirrel proclaimed the day.

The horses had not strayed out of this basin during the night, a
circumstance that Anson was not slow to appreciate.

“It ain’t no cheerful camp, but I never seen a safer place to hole up
in,” he remarked to Wilson.

“Wal, yes--if any place is safe,” replied that ally, dubiously.

“We can watch our back tracks. There ain’t any other way to git in hyar
thet I see.”

“Snake, we was tolerable fair sheep-rustlers, but we’re no good
woodsmen.”

Anson grumbled his disdain of this comrade who had once been his
mainstay. Then he sent Burt out to hunt fresh meat and engaged his other
men at cards. As they now had the means to gamble, they at once became
absorbed. Wilson smoked and divided his thoughtful gaze between the
gamblers and the drooping figure of the girl. The morning air was
keen, and she, evidently not caring to be near her captors beside the
camp-fire, had sought the only sunny spot in this gloomy dell. A couple
of hours passed; the sun climbed high; the air grew warmer. Once the
outlaw leader raised his head to scan the heavy-timbered slopes that
inclosed the camp.

“Jim, them hosses are strayin’ off,” he observed.

Wilson leisurely rose and stalked off across the small, open patches,
in the direction of the horses. They had grazed around from the right
toward the outlet of the brook. Here headed a ravine, dense and green.
Two of the horses had gone down. Wilson evidently heard them, though
they were not in sight, and he circled somewhat so as to get ahead of
them and drive them back. The invisible brook ran down over the rocks
with murmur and babble. He halted with instinctive action. He listened.
Forest sounds, soft, lulling, came on the warm, pine-scented breeze. It
would have taken no keen ear to hear soft and rapid padded footfalls.
He moved on cautiously and turned into a little open, mossy spot,
brown-matted and odorous, full of ferns and bluebells. In the middle
of this, deep in the moss, he espied a huge round track of a cougar.
He bent over it. Suddenly he stiffened, then straightened guardedly. At
that instant he received a hard prod in the back. Throwing up his hands,
he stood still, then slowly turned. A tall hunter in gray buckskin,
gray-eyed and square-jawed, had him covered with a cocked rifle. And
beside this hunter stood a monster cougar, snarling and blinking.



CHAPTER XXII

“Howdy, Dale,” drawled Wilson. “Reckon you’re a little previous on me.”

“Sssssh! Not so loud,” said the hunter, in low voice. “You’re Jim
Wilson?”

“Shore am. Say, Dale, you showed up soon. Or did you jest happen to run
acrost us?”

“I’ve trailed you. Wilson, I’m after the girl.”

“I knowed thet when I seen you!”

The cougar seemed actuated by the threatening position of his master,
and he opened his mouth, showing great yellow fangs, and spat at Wilson.
The outlaw apparently had no fear of Dale or the cocked rifle, but that
huge, snarling cat occasioned him uneasiness.

“Wilson, I’ve heard you spoken of as a white outlaw,” said Dale.

“Mebbe I am. But shore I’ll be a scared one in a minit. Dale, he’s goin’
to jump me!”

“The cougar won’t jump you unless I make him. Wilson, if I let you go
will you get the girl for me?”

“Wal, lemme see. Supposin’ I refuse?” queried Wilson, shrewdly.

“Then, one way or another, it’s all up with you.”

“Reckon I ‘ain’t got much choice. Yes, I’ll do it. But, Dale, are you
goin’ to take my word for thet an’ let me go back to Anson?”

“Yes, I am. You’re no fool. An’ I believe you’re square. I’ve got Anson
and his gang corralled. You can’t slip me--not in these woods. I could
run off your horses--pick you off one by one--or turn the cougar loose
on you at night.”

“Shore. It’s your game. Anson dealt himself this hand.... Between you
an’ me, Dale, I never liked the deal.”

“Who shot Riggs?... I found his body.”

“Wal, yours truly was around when thet come off,” replied Wilson, with
an involuntary little shudder. Some thought made him sick.

“The girl? Is she safe--unharmed?” queried Dale, hurriedly.

“She’s shore jest as safe an’ sound as when she was home. Dale, she’s
the gamest kid thet ever breathed! Why, no one could hev ever made me
believe a girl, a kid like her, could hev the nerve she’s got. Nothin’s
happened to her ‘cept Riggs hit her in the mouth.... I killed him for
thet.... An’, so help me, God, I believe it’s been workin’ in me to save
her somehow! Now it’ll not be so hard.”

“But how?” demanded Dale.

“Lemme see.... Wal, I’ve got to sneak her out of camp an’ meet you.
Thet’s all.”

“It must be done quick.”

“But, Dale, listen,” remonstrated Wilson, earnestly. “Too quick ‘ll
be as bad as too slow. Snake is sore these days, gittin’ sorer all the
time. He might savvy somethin’, if I ain’t careful, an’ kill the girl
or do her harm. I know these fellars. They’re all ready to go to pieces.
An’ shore I must play safe. Shore it’d be safer to have a plan.”

Wilson’s shrewd, light eyes gleamed with an idea. He was about to lower
one of his upraised hands, evidently to point to the cougar, when he
thought better of that.

“Anson’s scared of cougars. Mebbe we can scare him an’ the gang so it
‘d be easy to sneak the girl off. Can you make thet big brute do tricks?
Rush the camp at night an’ squall an’ chase off the horses?”

“I’ll guarantee to scare Anson out of ten years’ growth,” replied Dale.

“Shore it’s a go, then,” resumed Wilson, as if glad. “I’ll post the
girl--give her a hunch to do her part. You sneak up to-night jest before
dark. I’ll hev the gang worked up. An’ then you put the cougar to his
tricks, whatever you want. When the gang gits wild I’ll grab the girl
an’ pack her off down heah or somewheres aboot an’ whistle fer you....
But mebbe thet ain’t so good. If thet cougar comes pilin’ into camp he
might jump me instead of one of the gang. An’ another hunch. He might
slope up on me in the dark when I was tryin’ to find you. Shore thet
ain’t appealin’ to me.”

“Wilson, this cougar is a pet,” replied Dale. “You think he’s dangerous,
but he’s not. No more than a kitten. He only looks fierce. He has never
been hurt by a person an’ he’s never fought anythin’ himself but deer
an’ bear. I can make him trail any scent. But the truth is I couldn’t
make him hurt you or anybody. All the same, he can be made to scare the
hair off any one who doesn’t know him.”

“Shore thet settles me. I’ll be havin’ a grand joke while them fellars
is scared to death.... Dale, you can depend on me. An’ I’m beholdin’
to you fer what ‘ll square me some with myself.... To-night, an’ if it
won’t work then, to-morrer night shore!”

Dale lowered the rifle. The big cougar spat again. Wilson dropped his
hands and, stepping forward, split the green wall of intersecting spruce
branches. Then he turned up the ravine toward the glen. Once there, in
sight of his comrades, his action and expression changed.

“Hosses all thar, Jim?” asked Anson, as he picked up, his cards.

“Shore. They act awful queer, them hosses,” replied. Wilson. “They’re
afraid of somethin’.”

“A-huh! Silvertip mebbe,” muttered Anson. “Jim, You jest keep watch of
them hosses. We’d be done if some tarnal varmint stampeded them.”

“Reckon I’m elected to do all the work now,” complained Wilson, “while
you card-sharps cheat each other. Rustle the hosses--an’ water an’
fire-wood. Cook an’ wash. Hey?”

“No one I ever seen can do them camp tricks any better ‘n Jim Wilson,”
 replied Anson.

“Jim, you’re a lady’s man an’ thar’s our pretty hoodoo over thar to
feed an’ amoose,” remarked Shady Jones, with a smile that disarmed his
speech.

The outlaws guffawed.

“Git out, Jim, you’re breakin’ up the game,” said Moze, who appeared
loser.

“Wal, thet gurl would starve if it wasn’t fer me,” replied Wilson,
genially, and he walked over toward her, beginning to address her, quite
loudly, as he approached. “Wal, miss, I’m elected cook an’ I’d shore
like to heah what you fancy fer dinner.”

The outlaws heard, for they guffawed again. “Haw! Haw! if Jim ain’t
funny!” exclaimed Anson.

The girl looked up amazed. Wilson was winking at her, and when he got
near he began to speak rapidly and low.

“I jest met Dale down in the woods with his pet cougar. He’s after you.
I’m goin’ to help him git you safe away. Now you do your part. I want
you to pretend you’ve gone crazy. Savvy? Act out of your head! Shore
I don’t care what you do or say, only act crazy. An’ don’t be scared.
We’re goin’ to scare the gang so I’ll hev a chance to sneak you away.
To-night or to-morrow--shore.”

Before he began to speak she was pale, sad, dull of eye. Swiftly, with
his words, she was transformed, and when he had ended she did not appear
the same girl. She gave him one blazing flash of comprehension and
nodded her head rapidly.

“Yes, I understand. I’ll do it!” she whispered.

The outlaw turned slowly away with the most abstract air, confounded
amid his shrewd acting, and he did not collect himself until half-way
back to his comrades. Then, beginning to hum an old darky tune, he
stirred up and replenished the fire, and set about preparation for the
midday meal. But he did not miss anything going on around him. He saw
the girl go into her shelter and come out with her hair all down over
her face. Wilson, back to his comrades, grinned his glee, and he wagged
his head as if he thought the situation was developing.

The gambling outlaws, however, did not at once see the girl preening
herself and smoothing her long hair in a way calculated to startle.

“Busted!” ejaculated Anson, with a curse, as he slammed down his cards.
“If I ain’t hoodooed I’m a two-bit of a gambler!”

“Sartin you’re hoodooed,” said Shady Jones, in scorn. “Is thet jest
dawnin’ on you?”

“Boss, you play like a cow stuck in the mud,” remarked Moze,
laconically.

“Fellars, it ain’t funny,” declared Anson, with pathetic gravity. “I’m
jest gittin’ on to myself. Somethin’s wrong. Since ‘way last fall no
luck--nothin’ but the wust end of everythin’. I ain’t blamin’ anybody.
I’m the boss. It’s me thet’s off.”

“Snake, shore it was the gurl deal you made,” rejoined Wilson, who had
listened. “I told you. Our troubles hev only begun. An’ I can see the
wind-up. Look!”

Wilson pointed to where the girl stood, her hair flying wildly all over
her face and shoulders. She was making most elaborate bows to an old
stump, sweeping the ground with her tresses in her obeisance.

Anson started. He grew utterly astounded. His amaze was ludicrous. And
the other two men looked to stare, to equal their leader’s bewilderment.

“What ‘n hell’s come over her?” asked Anson, dubiously. “Must hev perked
up.... But she ain’t feelin’ thet gay!”

Wilson tapped his forehead with a significant finger.

“Shore I was scared of her this mawnin’,” he whispered.

“Naw!” exclaimed Anson, incredulously.

“If she hain’t queer I never seen no queer wimmin,” vouchsafed Shady
Jones, and it would have been judged, by the way he wagged his head,
that he had been all his days familiar with women.

Moze looked beyond words, and quite alarmed.

“I seen it comin’,” declared Wilson, very much excited. “But I was
scared to say so. You-all made fun of me aboot her. Now I shore wish I
had spoken up.”

Anson nodded solemnly. He did not believe the evidence of his sight,
but the facts seemed stunning. As if the girl were a dangerous and
incomprehensible thing, he approached her step by step. Wilson followed,
and the others appeared drawn irresistibly.

“Hey thar--kid!” called Anson, hoarsely.

The girl drew her slight form up haughtily. Through her spreading
tresses her eyes gleamed unnaturally upon the outlaw leader. But she
deigned not to reply.

“Hey thar--you Rayner girl!” added Anson, lamely. “What’s ailin’ you?”

“My lord! did you address me?” she asked, loftily.

Shady Jones got over his consternation and evidently extracted some
humor from the situation, as his dark face began to break its strain.

“Aww!” breathed Anson, heavily.

“Ophelia awaits your command, my lord. I’ve been gathering flowers,”
 she said, sweetly, holding up her empty hands as if they contained a
bouquet.

Shady Jones exploded in convulsed laughter. But his merriment was not
shared. And suddenly it brought disaster upon him. The girl flew at him.

“Why do you croak, you toad? I will have you whipped and put in irons,
you scullion!” she cried, passionately.

Shady underwent a remarkable change, and stumbled in his backward
retreat. Then she snapped her fingers in Moze’s face.

“You black devil! Get hence! Avaunt!”

Anson plucked up courage enough to touch her.

“Aww! Now, Ophelyar--”

Probably he meant to try to humor her, but she screamed, and he jumped
back as if she might burn him. She screamed shrilly, in wild, staccato
notes.

“You! You!” she pointed her finger at the outlaw leader. “You brute to
women! You ran off from your wife!”

Anson turned plum-color and then slowly white. The girl must have sent a
random shot home.

“And now the devil’s turned you into a snake. A long, scaly snake with
green eyes! Uugh! You’ll crawl on your belly soon--when my cowboy finds
you. And he’ll tramp you in the dust.”

She floated away from them and began to whirl gracefully, arms spread
and hair flying; and then, apparently oblivious of the staring men, she
broke into a low, sweet song. Next she danced around a pine, then danced
into her little green inclosure. From which presently she sent out the
most doleful moans.

“Aww! What a shame!” burst out Anson. “Thet fine, healthy, nervy kid!
Clean gone! Daffy! Crazy ‘n a bedbug!”

“Shore it’s a shame,” protested Wilson. “But it’s wuss for us. Lord! if
we was hoodooed before, what will we be now? Didn’t I tell you, Snake
Anson? You was warned. Ask Shady an’ Moze--they see what’s up.”

“No luck ‘ll ever come our way ag’in,” predicted Shady, mournfully.

“It beats me, boss, it beats me,” muttered Moze.

“A crazy woman on my hands! If thet ain’t the last straw!” broke out
Anson, tragically, as he turned away. Ignorant, superstitious, worked
upon by things as they seemed, the outlaw imagined himself at last beset
by malign forces. When he flung himself down upon one of the packs his
big red-haired hands shook. Shady and Moze resembled two other men at
the end of their ropes.

Wilson’s tense face twitched, and he averted it, as apparently he fought
off a paroxysm of some nature. Just then Anson swore a thundering oath.

“Crazy or not, I’ll git gold out of thet kid!” he roared.

“But, man, talk sense. Are you gittin’ daffy, too? I declare this
outfit’s been eatin’ loco. You can’t git gold fer her!” said Wilson,
deliberately.

“Why can’t I?”

“‘Cause we’re tracked. We can’t make no dickers. Why, in another day or
so we’ll be dodgin’ lead.”

“Tracked! Whar ‘d you git thet idee? As soon as this?” queried Anson,
lifting his head like a striking snake. His men, likewise, betrayed
sudden interest.

“Shore it’s no idee. I ‘ain’t seen any one. But I feel it in my senses.
I hear somebody comin’--a step on our trail--all the time--night in
particular. Reckon there’s a big posse after us.”

“Wal, if I see or hear anythin’ I’ll knock the girl on the head an’
we’ll dig out of hyar,” replied Anson, sullenly.

Wilson executed a swift forward motion, violent and passionate, so
utterly unlike what might have been looked for from him, that the three
outlaws gaped.

“Then you’ll shore hev to knock Jim Wilson on the haid first,” he said,
in voice as strange as his action.

“Jim! You wouldn’t go back on me!” implored Anson, with uplifted hands,
in a dignity of pathos.

“I’m losin’ my haid, too, an’ you shore might as well knock it in, an’
you’ll hev to before I’ll stand you murderin’ thet pore little gurl
you’ve drove crazy.”

“Jim, I was only mad,” replied Anson. “Fer thet matter, I’m growin’
daffy myself. Aw! we all need a good stiff drink of whisky.”

So he tried to throw off gloom and apprehension, but he failed. His
comrades did not rally to his help. Wilson walked away, nodding his
head.

“Boss, let Jim alone,” whispered Shady. “It’s orful the way you buck
ag’in’ him--when you seen he’s stirred up. Jim’s true blue. But you
gotta be careful.”

Moze corroborated this statement by gloomy nods.

When the card-playing was resumed, Anson did not join the game, and
both Moze and Shady evinced little of that whole-hearted obsession which
usually attended their gambling. Anson lay at length, his head in a
saddle, scowling at the little shelter where the captive girl kept
herself out of sight. At times a faint song or laugh, very unnatural,
was wafted across the space. Wilson plodded at the cooking and
apparently heard no sounds. Presently he called the men to eat, which
office they surlily and silently performed, as if it was a favor
bestowed upon the cook.

“Snake, hadn’t I ought to take a bite of grub over to the gurl?” asked
Wilson.

“Do you hev to ask me thet?” snapped Anson. “She’s gotta be fed, if we
hev to stuff it down her throat.”

“Wal, I ain’t stuck on the job,” replied Wilson. “But I’ll tackle it,
seein’ you-all got cold feet.”

With plate and cup be reluctantly approached the little lean-to, and,
kneeling, he put his head inside. The girl, quick-eyed and alert, had
evidently seen him coming. At any rate, she greeted him with a cautious
smile.

“Jim, was I pretty good?” she whispered.

“Miss, you was shore the finest aktress I ever seen,” he responded, in a
low voice. “But you dam near overdid it. I’m goin’ to tell Anson you’re
sick now--poisoned or somethin’ awful. Then we’ll wait till night. Dale
shore will help us out.”

“Oh, I’m on fire to get away,” she exclaimed. “Jim Wilson, I’ll never
forget you as long as I live!”

He seemed greatly embarrassed.

“Wal--miss--I--I’ll do my best licks. But I ain’t gamblin’ none on
results. Be patient. Keep your nerve. Don’t get scared. I reckon between
me an’ Dale you’ll git away from heah.”

Withdrawing his head, he got up and returned to the camp-fire, where
Anson was waiting curiously.

“I left the grub. But she didn’t touch it. Seems sort of sick to me,
like she was poisoned.”

“Jim, didn’t I hear you talkin’?” asked Anson.

“Shore. I was coaxin’ her. Reckon she ain’t so ranty as she was. But she
shore is doubled-up, an’ sickish.”

“Wuss an’ wuss all the time,” said Anson, between his teeth. “An’
where’s Burt? Hyar it’s noon an’ he left early. He never was no
woodsman. He’s got lost.”

“Either thet or he’s run into somethin’,” replied Wilson, thoughtfully.

Anson doubled a huge fist and cursed deep under his breath--the reaction
of a man whose accomplices and partners and tools, whose luck, whose
faith in himself had failed him. He flung himself down under a tree, and
after a while, when his rigidity relaxed, he probably fell asleep. Moze
and Shady kept at their game. Wilson paced to and fro, sat down, and
then got up to bunch the horses again, walked around the dell and back
to camp. The afternoon hours were long. And they were waiting hours. The
act of waiting appeared on the surface of all these outlaws did.

At sunset the golden gloom of the glen changed to a vague, thick
twilight. Anson rolled over, yawned, and sat up. As he glanced around,
evidently seeking Burt, his face clouded.

“No sign of Burt?” he asked.

Wilson expressed a mild surprise. “Wal, Snake, you ain’t expectin’ Burt
now?”

“I am, course I am. Why not?” demanded Anson. “Any other time we’d look
fer him, wouldn’t we?”

“Any other time ain’t now.... Burt won’t ever come back!” Wilson spoke
it with a positive finality.

“A-huh! Some more of them queer feelin’s of yourn--operatin’ again, hey?
Them onnatural kind thet you can’t explain, hey?”

Anson’s queries were bitter and rancorous.

“Yes. An’, Snake, I tax you with this heah. Ain’t any of them queer
feelin’s operatin’ in you?”

“No!” rolled out the leader, savagely. But his passionate denial was a
proof that he lied. From the moment of this outburst, which was a fierce
clinging to the old, brave instincts of his character, unless a sudden
change marked the nature of his fortunes, he would rapidly deteriorate
to the breaking-point. And in such brutal, unrestrained natures as his
this breaking-point meant a desperate stand, a desperate forcing of
events, a desperate accumulation of passions that stalked out to deal
and to meet disaster and blood and death.

Wilson put a little wood on the fire and he munched a biscuit. No one
asked him to cook. No one made any effort to do so. One by one each man
went to the pack to get some bread and meat.

Then they waited as men who knew not what they waited for, yet hated and
dreaded it.

Twilight in that glen was naturally a strange, veiled condition of the
atmosphere. It was a merging of shade and light, which two seemed to
make gray, creeping shadows.

Suddenly a snorting and stamping of the horses startled the men.

“Somethin’ scared the hosses,” said Anson, rising. “Come on.”

Moze accompanied him, and they disappeared in the gloom. More trampling
of hoofs was heard, then a cracking of brush, and the deep voices of
men. At length the two outlaws returned, leading three of the horses,
which they haltered in the open glen.

The camp-fire light showed Anson’s face dark and serious.

“Jim, them hosses are wilder ‘n deer,” he said. “I ketched mine, an’
Moze got two. But the rest worked away whenever we come close. Some
varmint has scared them bad. We all gotta rustle out thar quick.”

Wilson rose, shaking his head doubtfully. And at that moment the quiet
air split to a piercing, horrid neigh of a terrified horse. Prolonged to
a screech, it broke and ended. Then followed snorts of fright, pound and
crack and thud of hoofs, and crash of brush; then a gathering thumping,
crashing roar, split by piercing sounds.

“Stampede!” yelled Anson, and he ran to hold his own horse, which he had
haltered right in camp. It was big and wild-looking, and now reared and
plunged to break away. Anson just got there in time, and then it took
all his weight to pull the horse down. Not until the crashing, snorting,
pounding melee had subsided and died away over the rim of the glen did
Anson dare leave his frightened favorite.

“Gone! Our horses are gone! Did you hear ‘em?” he exclaimed, blankly.

“Shore. They’re a cut-up an’ crippled bunch by now,” replied Wilson.

“Boss, we’ll never git ‘ern back, not ‘n a hundred years,” declared
Moze.

“Thet settles us, Snake Anson,” stridently added Shady Jones. “Them
hosses are gone! You can kiss your hand to them.... They wasn’t hobbled.
They hed an orful scare. They split on thet stampede an’ they’ll never
git together. ... See what you’ve fetched us to!”

Under the force of this triple arraignment the outlaw leader dropped to
his seat, staggered and silenced. In fact, silence fell upon all the men
and likewise enfolded the glen.

Night set in jet-black, dismal, lonely, without a star. Faintly the wind
moaned. Weirdly the brook babbled through its strange chords to end in
the sound that was hollow. It was never the same--a rumble, as if faint,
distant thunder--a deep gurgle, as of water drawn into a vortex--a
rolling, as of a stone in swift current. The black cliff was invisible,
yet seemed to have many weird faces; the giant pines loomed spectral;
the shadows were thick, moving, changing. Flickering lights from the
camp-fire circled the huge trunks and played fantastically over the
brooding men. This camp-fire did not burn or blaze cheerily; it had no
glow, no sputter, no white heart, no red, living embers. One by one the
outlaws, as if with common consent, tried their hands at making the fire
burn aright. What little wood had been collected was old; it would burn
up with false flare, only to die quickly.

After a while not one of the outlaws spoke or stirred. Not one smoked.
Their gloomy eyes were fixed on the fire. Each one was concerned with
his own thoughts, his own lonely soul unconsciously full of a doubt of
the future. That brooding hour severed him from comrade.

At night nothing seemed the same as it was by day. With success and
plenty, with full-blooded action past and more in store, these outlaws
were as different from their present state as this black night was
different from the bright day they waited for. Wilson, though he played
a deep game of deceit for the sake of the helpless girl--and thus did
not have haunting and superstitious fears on her account--was probably
more conscious of impending catastrophe than any of them.

The evil they had done spoke in the voice of nature, out of the
darkness, and was interpreted by each according to his hopes and fears.
Fear was their predominating sense. For years they had lived with some
species of fear--of honest men or vengeance, of pursuit, of starvation,
of lack of drink or gold, of blood and death, of stronger men, of luck,
of chance, of fate, of mysterious nameless force. Wilson was the type of
fearless spirit, but he endured the most gnawing and implacable fear of
all--that of himself--that he must inevitably fall to deeds beneath his
manhood.

So they hunched around the camp-fire, brooding because hope was at
lowest ebb; listening because the weird, black silence, with its moan
of wind and hollow laugh of brook, compelled them to hear; waiting for
sleep, for the hours to pass, for whatever was to come.

And it was Anson who caught the first intimation of an impending doom.



CHAPTER XXIII

“Listen!”

Anson whispered tensely. His poise was motionless, his eyes roved
everywhere. He held up a shaking, bludgy finger, to command silence.

A third and stranger sound accompanied the low, weird moan of the wind,
and the hollow mockery of the brook--and it seemed a barely perceptible,
exquisitely delicate wail or whine. It filled in the lulls between the
other sounds.

“If thet’s some varmint he’s close,” whispered Anson.

“But shore, it’s far off,” said Wilson.

Shady Jones and Moze divided their opinions in the same way.

All breathed freer when the wail ceased, relaxing to their former
lounging positions around the fire. An impenetrable wall of blackness
circled the pale space lighted by the camp-fire; and this circle
contained the dark, somber group of men in the center, the dying
camp-fire, and a few spectral trunks of pines and the tethered horses on
the outer edge. The horses scarcely moved from their tracks, and their
erect, alert heads attested to their sensitiveness to the peculiarities
of the night.

Then, at an unusually quiet lull the strange sound gradually arose to a
wailing whine.

“It’s thet crazy wench cryin’,” declared the outlaw leader.

Apparently his allies accepted that statement with as much relief as
they had expressed for the termination of the sound.

“Shore, thet must be it,” agreed Jim Wilson, gravely.

“We’ll git a lot of sleep with thet gurl whinin’ all night,” growled
Shady Jones.

“She gives me the creeps,” said Moze.

Wilson got up to resume his pondering walk, head bent, hands behind his
back, a grim, realistic figure of perturbation.

“Jim--set down. You make me nervous,” said Anson, irritably.

Wilson actually laughed, but low, as if to keep his strange mirth well
confined.

“Snake, I’ll bet you my hoss an’ my gun ag’in’ a biscuit thet in aboot
six seconds more or less I’ll be stampedin like them hosses.”

Anson’s lean jaw dropped. The other two outlaws stared with round
eyes. Wilson was not drunk, they evidently knew; but what he really was
appeared a mystery.

“Jim Wilson, are you showin’ yellow?” queried Anson, hoarsely.

“Mebbe. The Lord only knows. But listen heah.... Snake, you’ve seen an’
heard people croak?”

“You mean cash in--die?”

“Shore.”

“Wal, yes--a couple or so,” replied Anson, grimly.

“But you never seen no one die of shock--of an orful scare?”

“No, I reckon I never did.”

“I have. An’ thet’s what’s ailin’ Jim Wilson,” and he resumed his dogged
steps.

Anson and his two comrades exchanged bewildered glances with one
another.

“A-huh! Say, what’s thet got to do with us hyar? asked Anson, presently.

“Thet gurl is dyin’!” retorted Wilson, in a voice cracking like a whip.

The three outlaws stiffened in their seats, incredulous, yet
irresistibly swayed by emotions that stirred to this dark, lonely,
ill-omened hour.

Wilson trudged to the edge of the lighted circle, muttering to himself,
and came back again; then he trudged farther, this time almost out
of sight, but only to return; the third time he vanished in the
impenetrable wall of light. The three men scarcely moved a muscle as
they watched the place where he had disappeared. In a few moments he
came stumbling back.

“Shore she’s almost gone,” he said, dismally. “It took my nerve, but
I felt of her face.... Thet orful wail is her breath chokin’ in her
throat.... Like a death-rattle, only long instead of short.”

“Wal, if she’s gotta croak it’s good she gits it over quick,” replied
Anson. “I ‘ain’t hed sleep fer three nights. ... An’ what I need is
whisky.”

“Snake, thet’s gospel you’re spoutin’,” remarked Shady Jones, morosely.

The direction of sound in the glen was difficult to be assured of, but
any man not stirred to a high pitch of excitement could have told that
the difference in volume of this strange wail must have been caused by
different distances and positions. Also, when it was loudest, it was
most like a whine. But these outlaws heard with their consciences.

At last it ceased abruptly.

Wilson again left the group to be swallowed up by the night. His absence
was longer than usual, but he returned hurriedly.

“She’s daid!” he exclaimed, solemnly. “Thet innocent kid--who never
harmed no one--an’ who’d make any man better fer seein’ her--she’s
daid!... Anson, you’ve shore a heap to answer fer when your time comes.”

“What’s eatin’ you?” demanded the leader, angrily. “Her blood ain’t on
my hands.”

“It shore is,” shouted Wilson, shaking his hand at Anson. “An’ you’ll
hev to take your medicine. I felt thet comin’ all along. An’ I feel some
more.”

“Aw! She’s jest gone to sleep,” declared Anson, shaking his long frame
as he rose. “Gimme a light.”

“Boss, you’re plumb off to go near a dead gurl thet’s jest died crazy,”
 protested Shady Jones.

“Off! Haw! Haw! Who ain’t off in this outfit, I’d like to know?” Anson
possessed himself of a stick blazing at one and, and with this he
stalked off toward the lean-to where the girl was supposed to be dead.
His gaunt figure, lighted by the torch, certainly fitted the weird,
black surroundings. And it was seen that once near the girl’s shelter he
proceeded more slowly, until he halted. He bent to peer inside.

“SHE’S GONE!” he yelled, in harsh, shaken accents.

Than the torch burned out, leaving only a red glow. He whirled it about,
but the blaze did not rekindle. His comrades, peering intently, lost
sight of his tall form and the end of the red-ended stick. Darkness like
pitch swallowed him. For a moment no sound intervened. Again the moan of
wind, the strange little mocking hollow roar, dominated the place. Then
there came a rush of something, perhaps of air, like the soft swishing
of spruce branches swinging aside. Dull, thudding footsteps followed it.
Anson came running back to the fire. His aspect was wild, his face pale,
his eyes were fierce and starting from their sockets. He had drawn his
gun.

“Did--ye--see er hear--anythin’?” he panted, peering back, then all
around, and at last at his man.

“No. An’ I shore was lookin’ an’ listenin’,” replied Wilson.

“Boss, there wasn’t nothin’,” declared Moze.

“I ain’t so sartin,” said Shady Jones, with doubtful, staring eyes. “I
believe I heerd a rustlin’.”

“She wasn’t there!” ejaculated Anson, in wondering awe. “She’s gone!...
My torch went out. I couldn’t see. An’ jest then I felt somethin’ was
passin’. Fast! I jerked ‘round. All was black, an’ yet if I didn’t see
a big gray streak I’m crazier ‘n thet gurl. But I couldn’t swear to
anythin’ but a rushin’ of wind. I felt thet.”

“Gone!” exclaimed Wilson, in great alarm. “Fellars, if thet’s so, then
mebbe she wasn’t daid an’ she wandered off. ... But she was daid! Her
heart hed quit beatin’. I’ll swear to thet.”

“I move to break camp,” said Shady Jones, gruffly, and he stood up. Moze
seconded that move by an expressive flash of his black visage.

“Jim, if she’s dead--an’ gone--what ‘n hell’s come off?” huskily asked
Anson. “It, only seems thet way. We’re all worked up.... Let’s talk
sense.”

“Anson, shore there’s a heap you an’ me don’t know,” replied Wilson.
“The world come to an end once. Wal, it can come to another end.... I
tell you I ain’t surprised--”

“THAR!” cried Anson, whirling, with his gun leaping out.

Something huge, shadowy, gray against the black rushed behind the men
and trees; and following it came a perceptible acceleration of the air.

“Shore, Snake, there wasn’t nothin’,” said Wilson, “presently.”

“I heerd,” whispered Shady Jones.

“It was only a breeze blowin’ thet smoke,” rejoined Moze.

“I’d bet my soul somethin’ went back of me,” declared Anson, glaring
into the void.

“Listen an’ let’s make shore,” suggested Wilson.

The guilty, agitated faces of the outlaws showed plain enough in the
flickering light for each to see a convicting dread in his fellow. Like
statues they stood, watching and listening.

Few sounds stirred in the strange silence. Now and then the horses
heaved heavily, but stood still; a dismal, dreary note of the wind in
the pines vied with a hollow laugh of the brook. And these low sounds
only fastened attention upon the quality of the silence. A breathing,
lonely spirit of solitude permeated the black dell. Like a pit of
unplumbed depths the dark night yawned. An evil conscience, listening
there, could have heard the most peaceful, beautiful, and mournful
sounds of nature only as strains of a calling hell.

Suddenly the silent, oppressive, surcharged air split to a short,
piercing scream.

Anson’s big horse stood up straight, pawing the air, and came down with
a crash. The other horses shook with terror.

“Wasn’t--thet--a cougar?” whispered Anson, thickly.

“Thet was a woman’s scream,” replied Wilson, and he appeared to be
shaking like a leaf in the wind.

“Then--I figgered right--the kid’s alive--wonderin’ around--an’ she let
out thet orful scream,” said Anson.

“Wonderin’ ‘round, yes--but she’s daid!”

“My Gawd! it ain’t possible!”

“Wal, if she ain’t wonderin’ round daid she’s almost daid,” replied
Wilson. And he began to whisper to himself.

“If I’d only knowed what thet deal meant I’d hev plugged Beasley instead
of listenin’.... An’ I ought to hev knocked thet kid on the head an’
made sartin she’d croaked. If she goes screamin’ ‘round thet way--”

His voice failed as there rose a thin, splitting, high-pointed shriek,
somewhat resembling the first scream, only less wild. It came apparently
from the cliff.

From another point in the pitch-black glen rose the wailing, terrible
cry of a woman in agony. Wild, haunting, mournful wail!

Anson’s horse, loosing the halter, plunged back, almost falling over a
slight depression in the rocky ground. The outlaw caught him and dragged
him nearer the fire. The other horses stood shaking and straining. Moze
ran between them and held them. Shady Jones threw green brush on the
fire. With sputter and crackle a blaze started, showing Wilson standing
tragically, his arms out, facing the black shadows.

The strange, live shriek was not repeated. But the cry, like that of
a woman in her death-throes, pierced the silence again. It left a
quivering ring that softly died away. Then the stillness clamped down
once more and the darkness seemed to thicken. The men waited, and when
they had begun to relax the cry burst out appallingly close, right
behind the trees. It was human--the personification of pain and
terror--the tremendous struggle of precious life against horrible death.
So pure, so exquisite, so wonderful was the cry that the listeners
writhed as if they saw an innocent, tender, beautiful girl torn
frightfully before their eyes. It was full of suspense; it thrilled
for death; its marvelous potency was the wild note--that beautiful and
ghastly note of self-preservation.

In sheer desperation the outlaw leader fired his gun at the black wall
whence the cry came. Then he had to fight his horse to keep him from
plunging away. Following the shot was an interval of silence; the horses
became tractable; the men gathered closer to the fire, with the halters
still held firmly.

“If it was a cougar--thet ‘d scare him off,” said Anson.

“Shore, but it ain’t a cougar,” replied Wilson. “Wait an’ see!”

They all waited, listening with ears turned to different points, eyes
roving everywhere, afraid of their very shadows. Once more the moan of
wind, the mockery of brook, deep gurgle, laugh and babble, dominated the
silence of the glen.

“Boss, let’s shake this spooky hole,” whispered Moze.

The suggestion attracted Anson, and he pondered it while slowly shaking
his head.

“We’ve only three hosses. An’ mine ‘ll take ridin’--after them squalls,”
 replied the leader. “We’ve got packs, too. An’ hell ‘ain’t nothin’ on
this place fer bein’ dark.”

“No matter. Let’s go. I’ll walk an’ lead the way,” said Moze, eagerly.
“I got sharp eyes. You fellars can ride an’ carry a pack. We’ll git out
of here an’ come back in daylight fer the rest of the outfit.”

“Anson, I’m keen fer thet myself,” declared Shady Jones.

“Jim, what d’ye say to thet?” queried Anson. “Rustlin’ out of this black
hole?”

“Shore it’s a grand idee,” agreed Wilson.

“Thet was a cougar,” avowed Anson, gathering courage as the silence
remained unbroken. “But jest the same it was as tough on me as if it hed
been a woman screamin’ over a blade twistin’ in her gizzards.”

“Snake, shore you seen a woman heah lately?” deliberately asked Wilson.

“Reckon I did. Thet kid,” replied Anson, dubiously.

“Wal, you seen her go crazy, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“‘An’ she wasn’t heah when you went huntin’ fer her?”

“Correct.”

“Wal, if thet’s so, what do you want to blab about cougars for?”

Wilson’s argument seemed incontestable. Shady and Moze nodded gloomily
and shifted restlessly from foot to foot. Anson dropped his head.

“No matter--if we only don’t hear--” he began, suddenly to grow mute.

Right upon them, from some place, just out the circle of light, rose a
scream, by reason of its proximity the most piercing and agonizing yet
heard, simply petrifying the group until the peal passed. Anson’s huge
horse reared, and with a snort of terror lunged in tremendous leap,
straight out. He struck Anson with thudding impact, knocking him over
the rocks into the depression back of the camp-fire, and plunging after
him. Wilson had made a flying leap just in time to avoid being struck,
and he turned to see Anson go down. There came a crash, a groan, and
then the strike and pound of hoofs as the horse struggled up. Apparently
he had rolled over his master.

“Help, fellars!” yelled Wilson, quick to leap down over the little bank,
and in the dim light to grasp the halter. The three men dragged the
horse out and securely tied him close to a tree. That done, they
peered down into the depression. Anson’s form could just barely be
distinguished in the gloom. He lay stretched out. Another groan escaped
him.

“Shore I’m scared he’s hurt,” said Wilson.

“Hoss rolled right on top of him. An’ thet hoss’s heavy,” declared Moze.

They got down and knelt beside their leader. In the darkness his face
looked dull gray. His breathing was not right.

“Snake, old man, you ain’t--hurt?” asked Wilson, with a tremor in his
voice. Receiving no reply, he said to his comrades, “Lay hold an’ we’ll
heft him up where we can see.”

The three men carefully lifted Anson up on the bank and laid him near
the fire in the light. Anson was conscious. His face was ghastly. Blood
showed on his lips.

Wilson knelt beside him. The other outlaws stood up, and with one dark
gaze at one another damned Anson’s chance of life. And on the instant
rose that terrible distressing scream of acute agony--like that of a
woman being dismembered. Shady Jones whispered something to Moze. Then
they stood up, gazing down at their fallen leader.

“Tell me where you’re hurt?” asked Wilson.

“He--smashed--my chest,” said Anson, in a broken, strangled whisper.

Wilson’s deft hands opened the outlaw’s shirt and felt of his chest.

“No. Shore your breast-bone ain’t smashed,” replied Wilson, hopefully.
And he began to run his hand around one side of Anson’s body and then
the other. Abruptly he stopped, averted his gaze, then slowly ran the
hand all along that side. Anson’s ribs had been broken and crushed in
by the weight of the horse. He was bleeding at the mouth, and his slow,
painful expulsions of breath brought a bloody froth, which showed that
the broken bones had penetrated the lungs. An injury sooner or later
fatal!

“Pard, you busted a rib or two,” said Wilson.

“Aw, Jim--it must be--wuss ‘n thet!” he whispered. “I’m--in orful--pain.
An’ I can’t--git any--breath.”

“Mebbe you’ll be better,” said Wilson, with a cheerfulness his face
belied.

Moze bent close over Anson, took a short scrutiny of that ghastly face,
at the blood-stained lips, and the lean hands plucking at nothing. Then
he jerked erect.

“Shady, he’s goin’ to cash. Let’s clear out of this.”

“I’m yours pertickler previous,” replied Jones.

Both turned away. They untied the two horses and led them up to where
the saddles lay. Swiftly the blankets went on, swiftly the saddles
swung up, swiftly the cinches snapped. Anson lay gazing up at Wilson,
comprehending this move. And Wilson stood strangely grim and silent,
somehow detached coldly from that self of the past few hours.

“Shady, you grab some bread an’ I’ll pack a bunk of meat,” said Moze.
Both men came near the fire, into the light, within ten feet of where
the leader lay.

“Fellars--you ain’t--slopin’?” he whispered, in husky amaze.

“Boss, we air thet same. We can’t do you no good an’ this hole ain’t
healthy,” replied Moze.

Shady Jones swung himself astride his horse, all about him sharp, eager,
strung.

“Moze, I’ll tote the grub an’ you lead out of hyar, till we git past the
wust timber,” he said.

“Aw, Moze--you wouldn’t leave--Jim hyar--alone,” implored Anson.

“Jim can stay till he rots,” retorted Moze. “I’ve hed enough of this
hole.”

“But, Moze--it ain’t square--” panted Anson. “Jim wouldn’t--leave me.
I’d stick--by you.... I’ll make it--all up to you.”

“Snake, you’re goin’ to cash,” sardonically returned Moze.

A current leaped all through Anson’s stretched frame. His ghastly face
blazed. That was the great and the terrible moment which for long had
been in abeyance. Wilson had known grimly that it would come, by one
means or another. Anson had doggedly and faithfully struggled against
the tide of fatal issues. Moze and Shady Jones, deep locked in their
self-centered motives, had not realized the inevitable trend of their
dark lives.

Anson, prostrate as he was, swiftly drew his gun and shot Moze. Without
sound or movement of hand Moze fell. Then the plunge of Shady’s horse
caused Anson’s second shot to miss. A quick third shot brought no
apparent result but Shady’s cursing resort to his own weapon. He tried
to aim from his plunging horse. His bullets spattered dust and gravel
over Anson. Then Wilson’s long arm stretched and his heavy gun banged.
Shady collapsed in the saddle, and the frightened horse, throwing him,
plunged out of the circle of light. Thudding hoofs, crashings of brush,
quickly ceased.

“Jim--did you--git him?” whispered Anson.

“Shore did, Snake,” was the slow, halting response. Jim Wilson must have
sustained a sick shudder as he replied. Sheathing his gun, he folded a
blanket and put it under Anson’s head.

“Jim--my feet--air orful cold,” whispered Anson.

“Wal, it’s gittin’ chilly,” replied Wilson, and, taking a second
blanket, he laid that over Anson’s limbs. “Snake, I’m feared Shady hit
you once.”

“A-huh! But not so I’d care--much--if I hed--no wuss hurt.”

“You lay still now. Reckon Shady’s hoss stopped out heah a ways. An’
I’ll see.”

“Jim--I ‘ain’t heerd--thet scream fer--a little.”

“Shore it’s gone.... Reckon now thet was a cougar.”

“I knowed it!”

Wilson stalked away into the darkness. That inky wall did not seem so
impenetrable and black after he had gotten out of the circle of light.
He proceeded carefully and did not make any missteps. He groped from
tree to tree toward the cliff and presently brought up against a huge
flat rock as high as his head. Here the darkness was blackest, yet he
was able to see a light form on the rock.

“Miss, are you there--all right?” he called, softly.

“Yes, but I’m scared to death,” she whispered in reply.

“Shore it wound up sudden. Come now. I reckon your trouble’s over.”

He helped her off the rock, and, finding her unsteady on her feet, he
supported her with one arm and held the other out in front of him to
feel for objects. Foot by foot they worked out from under the dense
shadow of the cliff, following the course of the little brook. It
babbled and gurgled, and almost drowned the low whistle Wilson sent out.
The girl dragged heavily upon him now, evidently weakening. At length he
reached the little open patch at the head of the ravine. Halting here,
he whistled. An answer came from somewhere behind him and to the right.
Wilson waited, with the girl hanging on his arm.

“Dale’s heah,” he said. “An’ don’t you keel over now--after all the
nerve you hed.”

A swishing of brush, a step, a soft, padded footfall; a looming, dark
figure, and a long, low gray shape, stealthily moving--it was the last
of these that made Wilson jump.

“Wilson!” came Dale’s subdued voice.

“Heah. I’ve got her, Dale. Safe an sound,” replied Wilson, stepping
toward the tall form. And he put the drooping girl into Dale’s arms.

“Bo! Bo! You’re all right?” Dale’s deep voice was tremulous.

She roused up to seize him and to utter little cries of joy

“Oh, Dale!... Oh, thank Heaven! I’m ready to drop now.... Hasn’t it been
a night--an adventure?... I’m well--safe--sound.... Dale, we owe it to
this Jim Wilson.”

“Bo, I--we’ll all thank him--all our lives,” replied Dale. “Wilson,
you’re a man!... If you’ll shake that gang--”

“Dale, shore there ain’t much of a gang left, onless you let Burt git
away,” replied Wilson.

“I didn’t kill him--or hurt him. But I scared him so I’ll bet he’s
runnin’ yet.... Wilson, did all the shootin’ mean a fight?”

“Tolerable.”

“Oh, Dale, it was terrible! I saw it all. I--”

“Wal, Miss, you can tell him after I go.... I’m wishin’ you good luck.”

His voice was a cool, easy drawl, slightly tremulous.

The girl’s face flashed white in the gloom. She pressed against the
outlaw--wrung his hands.

“Heaven help you, Jim Wilson! You ARE from Texas!... I’ll remember
you--pray for you all my life!”

Wilson moved away, out toward the pale glow of light under the black
pines.



CHAPTER XXIV

As Helen Rayner watched Dale ride away on a quest perilous to him, and
which meant almost life or death for her, it was surpassing strange that
she could think of nothing except the thrilling, tumultuous moment when
she had put her arms round his neck.

It did not matter that Dale--splendid fellow that he was--had made
the ensuing moment free of shame by taking her action as he had taken
it--the fact that she had actually done it was enough. How utterly
impossible for her to anticipate her impulses or to understand them,
once they were acted upon! Confounding realization then was that when
Dale returned with her sister, Helen knew she would do the same thing
over again!

“If I do--I won’t be two-faced about it,” she soliloquized, and a hot
blush flamed her cheeks.

She watched Dale until he rode out of sight.

When he had gone, worry and dread replaced this other confusing emotion.
She turned to the business of meeting events. Before supper she packed
her valuables and books, papers, and clothes, together with Bo’s, and
had them in readiness so if she was forced to vacate the premises she
would have her personal possessions.

The Mormon boys and several other of her trusted men slept in their
tarpaulin beds on the porch of the ranch-house that night, so that Helen
at least would not be surprised. But the day came, with its manifold
duties undisturbed by any event. And it passed slowly with the leaden
feet of listening, watching vigilance.

Carmichael did not come back, nor was there news of him to be had. The
last known of him had been late the afternoon of the preceding day, when
a sheep-herder had seen him far out on the north range, headed for the
hills. The Beemans reported that Roy’s condition had improved, and also
that there was a subdued excitement of suspense down in the village.

This second lonely night was almost unendurable for Helen. When she
slept it was to dream horrible dreams; when she lay awake it was to have
her heart leap to her throat at a rustle of leaves near the window, and
to be in torture of imagination as to poor Bo’s plight. A thousand times
Helen said to herself that Beasley could have had the ranch and welcome,
if only Bo had been spared. Helen absolutely connected her enemy with
her sister’s disappearance. Riggs might have been a means to it.

Daylight was not attended by so many fears; there were things to do
that demanded attention. And thus it was that the next morning, shortly
before noon, she was recalled to her perplexities by a shouting out at
the corrals and a galloping of horses somewhere near. From the window
she saw a big smoke.

“Fire! That must be one of the barns--the old one, farthest out,”
 she said, gazing out of the window. “Some careless Mexican with his
everlasting cigarette!”

Helen resisted an impulse to go out and see what had happened. She had
decided to stay in the house. But when footsteps sounded on the porch
and a rap on the door, she unhesitatingly opened it. Four Mexicans stood
close. One of them, quick as thought, flashed a hand in to grasp her,
and in a single motion pulled her across the threshold.

“No hurt, Senora,” he said, and pointed--making motions she must go.

Helen did not need to be told what this visit meant. Many as her
conjectures had been, however, she had not thought of Beasley subjecting
her to this outrage. And her blood boiled.

“How dare you!” she said, trembling in her effort to control her temper.
But class, authority, voice availed nothing with these swarthy Mexicans.
They grinned. Another laid hold of Helen with dirty, brown hand. She
shrank from the contact.

“Let go!” she burst out, furiously. And instinctively she began to
struggle to free herself. Then they all took hold of her. Helen’s
dignity might never have been! A burning, choking rush of blood was
her first acquaintance with the terrible passion of anger that was her
inheritance from the Auchinclosses. She who had resolved never to lay
herself open to indignity now fought like a tigress. The Mexicans,
jabbering in their excitement, had all they could do, until they
lifted her bodily from the porch. They handled her as if she had been a
half-empty sack of corn. One holding each hand and foot they packed her,
with dress disarranged and half torn off, down the path to the lane and
down the lane to the road. There they stood upright and pushed her off
her property.

Through half-blind eyes Helen saw them guarding the gateway, ready to
prevent her entrance. She staggered down the road to the village.
It seemed she made her way through a red dimness--that there was a
congestion in her brain--that the distance to Mrs. Cass’s cottage was
insurmountable. But she got there, to stagger up the path, to hear the
old woman’s cry. Dizzy, faint, sick, with a blackness enveloping all she
looked at, Helen felt herself led into the sitting-room and placed in
the big chair.

Presently sight and clearness of mind returned to her. She saw Roy,
white as a sheet, questioning her with terrible eyes. The old woman
hung murmuring over her, trying to comfort her as well as fasten the
disordered dress.

“Four greasers--packed me down--the hill--threw me off my ranch--into
the road!” panted Helen.

She seemed to tell this also to her own consciousness and to realize the
mighty wave of danger that shook her whole body.

“If I’d known--I would have killed them!”

She exclaimed that, full-voiced and hard, with dry, hot eyes on her
friends. Roy reached out to take her hand, speaking huskily. Helen
did not distinguish what he said. The frightened old woman knelt, with
unsteady fingers fumbling over the rents in Helen’s dress. The moment
came when Helen’s quivering began to subside, when her blood quieted
to let her reason sway, when she began to do battle with her rage, and
slowly to take fearful stock of this consuming peril that had been a
sleeping tigress in her veins.

“Oh, Miss Helen, you looked so turrible, I made sure you was hurted,”
 the old woman was saying.

Helen gazed strangely at her bruised wrists, at the one stocking that
hung down over her shoe-top, at the rent which had bared her shoulder to
the profane gaze of those grinning, beady-eyed Mexicans.

“My body’s--not hurt,” she whispered.

Roy had lost some of his whiteness, and where his eyes had been fierce
they were now kind.

“Wal, Miss Nell, it’s lucky no harm’s done.... Now if you’ll only see
this whole deal clear!... Not let it spoil your sweet way of lookin’ an’
hopin’! If you can only see what’s raw in this West--an’ love it jest
the same!”

Helen only half divined his meaning, but that was enough for a future
reflection. The West was beautiful, but hard. In the faces of these
friends she began to see the meaning of the keen, sloping lines, and
shadows of pain, of a lean, naked truth, cut as from marble.

“For the land’s sakes, tell us all about it,” importuned Mrs. Cass.

Whereupon Helen shut her eyes and told the brief narrative of her
expulsion from her home.

“Shore we-all expected thet,” said Roy. “An’ it’s jest as well you’re
here with a whole skin. Beasley’s in possession now an’ I reckon we’d
all sooner hev you away from thet ranch.”

“But, Roy, I won’t let Beasley stay there,” cried Helen.

“Miss Nell, shore by the time this here Pine has growed big enough fer
law you’ll hev gray in thet pretty hair. You can’t put Beasley off with
your honest an’ rightful claim. Al Auchincloss was a hard driver. He
made enemies an’ he made some he didn’t kill. The evil men do lives
after them. An’ you’ve got to suffer fer Al’s sins, though Al was as
good as any man who ever prospered in these parts.”

“Oh, what can I do? I won’t give up. I’ve been robbed. Can’t the people
help me? Must I meekly sit with my hands crossed while that half-breed
thief--Oh, it’s unbelievable!”

“I reckon you’ll jest hev to be patient fer a few days,” said Roy,
calmly. “It’ll all come right in the end.”

“Roy! You’ve had this deal, as you call it, all worked out in mind for a
long time!” exclaimed Helen.

“Shore, an’ I ‘ain’t missed a reckonin’ yet.”

“Then what will happen--in a few days?”

“Nell Rayner, are you goin’ to hev some spunk an’ not lose your nerve
again or go wild out of your head?”

“I’ll try to be brave, but--but I must be prepared,” she replied,
tremulously.

“Wal, there’s Dale an’ Las Vegas an’ me fer Beasley to reckon with.
An’, Miss Nell, his chances fer long life are as pore as his chances fer
heaven!”

“But, Roy, I don’t believe in deliberate taking of life,” replied
Helen, shuddering. “That’s against my religion. I won’t allow it....
And--then--think, Dale, all of you--in danger!”

“Girl, how ‘re you ever goin’ to help yourself? Shore you might hold
Dale back, if you love him, an’ swear you won’t give yourself to him....
An’ I reckon I’d respect your religion, if you was goin’ to suffer
through me.... But not Dale nor you--nor Bo--nor love or heaven or hell
can ever stop thet cowboy Las Vegas!”

“Oh, if Dale brings Bo back to me--what will I care for my ranch?”
 murmured Helen.

“Reckon you’ll only begin to care when thet happens. Your big hunter has
got to be put to work,” replied Roy, with his keen smile.


Before noon that day the baggage Helen had packed at home was left on
the porch of Widow Cass’s cottage, and Helen’s anxious need of the hour
was satisfied. She was made comfortable in the old woman’s one spare
room, and she set herself the task of fortitude and endurance.

To her surprise, many of Mrs. Cass’s neighbors came unobtrusively to
the back door of the little cottage and made sympathetic inquiries. They
appeared a subdued and apprehensive group, and whispered to one another
as they left. Helen gathered from their visits a conviction that the
wives of the men dominated by Beasley believed no good could come of
this high-handed taking over of the ranch. Indeed, Helen found at the
end of the day that a strength had been borne of her misfortune.

The next day Roy informed her that his brother John had come down the
preceding night with the news of Beasley’s descent upon the ranch. Not a
shot had been fired, and the only damage done was that of the burning of
a hay-filled barn. This had been set on fire to attract Helen’s men to
one spot, where Beasley had ridden down upon them with three times their
number. He had boldly ordered them off the land, unless they wanted to
acknowledge him boss and remain there in his service. The three Beemans
had stayed, having planned that just in this event they might be
valuable to Helen’s interests. Beasley had ridden down into Pine the
same as upon any other day. Roy reported also news which had come in
that morning, how Beasley’s crowd had celebrated late the night before.

The second and third and fourth days endlessly wore away, and Helen
believed they had made her old. At night she lay awake most of the time,
thinking and praying, but during the afternoon she got some sleep. She
could think of nothing and talk of nothing except her sister, and Dale’s
chances of saving her.

“Well, shore you pay Dale a pore compliment,” finally protested the
patient Roy. “I tell you--Milt Dale can do anythin’ he wants to do in
the woods. You can believe thet. ... But I reckon he’ll run chances
after he comes back.”

This significant speech thrilled Helen with its assurance of hope, and
made her blood curdle at the implied peril awaiting the hunter.

On the afternoon of the fifth day Helen was abruptly awakened from her
nap. The sun had almost set. She heard voices--the shrill, cackling
notes of old Mrs. Cass, high in excitement, a deep voice that made Helen
tingle all over, a girl’s laugh, broken but happy. There were footsteps
and stamping of hoofs. Dale had brought Bo back! Helen knew it. She grew
very weak, and had to force herself to stand erect. Her heart began to
pound in her very ears. A sweet and perfect joy suddenly flooded her
soul. She thanked God her prayers had been answered. Then suddenly alive
with sheer mad physical gladness, she rushed out.

She was just in time to see Roy Beeman stalk out as if he had never been
shot, and with a yell greet a big, gray-clad, gray-faced man--Dale.

“Howdy, Roy! Glad to see you up,” said Dale. How the quiet voice
steadied Helen! She beheld Bo. Bo, looking the same, except a little
pale and disheveled! Then Bo saw her and leaped at her, into her arms.

“Nell! I’m here! Safe--all right! Never was so happy in my life....
Oh-h! talk about your adventures! Nell, you dear old mother to me--I’ve
had e-enough forever!”

Bo was wild with joy, and by turns she laughed and cried. But Helen
could not voice her feelings. Her eyes were so dim that she could
scarcely see Dale when he loomed over her as she held Bo. But he found
the hand she put shakily out.

“Nell!... Reckon it’s been harder--on you.” His voice was earnest and
halting. She felt his searching gaze upon her face. “Mrs. Cass said you
were here. An’ I know why.”

Roy led them all indoors.

“Milt, one of the neighbor boys will take care of thet hoss,” he said,
as Dale turned toward the dusty and weary Ranger. “Where’d you leave the
cougar?”

“I sent him home,” replied Date.

“Laws now, Milt, if this ain’t grand!” cackled Mrs. Cass. “We’ve worried
some here. An’ Miss Helen near starved a-hopin’ fer you.”

“Mother, I reckon the girl an’ I are nearer starved than anybody you
know,” replied Dale, with a grim laugh.

“Fer the land’s sake! I’ll be fixin’ supper this minit.”

“Nell, why are you here?” asked Bo, suspiciously.

For answer Helen led her sister into the spare room and closed the door.
Bo saw the baggage. Her expression changed. The old blaze leaped to the
telltale eyes.

“He’s done it!” she cried, hotly.

“Dearest--thank God. I’ve got you--back again!” murmured Helen, finding
her voice. “Nothing else matters!... I’ve prayed only for that!”

“Good old Nell!” whispered Bo, and she kissed and embraced Helen. “You
really mean that, I know. But nix for yours truly! I’m back alive and
kicking, you bet.... Where’s my--where’s Tom?”

“Bo, not a word has been heard of him for five days. He’s searching for
you, of course.”

“And you’ve been--been put off the ranch?”

“Well, rather,” replied Helen, and in a few trembling words she told the
story of her eviction.

Bo uttered a wild word that had more force than elegance, but it became
her passionate resentment of this outrage done her sister.

“Oh!... Does Tom Carmichael know this?” she added, breathlessly.

“How could he?”

“When he finds out, then--Oh, won’t there be hell? I’m glad I got here
first.... Nell, my boots haven’t been off the whole blessed time. Help
me. And oh, for some soap and hot water and some clean clothes! Nell,
old girl, I wasn’t raised right for these Western deals. Too luxurious!”

And then Helen had her ears filled with a rapid-fire account of running
horses and Riggs and outlaws and Beasley called boldly to his teeth, and
a long ride and an outlaw who was a hero--a fight with Riggs--blood and
death--another long ride--a wild camp in black woods--night--lonely,
ghostly sounds--and day again--plot--a great actress lost to the
world--Ophelia--Snakes and Ansons--hoodooed outlaws--mournful moans
and terrible cries--cougar--stampede--fight and shots, more blood and
death--Wilson hero--another Tom Carmichael--fallen in love with outlaw
gun-fighter if--black night and Dale and horse and rides and starved
and, “Oh, Nell, he WAS from Texas!”

Helen gathered that wonderful and dreadful events had hung over
the bright head of this beloved little sister, but the bewilderment
occasioned by Bo’s fluent and remarkable utterance left only that last
sentence clear.

Presently Helen got a word in to inform Bo that Mrs. Cass had knocked
twice for supper, and that welcome news checked Bo’s flow of speech when
nothing else seemed adequate.

It was obvious to Helen that Roy and Dale had exchanged stories. Roy
celebrated this reunion by sitting at table the first time since he
had been shot; and despite Helen’s misfortune and the suspended waiting
balance in the air the occasion was joyous. Old Mrs. Cass was in the
height of her glory. She sensed a romance here, and, true to her sex,
she radiated to it.

Daylight was still lingering when Roy got up and went out on the porch.
His keen ears had heard something. Helen fancied she herself had heard
rapid hoof-beats.

“Dale, come out!” called Roy, sharply.

The hunter moved with his swift, noiseless agility. Helen and Bo
followed, halting in the door.

“Thet’s Las Vegas,” whispered Dale.

To Helen it seemed that the cowboy’s name changed the very atmosphere.

Voices were heard at the gate; one that, harsh and quick, sounded like
Carmichael’s. And a spirited horse was pounding and scattering
gravel. Then a lithe figure appeared, striding up the path. It was
Carmichael--yet not the Carmichael Helen knew. She heard Bo’s strange
little cry, a corroboration of her own impression.

Roy might never have been shot, judging from the way he stepped out,
and Dale was almost as quick. Carmichael reached them--grasped them with
swift, hard hands.

“Boys--I jest rode in. An’ they said you’d found her!”

“Shore, Las Vegas. Dale fetched her home safe an’ sound.... There she
is.”

The cowboy thrust aside the two men, and with a long stride he faced the
porch, his piercing eyes on the door. All that Helen could think of his
look was that it seemed terrible. Bo stepped outside in front of Helen.
Probably she would have run straight into Carmichael’s arms if some
strange instinct had not withheld her. Helen judged it to be fear; she
found her heart lifting painfully.

“Bo!” he yelled, like a savage, yet he did not in the least resemble
one.

“Oh--Tom!” cried Bo, falteringly. She half held out her arms.

“You, girl?” That seemed to be his piercing query, like the quivering
blade in his eyes. Two more long strides carried him close up to her,
and his look chased the red out of Bo’s cheek. Then it was beautiful to
see his face marvelously change until it was that of the well remembered
Las Vegas magnified in all his old spirit.

“Aw!” The exclamation was a tremendous sigh. “I shore am glad!”

That beautiful flash left his face as he wheeled to the men. He wrung
Dale’s hand long and hard, and his gaze confused the older man.

“RIGGS!” he said, and in the jerk of his frame as he whipped out the
word disappeared the strange, fleeting signs of his kindlier emotion.

“Wilson killed him,” replied Dale.

“Jim Wilson--that old Texas Ranger!... Reckon he lent you a hand?”

“My friend, he saved Bo,” replied Dale, with emotion. “My old cougar an’
me--we just hung ‘round.”

“You made Wilson help you?” cut in the hard voice.

“Yes. But he killed Riggs before I come up an’ I reckon he’d done well
by Bo if I’d never got there.”

“How about the gang?”

“All snuffed out, I reckon, except Wilson.”

“Somebody told me Beasley hed ran Miss Helen off the ranch. Thet so?”

“Yes. Four of his greasers packed her down the hill--most tore her
clothes off, so Roy tells me.”

“Four greasers!... Shore it was Beasley’s deal clean through?”

“Yes. Riggs was led. He had an itch for a bad name, you know. But
Beasley made the plan. It was Nell they wanted instead of Bo.”

Abruptly Carmichael stalked off down the darkening path, his silver
heel-plates ringing, his spurs jingling.

“Hold on, Carmichael,” called Dale, taking a step.

“Oh, Tom!” cried Bo.

“Shore folks callin’ won’t be no use, if anythin would be,” said Roy.
“Las Vegas has hed a look at red liquor.”

“He’s been drinking! Oh, that accounts!... he never--never even touched
me!”

For once Helen was not ready to comfort Bo. A mighty tug at her heart
had sent her with flying, uneven steps toward Dale. He took another
stride down the path, and another.

“Dale--oh--please stop!” she called, very low.

He halted as if he had run sharply into a bar across the path. When he
turned Helen had come close. Twilight was deep there in the shade of the
peach-trees, but she could see his face, the hungry, flaring eyes.

“I--I haven’t thanked you--yet--for bringing Bo home,” she whispered.

“Nell, never mind that,” he said, in surprise. “If you must--why, wait.
I’ve got to catch up with that cowboy.”

“No. Let me thank you now,” she whispered, and, stepping closer, she put
her arms up, meaning to put them round his neck. That action must be her
self-punishment for the other time she had done it. Yet it might also
serve to thank him. But, strangely, her hands got no farther than his
breast, and fluttered there to catch hold of the fringe of his buckskin
jacket. She felt a heave of his deep chest.

“I--I do thank you--with all my heart,” she said, softly. “I owe you
now--for myself and her--more than I can ever repay.”

“Nell, I’m your friend,” he replied, hurriedly. “Don’t talk of repayin’
me. Let me go now--after Las Vegas.”

“What for?” she queried, suddenly.

“I mean to line up beside him--at the bar--or wherever he goes,”
 returned Dale.

“Don’t tell me that. _I_ know. You’re going straight to meet Beasley.”

“Nell, if you hold me up any longer I reckon I’ll have to run--or never
get to Beasley before that cowboy.”

Helen locked her fingers in the fringe of his jacket--leaned closer to
him, all her being responsive to a bursting gust of blood over her.

“I’ll not let you go,” she said.

He laughed, and put his great hands over hers. “What ‘re you sayin’,
girl? You can’t stop me.”

“Yes, I can. Dale, I don’t want you to risk your life.”

He stared at her, and made as if to tear her hands from their hold.

“Listen--please--oh--please!” she implored. “If you go deliberately
to kill Beasley--and do it--that will be murder.... It’s against my
religion.... I would be unhappy all my life.”

“But, child, you’ll be ruined all your life if Beasley is not dealt
with--as men of his breed are always dealt with in the West,” he
remonstrated, and in one quick move he had freed himself from her
clutching fingers.

Helen, with a move as swift, put her arms round his neck and clasped her
hands tight.

“Milt, I’m finding myself,” she said. “The other day, when I
did--this--you made an excuse for me.... I’m not two-faced now.”

She meant to keep him from killing Beasley if she sacrificed every last
shred of her pride. And she stamped the look of his face on her heart
of hearts to treasure always. The thrill, the beat of her pulses, almost
obstructed her thought of purpose.

“Nell, just now--when you’re overcome--rash with feelin’s--don’t say to
me--a word--a--”

He broke down huskily.

“My first friend--my--Oh Dale, I KNOW you love me! she whispered. And
she hid her face on his breast, there to feel a tremendous tumult.

“Oh, don’t you?” she cried, in low, smothered voice, as his silence
drove her farther on this mad, yet glorious purpose.

“If you need to be told--yes--I reckon I do love you, Nell Rayner,” he
replied.

It seemed to Helen that he spoke from far off. She lifted her face, her
heart on her lips.

“If you kill Beasley I’ll never marry you,” she said.

“Who’s expectin’ you to?” he asked, with low, hoarse laugh. “Do you
think you have to marry me to square accounts? This’s the only time you
ever hurt me, Nell Rayner.... I’m ‘shamed you could think I’d expect
you--out of gratitude--”

“Oh--you--you are as dense as the forest where you live,” she cried.
And then she shut her eyes again, the better to remember that
transfiguration of his face, the better to betray herself.

“Man--I love you!” Full and deep, yet tremulous, the words burst from
her heart that had been burdened with them for many a day.

Then it seemed, in the throbbing riot of her senses, that she was
lifted and swung into his arms, and handled with a great and terrible
tenderness, and hugged and kissed with the hunger and awkwardness of a
bear, and held with her feet off the ground, and rendered blind, dizzy,
rapturous, and frightened, and utterly torn asunder from her old calm,
thinking self.

He put her down--released her.

“Nothin’ could have made me so happy as what you said.” He finished with
a strong sigh of unutterable, wondering joy.

“Then you will not go to--to meet--”

Helen’s happy query froze on her lips.

“I’ve got to go!” he rejoined, with his old, quiet voice. “Hurry in to
Bo.... An’ don’t worry. Try to think of things as I taught you up in the
woods.”

Helen heard his soft, padded footfalls swiftly pass away. She was left
there, alone in the darkening twilight, suddenly cold and stricken, as
if turned to stone.

Thus she stood an age-long moment until the upflashing truth galvanized
her into action. Then she flew in pursuit of Dale. The truth was that,
in spite of Dale’s’ early training in the East and the long years of
solitude which had made him wonderful in thought and feeling, he had
also become a part of this raw, bold, and violent West.

It was quite dark now and she had run quite some distance before she saw
Dale’s tall, dark form against the yellow light of Turner’s saloon.

Somehow, in that poignant moment, when her flying feet kept pace with
her heart, Helen felt in herself a force opposing itself against this
raw, primitive justice of the West. She was one of the first influences
emanating from civilized life, from law and order. In that flash of
truth she saw the West as it would be some future time, when through
women and children these wild frontier days would be gone forever. Also,
just as clearly she saw the present need of men like Roy Beeman and Dale
and the fire-blooded Carmichael. Beasley and his kind must be killed.
But Helen did not want her lover, her future husband, and the probable
father of her children to commit what she held to be murder.

At the door of the saloon she caught up with Dale.

“Milt--oh--wait!’--wait!” she panted.

She heard him curse under his breath as he turned. They were alone in
the yellow flare of light. Horses were champing bits and drooping before
the rails.

“You go back!” ordered Dale, sternly. His face was pale, his eyes were
gleaming.

“No! Not till--you take me--or carry me!” she replied, resolutely, with
all a woman’s positive and inevitable assurance.

Then he laid hold of her with ungentle hands. His violence, especially
the look on his face, terrified Helen, rendered her weak. But nothing
could have shaken her resolve. She felt victory. Her sex, her love, and
her presence would be too much for Dale.

As he swung Helen around, the low hum of voices inside the saloon
suddenly rose to sharp, hoarse roars, accompanied by a scuffling of feet
and crashing of violently sliding chairs or tables. Dale let go of Helen
and leaped toward the door. But a silence inside, quicker and stranger
than the roar, halted him. Helen’s heart contracted, then seemed to
cease beating. There was absolutely not a perceptible sound. Even the
horses appeared, like Dale, to have turned to statues.

Two thundering shots annihilated this silence. Then quickly came a
lighter shot--the smash of glass. Dale ran into the saloon. The horses
began to snort, to rear, to pound. A low, muffled murmur terrified Helen
even as it drew her. Dashing at the door, she swung it in and entered.

The place was dim, blue-hazed, smelling of smoke. Dale stood just inside
the door. On the floor lay two men. Chairs and tables were overturned.
A motley, dark, shirt-sleeved, booted, and belted crowd of men appeared
hunched against the opposite wall, with pale, set faces, turned to the
bar. Turner, the proprietor, stood at one end, his face livid, his hands
aloft and shaking. Carmichael leaned against the middle of the bar. He
held a gun low down. It was smoking.

With a gasp Helen flashed her eyes back to Dale. He had seen her--was
reaching an arm toward her. Then she saw the man lying almost at her
feet. Jeff Mulvey--her uncle’s old foreman! His face was awful to
behold. A smoking gun lay near his inert hand. The other man had fallen
on his face. His garb proclaimed him a Mexican. He was not yet dead.
Then Helen, as she felt Dale’s arm encircle her, looked farther, because
she could not prevent it--looked on at that strange figure against the
bar--this boy who had been such a friend in her hour of need--this naive
and frank sweetheart of her sister’s.

She saw a man now--wild, white, intense as fire, with some terrible cool
kind of deadliness in his mien. His left elbow rested upon the bar, and
his hand held a glass of red liquor. The big gun, low down in his other
hand, seemed as steady as if it were a fixture.

“Heah’s to thet--half-breed Beasley an’ his outfit!”

Carmichael drank, while his flaming eyes held the crowd; then with
savage action of terrible passion he flung the glass at the quivering
form of the still living Mexican on the floor.

Helen felt herself slipping. All seemed to darken around her. She could
not see Dale, though she knew he held her. Then she fainted.



CHAPTER XXV

Las Vegas Carmichael was a product of his day.

The Pan Handle of Texas, the old Chisholm Trail along which were
driven the great cattle herds northward, Fort Dodge, where the cowboys
conflicted with the card-sharps--these hard places had left their marks
on Carmichael. To come from Texas was to come from fighting stock. And
a cowboy’s life was strenuous, wild, violent, and generally brief. The
exceptions were the fortunate and the swiftest men with guns; and they
drifted from south to north and west, taking with them the reckless,
chivalrous, vitriolic spirit peculiar to their breed.

The pioneers and ranchers of the frontier would never have made the West
habitable had it not been for these wild cowboys, these hard-drinking,
hard-riding, hard-living rangers of the barrens, these easy, cool,
laconic, simple young men whose blood was tinged with fire and who
possessed a magnificent and terrible effrontery toward danger and death.

Las Vegas ran his horse from Widow Cass’s cottage to Turner’s saloon,
and the hoofs of the goaded steed crashed in the door. Las Vegas’s
entrance was a leap. Then he stood still with the door ajar and the
horse pounding and snorting back. All the men in that saloon who saw the
entrance of Las Vegas knew what it portended. No thunderbolt could
have more quickly checked the drinking, gambling, talking crowd. They
recognized with kindred senses the nature of the man and his arrival.
For a second the blue-hazed room was perfectly quiet, then men breathed,
moved, rose, and suddenly caused a quick, sliding crash of chairs and
tables.

The cowboy’s glittering eyes flashed to and fro, and then fixed on
Mulvey and his Mexican companion. That glance singled out these two, and
the sudden rush of nervous men proved it. Mulvey and the sheep-herder
were left alone in the center of the floor.

“Howdy, Jeff! Where’s your boss?” asked Las Vegas. His voice was cool,
friendly; his manner was easy, natural; but the look of him was what
made Mulvey pale and the Mexican livid.

“Reckon he’s home,” replied Mulvey.

“Home? What’s he call home now?”

“He’s hangin’ out hyar at Auchincloss’s,” replied Mulvey. His voice was
not strong, but his eyes were steady, watchful.

Las Vegas quivered all over as if stung. A flame that seemed white and
red gave his face a singular hue.

“Jeff, you worked for old Al a long time, an’ I’ve heard of your
differences,” said Las Vegas. “Thet ain’t no mix of mine.... But you
double-crossed Miss Helen!”

Mulvey made no attempt to deny this. He gulped slowly. His hands
appeared less steady, and he grew paler. Again Las Vegas’s words
signified less than his look. And that look now included the Mexican.

“Pedro, you’re one of Beasley’s old hands,” said Las Vegas, accusingly.
“An’--you was one of them four greasers thet--”

Here the cowboy choked and bit over his words as if they were a material
poison. The Mexican showed his guilt and cowardice. He began to jabber.

“Shet up!” hissed Las Vegas, with a savage and significant jerk of
his arm, as if about to strike. But that action was read for its true
meaning. Pell-mell the crowd split to rush each way and leave an open
space behind the three.

Las Vegas waited. But Mulvey seemed obstructed. The Mexican looked
dangerous through his fear. His fingers twitched as if the tendons
running up into his arms were being pulled.

An instant of suspense--more than long enough for Mulvey to be tried and
found wanting--and Las Vegas, with laugh and sneer, turned his back upon
the pair and stepped to the bar. His call for a bottle made Turner jump
and hold it out with shaking hands. Las Vegas poured out a drink, while
his gaze was intent on the scarred old mirror hanging behind the bar.

This turning his back upon men he had just dared to draw showed what
kind of a school Las Vegas had been trained in. If those men had been
worthy antagonists of his class he would never have scorned them. As it
was, when Mulvey and the Mexican jerked at their guns, Las Vegas swiftly
wheeled and shot twice. Mulvey’s gun went off as he fell, and the
Mexican doubled up in a heap on the floor. Then Las Vegas reached around
with his left hand for the drink he had poured out.

At this juncture Dale burst into the saloon, suddenly to check his
impetus, to swerve aside toward the bar and halt. The door had not
ceased swinging when again it was propelled inward, this time to admit
Helen Rayner, white and wide-eyed.

In another moment then Las Vegas had spoken his deadly toast to
Beasley’s gang and had fiercely flung the glass at the writhing Mexican
on the floor. Also Dale had gravitated toward the reeling Helen to catch
her when she fainted.

Las Vegas began to curse, and, striding to Dale, he pushed him out of
the saloon.

“--! What ‘re you doin’ heah?” he yelled, stridently. “Hevn’t you got
thet girl to think of? Then do it, you big Indian! Lettin’ her run after
you heah--riskin’ herself thet way! You take care of her an’ Bo an’
leave this deal to me!”

The cowboy, furious as he was at Dale, yet had keen, swift eyes for the
horses near at hand, and the men out in the dim light. Dale lifted
the girl into his arms, and, turning without a word, stalked away to
disappear in the darkness. Las Vegas, holding his gun low, returned to
the bar-room. If there had been any change in the crowd it was slight.
The tension had relaxed. Turner no longer stood with hands up.

“You-all go on with your fun,” called the cowboy, with a sweep of his
gun. “But it’d be risky fer any one to start leavin’.”

With that he backed against the bar, near where the black bottle stood.
Turner walked out to begin righting tables and chairs, and presently the
crowd, with some caution and suspense, resumed their games and drinking.
It was significant that a wide berth lay between them and the door. From
time to time Turner served liquor to men who called for it.

Las Vegas leaned with back against the bar. After a while he sheathed
his gun and reached around for the bottle. He drank with his piercing
eyes upon the door. No one entered and no one went out. The games
of chance there and the drinking were not enjoyed. It was a hard
scene--that smoky, long, ill-smelling room, with its dim, yellow lights,
and dark, evil faces, with the stealthy-stepping Turner passing to and
fro, and the dead Mulvey staring in horrible fixidity at the ceiling,
and the Mexican quivering more and more until he shook violently, then
lay still, and with the drinking, somber, waiting cowboy, more fiery and
more flaming with every drink, listening for a step that did not come.

Time passed, and what little change it wrought was in the cowboy. Drink
affected him, but he did not become drunk. It seemed that the liquor he
drank was consumed by a mounting fire. It was fuel to a driving passion.
He grew more sullen, somber, brooding, redder of eye and face, more
crouching and restless. At last, when the hour was so late that there
was no probability of Beasley appearing, Las Vegas flung himself out of
the saloon.

All lights of the village had now been extinguished. The tired horses
drooped in the darkness. Las Vegas found his horse and led him away down
the road and out a lane to a field where a barn stood dim and dark in
the starlight. Morning was not far off. He unsaddled the horse and,
turning him loose, went into the barn. Here he seemed familiar with
his surroundings, for he found a ladder and climbed to a loft, where he
threw himself on the hay.

He rested, but did not sleep. At daylight he went down and brought his
horse into the barn. Sunrise found Las Vegas pacing to and fro the short
length of the interior, and peering out through wide cracks between
the boards. Then during the succeeding couple of hours he watched
the occasional horseman and wagon and herder that passed on into the
village.

About the breakfast hour Las Vegas saddled his horse and rode back the
way he had come the night before. At Turner’s he called for something
to eat as well as for whisky. After that he became a listening, watching
machine. He drank freely for an hour; then he stopped. He seemed to
be drunk, but with a different kind of drunkenness from that usual in
drinking men. Savage, fierce, sullen, he was one to avoid. Turner waited
on him in evident fear.

At length Las Vegas’s condition became such that action was involuntary.
He could not stand still nor sit down. Stalking out, he passed the
store, where men slouched back to avoid him, and he went down the road,
wary and alert, as if he expected a rifle-shot from some hidden enemy.
Upon his return down that main thoroughfare of the village not a person
was to be seen. He went in to Turner’s. The proprietor was there at his
post, nervous and pale. Las Vegas did not order any more liquor.

“Turner, I reckon I’ll bore you next time I run in heah,” he said, and
stalked out.

He had the stores, the road, the village, to himself; and he patrolled a
beat like a sentry watching for an Indian attack.

Toward noon a single man ventured out into the road to accost the
cowboy.

“Las Vegas, I’m tellin’ you--all the greasers air leavin’ the range,” he
said.

“Howdy, Abe!” replied Las Vegas. “What ‘n hell you talkin’ about?”

The man repeated his information. And Las Vegas spat out frightful
curses.

“Abe--you heah what Beasley’s doin’?”

“Yes. He’s with his men--up at the ranch. Reckon he can’t put off ridin’
down much longer.”

That was where the West spoke. Beasley would be forced to meet the enemy
who had come out single-handed against him. Long before this hour a
braver man would have come to face Las Vegas. Beasley could not hire
any gang to bear the brunt of this situation. This was the test by which
even his own men must judge him. All of which was to say that as the
wildness of the West had made possible his crimes, so it now held him
responsible for them.

“Abe, if thet--greaser don’t rustle down heah I’m goin’ after him.”

“Sure. But don’t be in no hurry,” replied Abe.

“I’m waltzin’ to slow music.... Gimme a smoke.”

With fingers that slightly trembled Abe rolled a cigarette, lit it from
his own, and handed it to the cowboy.

“Las Vegas, I reckon I hear hosses,” he said, suddenly.

“Me, too,” replied Las Vegas, with his head high like that of a
listening deer. Apparently he forgot the cigarette and also his friend.
Abe hurried back to the store, where he disappeared.

Las Vegas began his stalking up and down, and his action now was an
exaggeration of all his former movements. A rational, ordinary mortal
from some Eastern community, happening to meet this red-faced cowboy,
would have considered him drunk or crazy. Probably Las Vegas looked
both. But all the same he was a marvelously keen and strung and
efficient instrument to meet the portending issue. How many thousands of
times, on the trails, and in the wide-streeted little towns all over the
West, had this stalk of the cowboy’s been perpetrated! Violent, bloody,
tragic as it was, it had an importance in that pioneer day equal to the
use of a horse or the need of a plow.

At length Pine was apparently a deserted village, except for Las Vegas,
who patrolled his long beat in many ways--he lounged while he
watched; he stalked like a mountaineer; he stole along Indian fashion,
stealthily, from tree to tree, from corner to corner; he disappeared in
the saloon to reappear at the back; he slipped round behind the barns to
come out again in the main road; and time after time he approached his
horse as if deciding to mount.

The last visit he made into Turner’s saloon he found no one there.
Savagely he pounded on the bar with his gun. He got no response. Then
the long-pent-up rage burst. With wild whoops he pulled another gun and
shot at the mirror, the lamps. He shot the neck off a bottle and drank
till he choked, his neck corded, bulging, and purple. His only slow and
deliberate action was the reloading of his gun. Then he crashed through
the doors, and with a wild yell leaped sheer into the saddle, hauling
his horse up high and goading him to plunge away.

Men running to the door and windows of the store saw a streak of dust
flying down the road. And then they trooped out to see it disappear. The
hour of suspense ended for them. Las Vegas had lived up to the code of
the West, had dared his man out, had waited far longer than needful to
prove that man a coward. Whatever the issue now, Beasley was branded
forever. That moment saw the decline of whatever power he had wielded.
He and his men might kill the cowboy who had ridden out alone to face
him, but that would not change the brand.

The preceding night Beasley bad been finishing a late supper at his
newly acquired ranch, when Buck Weaver, one of his men, burst in upon
him with news of the death of Mulvey and Pedro.

“Who’s in the outfit? How many?” he had questioned, quickly.

“It’s a one-man outfit, boss,” replied Weaver.

Beasley appeared astounded. He and his men had prepared to meet the
friends of the girl whose property he had taken over, and because of the
superiority of his own force he had anticipated no bloody or extended
feud. This amazing circumstance put the case in very much more difficult
form.

“One man!” he ejaculated.

“Yep. Thet cowboy Las Vegas. An’, boss, he turns out to be a gun-slinger
from Texas. I was in Turner’s. Hed jest happened to step in the other
room when Las Vegas come bustin’ in on his hoss an’ jumped off.... Fust
thing he called Jeff an’ Pedro. They both showed yaller. An’ then, damn
if thet cowboy didn’t turn his back on them an’ went to the bar fer a
drink. But he was lookin’ in the mirror an’ when Jeff an’ Pedro went fer
their guns why he whirled quick as lightnin’ an’ bored them both.... I
sneaked out an--”

“Why didn’t you bore him?” roared Beasley.

Buck Weaver steadily eyed his boss before he replied. “I ain’t
takin’ shots at any fellar from behind doors. An’ as fer meetin’ Las
Vegas--excoose me, boss! I’ve still a hankerin’ fer sunshine an’ red
liquor. Besides, I ‘ain’t got nothin’ ag’in’ Las Vegas. If he’s rustled
over here at the head of a crowd to put us off I’d fight, jest as we’d
all fight. But you see we figgered wrong. It’s between you an’ Las
Vegas!... You oughter seen him throw thet hunter Dale out of Turner’s.”

“Dale! Did he come?” queried Beasley.

“He got there just after the cowboy plugged Jeff. An’ thet big-eyed
girl, she came runnin’ in, too. An’ she keeled over in Dale’s arms. Las
Vegas shoved him out--cussed him so hard we all heerd.... So, Beasley,
there ain’t no fight comin’ off as we figgered on.”

Beasley thus heard the West speak out of the mouth of his own man. And
grim, sardonic, almost scornful, indeed, were the words of Buck Weaver.
This rider had once worked for Al Auchincloss and had deserted to
Beasley under Mulvey’s leadership. Mulvey was dead and the situation was
vastly changed.

Beasley gave Weaver a dark, lowering glance, and waved him away. From
the door Weaver sent back a doubtful, scrutinizing gaze, then slouched
out. That gaze Beasley had not encountered before.

It meant, as Weaver’s cronies meant, as Beasley’s long-faithful riders,
and the people of the range, and as the spirit of the West meant, that
Beasley was expected to march down into the village to face his single
foe.

But Beasley did not go. Instead he paced to and fro the length of Helen
Rayner’s long sitting-room with the nervous energy of a man who
could not rest. Many times he hesitated, and at others he made sudden
movements toward the door, only to halt. Long after midnight he went
to bed, but not to sleep. He tossed and rolled all night, and at dawn
arose, gloomy and irritable.

He cursed the Mexican serving-women who showed their displeasure at
his authority. And to his amaze and rage not one of his men came to
the house. He waited and waited. Then he stalked off to the corrals and
stables carrying a rifle with him. The men were there, in a group that
dispersed somewhat at his advent. Not a Mexican was in sight.

Beasley ordered the horses to be saddled and all hands to go down into
the village with him. That order was disobeyed. Beasley stormed and
raged. His riders sat or lounged, with lowered faces. An unspoken
hostility seemed present. Those who had been longest with him were least
distant and strange, but still they did not obey. At length Beasley
roared for his Mexicans.

“Boss, we gotta tell you thet every greaser on the ranch hes
sloped--gone these two hours--on the way to Magdalena,” said Buck
Weaver.

Of all these sudden-uprising perplexities this latest was the most
astounding. Beasley cursed with his questioning wonder.

“Boss, they was sure scared of thet gun-slingin’ cowboy from Texas,”
 replied Weaver, imperturbably.

Beasley’s dark, swarthy face changed its hue. What of the subtle
reflection in Weaver’s slow speech! One of the men came out of a corral
leading Beasley’s saddled and bridled horse. This fellow dropped the
bridle and sat down among his comrades without a word. No one spoke. The
presence of the horse was significant. With a snarling, muttered curse,
Beasley took up his rifle and strode back to the ranch-house.

In his rage and passion he did not realize what his men had known for
hours--that if he had stood any chance at all for their respect as well
as for his life the hour was long past.

Beasley avoided the open paths to the house, and when he got there he
nervously poured out a drink. Evidently something in the fiery liquor
frightened him, for he threw the bottle aside. It was as if that bottle
contained a courage which was false.

Again he paced the long sitting-room, growing more and more wrought-up
as evidently he grew familiar with the singular state of affairs. Twice
the pale serving-woman called him to dinner.

The dining-room was light and pleasant, and the meal, fragrant and
steaming, was ready for him. But the women had disappeared. Beasley
seated himself--spread out his big hands on the table.

Then a slight rustle--a clink of spur--startled him. He twisted his
head.

“Howdy, Beasley!” said Las Vegas, who had appeared as if by magic.

Beasley’s frame seemed to swell as if a flood had been loosed in his
veins. Sweat-drops stood out on his pallid face.

“What--you--want?” he asked, huskily.

“Wal now, my boss, Miss Helen, says, seein’ I am foreman heah, thet it’d
be nice an’ proper fer me to drop in an’ eat with you--THE LAST TIME!”
 replied the cowboy. His drawl was slow and cool, his tone was friendly
and pleasant. But his look was that of a falcon ready to drive deep its
beak.

Beasley’s reply was loud, incoherent, hoarse.

Las Vegas seated himself across from Beasley.

“Eat or not, it’s shore all the same to me,” said Las Vegas, and he
began to load his plate with his left hand. His right hand rested very
lightly, with just the tips of his vibrating fingers on the edge of
the table; and he never for the slightest fraction of a second took his
piercing eyes off Beasley.

“Wal, my half-breed greaser guest, it shore roils up my blood to see you
sittin’ there--thinkin’ you’ve put my boss, Miss Helen, off this ranch,”
 began Las Vegas, softly. And then he helped himself leisurely to food
and drink. “In my day I’ve shore stacked up against a lot of outlaws,
thieves, rustlers, an’ sich like, but fer an out an’ out dirty low-down
skunk, you shore take the dough!... I’m goin, to kill you in a minit or
so, jest as soon as you move one of them dirty paws of yourn. But I hope
you’ll be polite an’ let me say a few words. I’ll never be happy again
if you don’t.... Of all the--yaller greaser dogs I ever seen, you’re the
worst!... I was thinkin’ last night mebbe you’d come down an’ meet me
like a man, so ‘s I could wash my hands ever afterward without gettin’
sick to my stummick. But you didn’t come.... Beasley, I’m so ashamed of
myself thet I gotta call you--when I ought to bore you, thet--I ain’t
even second cousin to my old self when I rode fer Chisholm. It don’t
mean nuthin’ to you to call you liar! robber! blackleg! a sneakin’
coyote! an’ a cheat thet hires others to do his dirty work!... By
Gawd!--”

“Carmichael, gimme a word in,” hoarsely broke out Beasley. “You’re
right, it won’t do no good to call me.... But let’s talk.... I’ll buy
you off. Ten thousand dollars--”

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roared Las Vegas. He was as tense as a strung cord and
his face possessed a singular pale radiance. His right hand began to
quiver more and more.

“I’ll--double--it!” panted Beasley. “I’ll--make over--half the
ranch--all the stock--”

“Swaller thet!” yelled Las Vegas, with terrible strident ferocity.

“Listen--man!... I take--it back!... I’ll give up--Auchincloss’s ranch!”
 Beasley was now a shaking, whispering, frenzied man, ghastly white, with
rolling eyes.

Las Vegas’s left fist pounded hard on the table.

“GREASER, COME ON!” he thundered.

Then Beasley, with desperate, frantic action, jerked for his gun.



CHAPTER XXVI

For Helen Rayner that brief, dark period of expulsion from her home had
become a thing of the past, almost forgotten.

Two months had flown by on the wings of love and work and the joy of
finding her place there in the West. All her old men had been only too
glad of the opportunity to come back to her, and under Dale and Roy
Beeman a different and prosperous order marked the life of the ranch.

Helen had made changes in the house by altering the arrangement of
rooms and adding a new section. Only once had she ventured into the old
dining-room where Las Vegas Carmichael had sat down to that fatal dinner
for Beasley. She made a store-room of it, and a place she would never
again enter.

Helen was happy, almost too happy, she thought, and therefore made
more than needful of the several bitter drops in her sweet cup of
life. Carmichael had ridden out of Pine, ostensibly on the trail of the
Mexicans who had executed Beasley’s commands. The last seen of him
had been reported from Show Down, where he had appeared red-eyed and
dangerous, like a hound on a scent. Then two months had flown by without
a word.

Dale had shaken his head doubtfully when interrogated about the cowboy’s
absence. It would be just like Las Vegas never to be heard of again.
Also it would be more like him to remain away until all trace of his
drunken, savage spell had departed from him and had been forgotten by
his friends. Bo took his disappearance apparently less to heart than
Helen. But Bo grew more restless, wilder, and more wilful than ever.
Helen thought she guessed Bo’s secret; and once she ventured a hint
concerning Carmichael’s return.

“If Tom doesn’t come back pretty soon I’ll marry Milt Dale,” retorted
Bo, tauntingly.

This fired Helen’s cheeks with red.

“But, child,” she protested, half angry, half grave. “Milt and I are
engaged.”

“Sure. Only you’re so slow. There’s many a slip--you know.”

“Bo, I tell you Tom will come back,” replied Helen, earnestly. “I feel
it. There was something fine in that cowboy. He understood me better
than you or Milt, either.... And he was perfectly wild in love with
you.”

“Oh! WAS he?”

“Very much more than you deserved, Bo Rayner.”

Then occurred one of Bo’s sweet, bewildering, unexpected
transformations. Her defiance, resentment, rebelliousness, vanished from
a softly agitated face.

“Oh, Nell, I know that.... You just watch me if I ever get another
chance at him!... Then--maybe he’d never drink again!”

“Bo, be happy--and be good. Don’t ride off any more--don’t tease the
boys. It’ll all come right in the end.”

Bo recovered her equanimity quickly enough.

“Humph! You can afford to be cheerful. You’ve got a man who can’t live
when you’re out of his sight. He’s like a fish on dry land.... And
you--why, once you were an old pessimist!”

Bo was not to be consoled or changed. Helen could only sigh and pray
that her convictions would be verified.


The first day of July brought an early thunder-storm, just at sunrise.
It roared and flared and rolled away, leaving a gorgeous golden cloud
pageant in the sky and a fresh, sweetly smelling, glistening green range
that delighted Helen’s eye.

Birds were twittering in the arbors and bees were humming in the
flowers. From the fields down along the brook came a blended song of
swamp-blackbird and meadow-lark. A clarion-voiced burro split the air
with his coarse and homely bray. The sheep were bleating, and a soft baa
of little lambs came sweetly to Helen’s ears. She went her usual rounds
with more than usual zest and thrill. Everywhere was color, activity,
life. The wind swept warm and pine-scented down from the mountain
heights, now black and bold, and the great green slopes seemed to call
to her.

At that very moment she came suddenly upon Dale, in his shirt-sleeves,
dusty and hot, standing motionless, gazing at the distant mountains.
Helen’s greeting startled him.

“I--I was just looking away yonder,” he said, smiling. She thrilled at
the clear, wonderful light of his eyes.

“So was I--a moment ago,” she replied, wistfully. “Do you miss the
forest--very much?”

“Nell, I miss nothing. But I’d like to ride with you under the pines
once more.”

“We’ll go,” she cried.

“When?” he asked, eagerly.

“Oh--soon!” And then with flushed face and downcast eyes she passed on.
For long Helen had cherished a fond hope that she might be married in
Paradise Park, where she had fallen in love with Dale and had realized
herself. But she had kept that hope secret. Dale’s eager tone, his
flashing eyes, had made her feel that her secret was there in her
telltale face.

As she entered the lane leading to the house she encountered one of the
new stable-boys driving a pack-mule.

“Jim, whose pack is that?” she asked.

“Ma’am, I dunno, but I heard him tell Roy he reckoned his name was mud,”
 replied the boy, smiling.

Helen’s heart gave a quick throb. That sounded like Las Vegas. She
hurried on, and upon entering the courtyard she espied Roy Beeman
holding the halter of a beautiful, wild-looking mustang. There was
another horse with another man, who was in the act of dismounting on the
far side. When he stepped into better view Helen recognized Las Vegas.
And he saw her at the same instant.

Helen did not look up again until she was near the porch. She had
dreaded this meeting, yet she was so glad that she could have cried
aloud.

“Miss Helen, I shore am glad to see you,” he said, standing bareheaded
before her, the same young, frank-faced cowboy she had seen first from
the train.

“Tom!” she exclaimed, and offered her hands.

He wrung them hard while he looked at her. The swift woman’s glance
Helen gave in return seemed to drive something dark and doubtful out of
her heart. This was the same boy she had known--whom she had liked so
well--who had won her sister’s love. Helen imagined facing him thus was
like awakening from a vague nightmare of doubt. Carmichael’s face was
clean, fresh, young, with its healthy tan; it wore the old glad smile,
cool, easy, and natural; his eyes were like Dale’s--penetrating, clear
as crystal, without a shadow. What had evil, drink, blood, to do
with the real inherent nobility of this splendid specimen of Western
hardihood? Wherever he had been, whatever he had done during that
long absence, he had returned long separated from that wild and savage
character she could now forget. Perhaps there would never again be call
for it.

“How’s my girl?” he asked, just as naturally as if he had been gone a
few days on some errand of his employer’s.

“Bo? Oh, she’s well--fine. I--I rather think she’ll be glad to see you,”
 replied Helen, warmly.

“An’ how’s thet big Indian, Dale?” he drawled.

“Well, too--I’m sure.”

“Reckon I got back heah in time to see you-all married?”

“I--I assure you I--no one around here has been married yet,” replied
Helen, with a blush.

“Thet shore is fine. Was some worried,” he said, lazily. “I’ve been
chasin’ wild hosses over in New Mexico, an’ I got after this heah blue
roan. He kept me chasin’ him fer a spell. I’ve fetched him back for Bo.”

Helen looked at the mustang Roy was holding, to be instantly delighted.
He was a roan almost blue in color, neither large nor heavy, but
powerfully built, clean-limbed, and racy, with a long mane and tail,
black as coal, and a beautiful head that made Helen love him at once.

“Well, I’m jealous,” declared Helen, archly. “I never did see such a
pony.”

“I reckoned you’d never ride any hoss but Ranger,” said Las Vegas.

“No, I never will. But I can be jealous, anyhow, can’t I?”

“Shore. An I reckon if you say you’re goin’ to have him--wal, Bo ‘d be
funny,” he drawled.

“I reckon she would be funny,” retorted Helen. She was so happy that
she imitated his speech. She wanted to hug him. It was too good to be
true--the return of this cowboy. He understood her. He had come back
with nothing that could alienate her. He had apparently forgotten the
terrible role he had accepted and the doom he had meted out to her
enemies. That moment was wonderful for Helen in its revelation of the
strange significance of the West as embodied in this cowboy. He was
great. But he did not know that.

Then the door of the living-room opened, and a sweet, high voice pealed
out:

“Roy! Oh, what a mustang! Whose is he?”

“Wal, Bo, if all I hear is so he belongs to you,” replied Roy with a
huge grin.

Bo appeared in the door. She stepped out upon the porch. She saw the
cowboy. The excited flash of her pretty face vanished as she paled.

“Bo, I shore am glad to see you,” drawled Las Vegas, as he stepped
forward, sombrero in hand. Helen could not see any sign of confusion in
him. But, indeed, she saw gladness. Then she expected to behold Bo run
right into the cowboys’s arms. It appeared, however, that she was doomed
to disappointment.

“Tom, I’m glad to see you,” she replied.

They shook hands as old friends.

“You’re lookin’ right fine,” he said.

“Oh, I’m well.... And how have you been these six months?” she queried.

“Reckon I though it was longer,” he drawled. “Wal, I’m pretty tip-top
now, but I was laid up with heart trouble for a spell.”

“Heart trouble?” she echoed, dubiously.

“Shore.... I ate too much over heah in New Mexico.”

“It’s no news to me--where your heart’s located,” laughed Bo. Then she
ran off the porch to see the blue mustang. She walked round and round
him, clasping her hands in sheer delight.

“Bo, he’s a plumb dandy,” said Roy. “Never seen a prettier hoss. He’ll
run like a streak. An’ he’s got good eyes. He’ll be a pet some day. But
I reckon he’ll always be spunky.”

“Bo ventured to step closer, and at last got a hand on the mustang, and
then another. She smoothed his quivering neck and called softly to him,
until he submitted to her hold.

“What’s his name?” she asked.

“Blue somethin’ or other,” replied Roy.

“Tom, has my new mustang a name?” asked Bo, turning to the cowboy.

“Shore.”

“What then?”

“Wal, I named him Blue-Bo,” answered Las Vegas, with a smile.

“Blue-Boy?”

“Nope. He’s named after you. An’ I chased him, roped him, broke him all
myself.”

“Very well. Blue-Bo he is, then.... And he’s a wonderful darling horse.
Oh, Nell, just look at him.... Tom, I can’t thank you enough.”

“Reckon I don’t want any thanks,” drawled the cowboy. “But see heah, Bo,
you shore got to live up to conditions before you ride him.”

“What!” exclaimed Bo, who was startled by his slow, cool, meaning tone,
of voice.

Helen delighted in looking at Las Vegas then. He had never appeared to
better advantage. So cool, careless, and assured! He seemed master of
a situation in which his terms must be accepted. Yet he might have been
actuated by a cowboy motive beyond the power of Helen to divine.

“Bo Rayner,” drawled Las Vegas, “thet blue mustang will be yours, an’
you can ride him--when you’re MRS. TOM CARMICHAEL!”

Never had he spoken a softer, more drawling speech, nor gazed at Bo
more mildly. Roy seemed thunderstruck. Helen endeavored heroically to
restrain her delicious, bursting glee. Bo’s wide eyes stared at her
lover--darkened--dilated. Suddenly she left the mustang to confront the
cowboy where he lounged on the porch steps.

“Do you mean that?” she cried.

“Shore do.”

“Bah! It’s only a magnificent bluff,” she retorted. “You’re only in fun.
It’s your--your darned nerve!”

“Why, Bo,” began Las Vegas, reproachfully. “You shore know I’m not the
four-flusher kind. Never got away with a bluff in my life! An’ I’m jest
in daid earnest aboot this heah.”

All the same, signs were not wanting in his mobile face that he was
almost unable to restrain his mirth.

Helen realized then that Bo saw through the cowboy--that the ultimatum
was only one of his tricks.

“It IS a bluff and I CALL you!” declared Bo, ringingly.

Las Vegas suddenly awoke to consequences. He essayed to speak, but she
was so wonderful then, so white and blazing-eyed, that he was stricken
mute.

“I’ll ride Blue-Bo this afternoon,” deliberately stated the girl.

Las Vegas had wit enough to grasp her meaning, and he seemed about to
collapse.

“Very well, you can make me Mrs. Tom Carmichael to-day--this
morning--just before dinner.... Go get a preacher to marry us--and
make yourself look a more presentable bridegroom--UNLESS IT WAS ONLY A
BLUFF!”

Her imperiousness changed as the tremendous portent of her words seemed
to make Las Vegas a blank, stone image of a man. With a wild-rose color
suffusing her face, she swiftly bent over him, kissed him, and flashed
away into the house. Her laugh pealed back, and it thrilled Helen, so
deep and strange was it for the wilful sister, so wild and merry and
full of joy.

It was then that Roy Beeman recovered from his paralysis, to let out
such a roar of mirth as to frighten the horses. Helen was laughing, and
crying, too, but laughing mostly. Las Vegas Carmichael was a sight for
the gods to behold. Bo’s kiss had unclamped what had bound him. The
sudden truth, undeniable, insupportable, glorious, made him a madman.

“Bluff--she called me--ride Blue-Bo saf’ternoon!” he raved,
reaching wildly for Helen. “Mrs.--Tom--Carmichael--before
dinner--preacher--presentable bridegroom!... Aw! I’m drunk again! I--who
swore off forever!”

“No, Tom, you’re just happy,” said Helen.

Between her and Roy the cowboy was at length persuaded to accept the
situation and to see his wonderful opportunity.

“Now--now, Miss Helen--what’d Bo mean by pre--presentable bridegroom?...
Presents? Lord, I’m clean busted flat!”

“She meant you must dress up in your best, of course,” replied Helen.

“Where ‘n earth will I get a preacher?... Show Down’s forty miles....
Can’t ride there in time.... Roy, I’ve gotta have a preacher.... Life or
death deal fer me.”

“Wal, old man, if you’ll brace up I’ll marry you to Bo,” said Roy, with
his glad grin.

“Aw!” gasped Las Vegas, as if at the coming of a sudden beautiful hope.

“Tom, I’m a preacher,” replied Roy, now earnestly. “You didn’t know
thet, but I am. An’ I can marry you an’ Bo as good as any one, an’
tighter ‘n most.”

Las Vegas reached for his friend as a drowning man might have reached
for solid rock.

“Roy, can you really marry them--with my Bible--and the service of my
church?” asked Helen, a happy hope flushing her face.

“Wal, indeed I can. I’ve married more ‘n one couple whose religion
wasn’t mine.”

“B-b-before--d-d-din-ner!” burst out Las Vegas, like a stuttering idiot.

“I reckon. Come on, now, an’ make yourself pre-senttible,” said Roy.
“Miss Helen, you tell Bo thet it’s all settled.”

He picked up the halter on the blue mustang and turned away toward the
corrals. Las Vegas put the bridle of his horse over his arm, and seemed
to be following in a trance, with his dazed, rapt face held high.

“Bring Dale,” called Helen, softly after them.


So it came about as naturally as it was wonderful that Bo rode the blue
mustang before the afternoon ended.

Las Vegas disobeyed his first orders from Mrs. Tom Carmichael and rode
out after her toward the green-rising range. Helen seemed impelled to
follow. She did not need to ask Dale the second time. They rode swiftly,
but never caught up with Bo and Las Vegas, whose riding resembled their
happiness.

Dale read Helen’s mind, or else his own thoughts were in harmony with
hers, for he always seemed to speak what she was thinking. And as they
rode homeward he asked her in his quiet way if they could not spare a
few days to visit his old camp.

“And take Bo--and Tom? Oh, of all things I’d like to’” she replied.

“Yes--an’ Roy, too,” added Dale, significantly.

“Of course,” said Helen, lightly, as if she had not caught his meaning.
But she turned her eyes away, while her heart thumped disgracefully and
all her body was aglow. “Will Tom and Bo go?”

“It was Tom who got me to ask you,” replied Dale. “John an’ Hal can look
after the men while we’re gone.”

“Oh--so Tom put it in your head? I guess--maybe--I won’t go.”

“It is always in my mind, Nell,” he said, with his slow seriousness.
“I’m goin’ to work all my life for you. But I’ll want to an’ need to go
back to the woods often.... An’ if you ever stoop to marry me--an’ make
me the richest of men--you’ll have to marry me up there where I fell in
love with you.”

“Ah! Did Las Vegas Tom Carmichael say that, too?” inquired Helen,
softly.

“Nell, do you want to know what Las Vegas said?”

“By all means.”

“He said this--an’ not an hour ago. ‘Milt, old hoss, let me give you a
hunch. I’m a man of family now--an’ I’ve been a devil with the wimmen
in my day. I can see through ‘em. Don’t marry Nell Rayner in or near the
house where I killed Beasley. She’d remember. An’ don’t let her remember
thet day. Go off into the woods. Paradise Park! Bo an’ me will go with
you.”

Helen gave him her hand, while they walked the horses homeward in the
long sunset shadows. In the fullness of that happy hour she had time for
a grateful wonder at the keen penetration of the cowboy Carmichael. Dale
had saved her life, but it was Las Vegas who had saved her happiness.


Not many days later, when again the afternoon shadows were slanting low,
Helen rode out upon the promontory where the dim trail zigzagged far
above Paradise Park.

Roy was singing as he drove the pack-burros down the slope; Bo and Las
Vegas were trying to ride the trail two abreast, so they could hold
hands; Dale had dismounted to stand beside Helen’s horse, as she gazed
down the shaggy black slopes to the beautiful wild park with its gray
meadows and shining ribbons of brooks.

It was July, and there were no golden-red glorious flames and blazes of
color such as lingered in Helen’s memory. Black spruce slopes and green
pines and white streaks of aspens and lacy waterfall of foam and dark
outcroppings of rock--these colors and forms greeted her gaze with all
the old enchantment. Wildness, beauty, and loneliness were there, the
same as ever, immutable, like the spirit of those heights.

Helen would fain have lingered longer, but the others called, and Ranger
impatiently snorted his sense of the grass and water far below. And she
knew that when she climbed there again to the wide outlook she would be
another woman.

“Nell, come on,” said Dale, as he led on. “It’s better to look up.”


The sun had just sunk behind the ragged fringe of mountain-rim when
those three strong and efficient men of the open had pitched camp and
had prepared a bountiful supper. Then Roy Beeman took out the little
worn Bible which Helen had given him to use when he married Bo, and as
he opened it a light changed his dark face.

“Come, Helen an’ Dale,” he said.

They arose to stand before him. And he married them there under the
great, stately pines, with the fragrant blue smoke curling upward, and
the wind singing through the branches, while the waterfall murmured its
low, soft, dreamy music, and from the dark slope came the wild, lonely
cry of a wolf, full of the hunger for life and a mate.

“Let us pray,” said Roy, as he closed the Bible, and knelt with them.

“There is only one God, an’ Him I beseech in my humble office for the
woman an’ man I have just wedded in holy bonds. Bless them an’ watch
them an’ keep them through all the comin’ years. Bless the sons of
this strong man of the woods an’ make them like him, with love an’
understandin’ of the source from which life comes. Bless the daughters
of this woman an’ send with them more of her love an’ soul, which must
be the softenin’ an’ the salvation of the hard West. O Lord, blaze the
dim, dark trail for them through the unknown forest of life! O Lord,
lead the way across the naked range of the future no mortal knows! We
ask in Thy name! Amen.”

When the preacher stood up again and raised the couple from their
kneeling posture, it seemed that a grave and solemn personage had left
him. This young man was again the dark-faced, clear-eyed Roy, droll and
dry, with the enigmatic smile on his lips.

“Mrs. Dale,” he said, taking her hands, “I wish you joy.... An’ now,
after this here, my crownin’ service in your behalf--I reckon I’ll claim
a reward.”

Then he kissed her. Bo came next with her warm and loving felicitations,
and the cowboy, with characteristic action, also made at Helen.

“Nell, shore it’s the only chance I’ll ever have to kiss you,” he
drawled. “Because when this heah big Indian once finds out what kissin’
is--!”

Las Vegas then proved how swift and hearty he could be upon occasions.
All this left Helen red and confused and unutterably happy. She
appreciated Dale’s state. His eyes reflected the precious treasure
which manifestly he saw, but realization of ownership had not yet become
demonstrable.

Then with gay speech and happy laugh and silent look these five partook
of the supper. When it was finished Roy made known his intention to
leave. They all protested and coaxed, but to no avail. He only laughed
and went on saddling his horse.

“Roy, please stay,” implored Helen. “The day’s almost ended. You’re
tired.”

“Nope. I’ll never be no third party when there’s only two.”

“But there are four of us.”

“Didn’t I just make you an’ Dale one?... An’, Mrs. Dale, you forget I’ve
been married more ‘n once.”

Helen found herself confronted by an unanswerable side of the argument.
Las Vegas rolled on the grass in his mirth. Dale looked strange.

“Roy, then that’s why you’re so nice,” said Bo, with a little devil in
her eyes. “Do you know I had my mind made up if Tom hadn’t come around I
was going to make up to you, Roy.... I sure was. What number wife would
I have been?”

It always took Bo to turn the tables on anybody. Roy looked mightily
embarrassed. And the laugh was on him. He did not face them again until
he had mounted.

“Las Vegas, I’ve done my best for you--hitched you to thet blue-eyed
girl the best I know how,” he declared. “But I shore ain’t guaranteein’
nothin’. You’d better build a corral for her.”

“Why, Roy, you shore don’t savvy the way to break these wild ones,”
 drawled Las Vegas. “Bo will be eatin’ out of my hand in about a week.”

Bo’s blue eyes expressed an eloquent doubt as to this extraordinary
claim.

“Good-by, friends,” said Roy, and rode away to disappear in the spruces.

Thereupon Bo and Las Vegas forgot Roy, and Dale and Helen, the camp
chores to be done, and everything else except themselves. Helen’s first
wifely duty was to insist that she should and could and would help her
husband with the work of cleaning up after the sumptuous supper. Before
they had finished a sound startled them. It came from Roy, evidently
high on the darkening slope, and was a long, mellow pealing halloo, that
rang on the cool air, burst the dreamy silence, and rapped across
from slope to slope and cliff to cliff, to lose its power and die away
hauntingly in the distant recesses.

Dale shook his head as if he did not care to attempt a reply to that
beautiful call. Silence once again enfolded the park, and twilight
seemed to be born of the air, drifting downward.

“Nell, do you miss anythin’?” asked Dale.

“No. Nothing in all the world,” she murmured. “I am happier than I ever
dared pray to be.”

“I don’t mean people or things. I mean my pets.”

“Ah! I had forgotten.... Milt, where are they?”

“Gone back to the wild,” he said. “They had to live in my absence. An’
I’ve been away long.”

Just then the brooding silence, with its soft murmur of falling water
and faint sigh of wind in the pines, was broken by a piercing scream,
high, quivering, like that of a woman in exquisite agony.

“That’s Tom!” exclaimed Dale.

“Oh--I was so--so frightened!” whispered Helen.

Bo came running, with Las Vegas at her heels.

“Milt, that was your tame cougar,” cried Bo, excitedly. “Oh, I’ll never
forget him! I’ll hear those cries in my dreams!”

“Yes, it was Tom,” said Dale, thoughtfully. “But I never heard him cry
just like that.”

“Oh, call him in!”

Dale whistled and called, but Tom did not come. Then the hunter stalked
off in the gloom to call from different points under the slope. After
a while he returned without the cougar. And at that moment, from far
up the dark ravine, drifted down the same wild cry, only changed by
distance, strange and tragic in its meaning.

“He scented us. He remembers. But he’ll never come back,” said Dale.


Helen felt stirred anew with the convictions of Dale’s deep knowledge of
life and nature. And her imagination seemed to have wings. How full and
perfect her trust, her happiness in the realization that her love and
her future, her children, and perhaps grandchildren, would come under
the guidance of such a man! Only a little had she begun to comprehend
the secrets of good and ill in their relation to the laws of nature.
Ages before men had lived on the earth there had been the creatures of
the wilderness, and the holes of the rocks, and the nests of the trees,
and rain, frost, heat, dew, sunlight and night, storm and calm, the
honey of the wildflower and the instinct of the bee--all the beautiful
and multiple forms of life with their inscrutable design. To know
something of them and to love them was to be close to the kingdom of
earth--perhaps to the greater kingdom of heaven. For whatever breathed
and moved was a part of that creation. The coo of the dove, the lichen
on the mossy rock, the mourn of a hunting wolf, and the murmur of the
waterfall, the ever-green and growing tips of the spruces, and the
thunderbolts along the battlements of the heights--these one and all
must be actuated by the great spirit--that incalculable thing in the
universe which had produced man and soul.

And there in the starlight, under the wide-gnarled pines, sighing low
with the wind, Helen sat with Dale on the old stone that an avalanche
of a million years past had flung from the rampart above to serve as
camp-table and bench for lovers in the wilderness; the sweet scent of
spruce mingled with the fragrance of wood-smoke blown in their faces.
How white the stars, and calm and true! How they blazed their single
task! A coyote yelped off on the south slope, dark now as midnight. A
bit of weathered rock rolled and tapped from shelf to shelf. And the
wind moaned. Helen felt all the sadness and mystery and nobility of this
lonely fastness, and full on her heart rested the supreme consciousness
that all would some day be well with the troubled world beyond.

“Nell, I’ll homestead this park,” said Dale. “Then it’ll always be
ours.”

“Homestead! What’s that?” murmured Helen, dreamily. The word sounded
sweet.

“The government will give land to men who locate an’ build,” replied
Dale. “We’ll run up a log cabin.”

“And come here often.... Paradise Park!” whispered Helen.

Dale’s first kisses were on her lips then, hard and cool and clean, like
the life of the man, singularly exalting to her, completing her woman’s
strange and unutterable joy of the hour, and rendering her mute.

Bo’s melodious laugh, and her voice with its old mockery of torment,
drifted softly on the night breeze. And the cowboy’s “Aw, Bo,” drawling
his reproach and longing, was all that the tranquil, waiting silence
needed.

Paradise Park was living again one of its romances. Love was no stranger
to that lonely fastness. Helen heard in the whisper of the wind through
the pine the old-earth story, beautiful, ever new, and yet eternal.
She thrilled to her depths. The spar-pointed spruces stood up black
and clear against the noble stars. All that vast solitude breathed and
waited, charged full with its secret, ready to reveal itself to her
tremulous soul.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Man of the Forest" ***

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