The Man of the Forest

by Zane Grey

  CHAPTER XVI

  Helen Rayner dropped her knitting into her lap and sat pensively gazingout 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 downfrom the white-capped mountains had a keen, frosty edge. A scant snowlay in protected places; cattle stood bunched in the lee of ridges; lowsheets of dust scurried across the flats.

  The big living-room of the ranch-house was warm and comfortable with itsred adobe walls, its huge stone fireplace where cedar logs blazed, andits many-colored blankets. Bo Rayner sat before the fire, curled up inan armchair, absorbed in a book. On the floor lay the hound Pedro, hisracy, 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 somecurtains, she looked into the room where her uncle lay. He was asleep.Sometimes he called out in his slumbers. For weeks now he had beenconfined to his bed, slowly growing weaker. With a sigh Helen returnedto her window-seat and took up her work.

  "Bo, the sun is bright," she said. "The days are growing longer. I'm soglad."

  "Nell, you're always wishing time away. For me it passes quicklyenough," 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 turnswept up to the cold, white mountains. Helen's gaze seemed to go beyondthat snowy barrier. And Bo's keen eyes studied her sister's earnest, sadface.

  "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 athing.

  "I--I shouldn't have asked that," said Bo, softly, and then bent againover her book.

  Helen gazed tenderly at that bright, bowed head. In this swift-flying,eventful, busy winter, during which the management of the ranch haddevolved wholly upon Helen, the little sister had grown away from her.Bo had insisted upon her own free will and she had followed it, tothe amusement of her uncle, to the concern of Helen, to the dismay andbewilderment of the faithful Mexican housekeeper, and to the undoing ofall the young men on the ranch.

  Helen had always been hoping and waiting for a favorable hour in whichshe might find this wilful sister once more susceptible to wise andloving influence. But while she hesitated to speak, slow footsteps and ajingle of spurs sounded without, and then came a timid knock. Bo lookedup brightly and ran to open the door.

  "Oh! It's only--YOU!" she uttered, in withering scorn, to the one whoknocked.

  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," repliedBo, freezingly.

  "Ill! Aw no, now?"

  "It's a fact. If I don't die right off I'll have to be taken back toMissouri," said Bo, casually.

  "Are you goin' to ask me in?" queried Carmichael, bluntly. "It'scold--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'tcome to see you."

  "Indeed! No. But what was strange was the deluded idea I had--that youmeant 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 withhis 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 theonce young, frank, alert, and careless cowboy traits had merged into themaking of a man. Helen knew just how much of a man he really was. He hadbeen her mainstay during all the complex working of the ranch that hadfallen upon her shoulders.

  "Wal, I reckon you was deluded, all right--if you thought I'd crawl likethem other lovers of yours," he said, with cool deliberation.

  Bo turned pale, and her eyes fairly blazed, yet even in what must havebeen her fury Helen saw amaze and pain.

  "OTHER lovers? I think the biggest delusion here is the way you flatteryourself," replied Bo, stingingly.

  "Me flatter myself? Nope. You don't savvy me. I'm shore hatin' myselfthese days."

  "Small wonder. I certainly hate you--with all my heart!"

  At this retort the cowboy dropped his head and did not see Bo flauntherself out of the room. But he heard the door close, and then slowlycame 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 Ilove her," he replied, dejectedly.

  To Helen's first instinct of liking for this cowboy there had been addedadmiration, respect, and a growing appreciation of strong, faithful,developing character. Carmichael's face and hands were red and chappedfrom winter winds; the leather of wrist-bands, belt, and boots was allworn shiny and thin; little streaks of dust fell from him as he breathedheavily. He no longer looked the dashing cowboy, ready for a dance orlark or fight.

  "How in the world did you offend her so?" asked Helen. "Bo is furious. Inever saw her so angry as that."

  "Miss Nell, it was jest this way," began Carmichael. "Shore Bo's knowedI was in love with her. I asked her to marry me an' she wouldn't sayyes or no.... An', mean as it sounds--she never run away from it, thet'sshore. We've had some quarrels--two of them bad, an' this last's theworst."

  "Bo told me about one quarrel," said Helen. "It was--because youdrank--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 comehere. An' I've been drunk only once. Back at Las Vegas the outfit wouldnever believe thet. Wal, I promised Bo I wouldn't do it again, an' I'vekept 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 hishead. "I took her to the dance last week--over in the town-hall. Thet'sthe first time she'd gone anywhere with me. I shore was proud.... Butthet dance was hell. Bo carried on somethin' turrible, an' I--"

  "Tell me. What did she do?" demanded Helen, anxiously. "I'm responsiblefor 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'ttrue 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' actreasonable," rejoined the cowboy. "I don't know how to explain, but thefact is I feel thet Bo has played the--the devil with me an' all theother fellars."

  "You mean she has flirted?"

  "I reckon."

  "Las Vegas, I'm afraid you're right," said Helen, with growingapprehension. "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'veno 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'sright. Wal, he was always hangin' round Bo. An' he stole one of mydances with Bo. I only had three, an' he comes up to say this one washis; Bo, very innocent--oh, she's a cute one!--she says, 'Why, MisterTurner--is it really yours?' An' she looked so full of joy thet when hesays to me, 'Excoose us, friend Carmichael,' I sat there like a locoedjackass an' let them go. But I wasn't mad at thet. He was a betterdancer than me an' I wanted her to have a good time. What started thehell 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'a
way 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 whatI'd love to forget. Then--then, Miss Nell, I grabbed her--it was outsidehere 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 plumbscared--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 wasmuch 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. Istopped drinkin' an' saved my money. Wal, she knows all thet. Once shesaid 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 themadder Bo is at me the more chance I've got. She knows I love her--thetI'd die for her--thet I'm a changed man. An' she knows I never beforethought of darin' to touch her hand. An' she knows she flirted withTurner."

  "She's only a child," replied Helen. "And all this change--the West--thewildness--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 isgold."

  "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 outhere. The West is the West. Any kind of girls are scarce. An' one likeBo--Lord! we cowboys never seen none to compare with her. She'll makebad blood an' some of it will be spilled."

  "Uncle Al encourages her," said Helen, apprehensively. "It tickles himto hear how the boys are after her. Oh, she doesn't tell him. But hehears. 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 wasstrong and elemental, caught in the toils of some power beyond him.

  Yesterday Helen might have hesitated at that question. But to-dayCarmichael brought some proven quality of loyalty, some strange depth ofrugged 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 hehinted at. Some of his ruddy color had gone. "An' now I want to tell youwhy 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 thedoor, then return to her with intent eyes. She sensed events in hislook, and she divined suddenly that he must feel as if he were herbrother.

  "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 calamitiesto mar her management of the ranch--loss of cattle, horses, sheep--thedesertion of herders to Beasley--failure of freighters to arrivewhen most needed--fights among the cowboys--and disagreements overlong-arranged deals.

  "Your uncle Al makes a heap of this here Jeff Mulvey," assertedCarmichael.

  "Yes, indeed. Uncle absolutely relies on Jeff," replied Helen.

  "Wal, I hate to tell you, Miss Nell," said the cowboy, bitterly, "thetMulvey 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' totake 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 alot in the wind lately, as poor old Al grows weaker. Mulvey has beenparticular friendly to me an' I've nursed him along, 'cept I wouldn'tdrink. An' his pards have been particular friends with me, too, morean' more as I loosened up. You see, they was shy of me when I first gothere. To-day the whole deal showed clear to me like a hoof track in softground. Bud Lewis, who's bunked with me, come out an' tried to win meover to Beasley--soon as Auchincloss dies. I palavered with Bud an' Iwanted 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. Hethinks I'll come round."

  "Why--why will these men leave me when--when--Oh, poor uncle! Theybargain 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. Hean' Al was pards once, an' now Beasley has most folks here believin' hegot the short end of thet deal. He'll have papers--shore--an' he'll havemost of the men. So he'll just put you off an' take possession. Thet'sall, 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 Beasleygets on the ground it's settled. What could you do with no men to fightfor 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," repliedCarmichael, soberly. "But there's no way to get him. He's snowed-up tillMay."

  "I dare not confide in uncle," said Helen, with agitation. "The shockmight kill him. Then to tell him of the unfaithfulness of his oldmen--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 wayto 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 seemedcompletely detached now from that frank, amiable cowboy of her firstimpressions. The redness was totally gone from his face. Somethingstrange and cold and sure looked out of his eyes.

  "I seen Beasley go in the saloon as I rode past. Suppose I go downthere, 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'swhat Al would want. An' between you an' me--it would be easier thanropin' a calf. These fellars round Pine don't savvy guns. Now, I comefrom where guns mean somethin'. An' when I tell you I can throw a gunslick an' fast, why I shore ain't braggin'. You needn't worry none aboutme, Miss Nell."

  Helen grasped that he had taken the signs of her shocked sensibilityto mean she feared for his life. But what had sickened her was the mereidea 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--Ican'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'tbelieve I'll be robbed of my property."

  "Wal, supposin' Beasley does put you off--an' takes possession. What 'reyou 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 ifapologizing for them. "An' I reckon it takes time to learn the ways of acountry."

  "West or no West, I won't have fight
s 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. "ButI'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 thrilledand shuddered at what seemed his loyalty to her, his love for Bo, andthat which was inevitable in himself.

  "Reckon you might save us all some trouble--now if you'd--just getmad--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 folkssay nary one of his parents was no good."

  "That doesn't matter. I'm thinking of humanity of law and order. Of whatis 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 mytemper."

  "I'll bet you don't," he retorted. "Mebbe you think you've none of Bo inyou. But I'll bet you could get so mad--once you started--thet you'dbe turrible. What 've you got them eyes for, Miss Nell, if you ain't anAuchincloss?"

  He was smiling, yet he meant every word. Helen felt the truth assomething she feared.

  "Las Vegas, I won't bet. But you--you will always come to me--first--ifthere's trouble."

  "I promise," he replied, soberly, and then went out.

  Helen found that she was trembling, and that there was a commotion inher breast. Carmichael had frightened her. No longer did she hold doubtof the gravity of the situation. She had seen Beasley often, severaltimes close at hand, and once she had been forced to meet him. That timehad convinced her that he had evinced personal interest in her. And onthis account, coupled with the fact that Riggs appeared to have nothingelse to do but shadow her, she had been slow in developing her intentionof organizing and teaching a school for the children of Pine. Riggs hadbecome rather a doubtful celebrity in the settlements. Yet his bold,apparent badness had made its impression. From all reports he spent histime gambling, drinking, and bragging. It was no longer news in Pinewhat his intentions were toward Helen Rayner. Twice he had ridden up tothe ranch-house, upon one occasion securing an interview with Helen. Inspite of her contempt and indifference, he was actually influencing herlife 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. Itcould not be managed, at least by her, in the way Auchincloss wantedit done. He was old, irritable, irrational, and hard. Almost all theneighbors were set against him, and naturally did not take kindly toHelen.

  She had not found the slightest evidence of unfair dealing on the partof her uncle, but he had been a hard driver. Then his shrewd, far-seeingjudgment had made all his deals fortunate for him, which fact had notbrought a profit of friendship.

  Of late, since Auchincloss had grown weaker and less dominating, Helenhad taken many decisions upon herself, with gratifying and hopefulresults. But the wonderful happiness that she had expected to find inthe West still held aloof. The memory of Paradise Park seemed only adream, sweeter and more intangible as time passed, and fuller of vagueregrets. Bo was a comfort, but also a very considerable source ofanxiety. She might have been a help to Helen if she had not assimilatedWestern 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 moreand more upon her own resources, with the cowboy Carmichael the only onewho had come forward voluntarily to her aid.

  For an hour Helen sat alone in the room, looking out of the window, andfacing stern reality with a colder, graver, keener sense of intimacythan ever before. To hold her property and to live her life in thiscommunity according to her ideas of honesty, justice, and law might wellbe beyond her powers. To-day she had been convinced that she could notdo so without fighting for them, and to fight she must have friends.That conviction warmed her toward Carmichael, and a thoughtfulconsideration of all he had done for her proved that she had not fullyappreciated him. She would make up for her oversight.

  There were no Mormons in her employ, for the good reason thatAuchincloss would not hire them. But in one of his kindlier hours,growing rare now, he had admitted that the Mormons were the best and themost sober, faithful workers on the ranges, and that his sole objectionto them was just this fact of their superiority. Helen decided to hirethe four Beemans and any of their relatives or friends who would come;and to do this, if possible, without letting her uncle know. His tempernow, as well as his judgment, was a hindrance to efficiency. Thisdecision regarding the Beemans; brought Helen back to Carmichael'sfervent wish for Dale, and then to her own.

  Soon spring would be at hand, with its multiplicity of range tasks. Dalehad promised to come to Pine then, and Helen knew that promise would bekept. Her heart beat a little faster, in spite of her business-centeredthoughts. Dale was there, over the black-sloped, snowy-tipped mountain,shut away from the world. Helen almost envied him. No wonder he lovedloneliness, solitude, the sweet, wild silence and beauty of ParadisePark! But he was selfish, and Helen meant to show him that. She neededhis help. When she recalled his physical prowess with animals, andimagined what it must be in relation to men, she actually smiled at thethought of Beasley forcing her off her property, if Dale were there.Beasley would only force disaster upon himself. Then Helen experienceda quick shock. Would Dale answer to this situation as Carmichael hadanswered? It afforded her relief to assure herself to the contrary.The cowboy was one of a blood-letting breed; the hunter was a man ofthought, gentleness, humanity. This situation was one of the kind thathad made him despise the littleness of men. Helen assured herselfthat he was different from her uncle and from the cowboy, in all therelations of life which she had observed while with him. But a doubtlingered in her mind. She remembered his calm reference to Snake Anson,and that caused a recurrence of the little shiver Carmichael had givenher. When the doubt augmented to a possibility that she might not beable to control Dale, then she tried not to think of it any more. Itconfused and perplexed her that into her mind should flash a thoughtthat, though it would be dreadful for Carmichael to kill Beasley, forDale to do it would be a calamity--a terrible thing. Helen did notanalyze that strange thought. She was as afraid of it as she was of thestir 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 apparentlyowed 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'rejust 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 myblushes."

  "Jealous! Me? Of that wild-eyed, soft-voiced, two-faced cow-puncher? Iguess not, Nell Rayner. What 'd he say about me?"

  "Bo, he said a lot," replied Helen, reflectively. "I'll tell youpresently. First I want to ask you--has Carmichael ever told you howhe's helped me?"

  "No! When I see him--which hasn't been often lately--he--I--Well, wefight. Nell, has he helped you?"

  Helen smiled in faint amusement. She was going to be sincere, but shemeant to keep her word to the cowboy. The fact was that reflection hadacquainted her with her indebtedness to Carmichael.

  "Bo, you've been so wild to ride half-broken mustangs--and carry on withcowboys--and read--and sew--and keep your secrets that you've had notime for your sister or her troubles."

  "Nell!" burst out Bo, in amaze and pain. She flew to Helen and seizedher hands. "What 're you saying?"

  "It's all true," replied Helen, thrilling and softening. This sweetsister, once aroused, would be hard to resist. Helen imagined she shouldhold to her tone of reproach and severity.

  "S
ure it's true," cried Bo, fiercely. "But what's my fooling got to dowith 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," repliedHelen. Then she told Bo how complicated and bewildering was themanagement of a big ranch--when the owner was ill, testy, defective inmemory, and hard as steel--when he had hoards of gold and notes, butcould not or would not remember his obligations--when the neighborranchers had just claims--when cowboys and sheep-herders werediscontented, and wrangled among themselves--when great herds of cattleand flocks of sheep had to be fed in winter--when supplies had to becontinually freighted across a muddy desert and lastly, when an enemyrancher was slowly winning away the best hands with the end in view ofdeliberately taking over the property when the owner died. Then Helentold how she had only that day realized the extent of Carmichael'sadvice and help and labor--how, indeed, he had been a brother toher--how--

  But at this juncture Bo buried her face in Helen's breast and began tocry 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 toknow 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'sa man, Bo, every inch of him. I've seen him grow up to that in threemonths. 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 morethan you."

  Bo raised her face, flushed in part and also pale, with tear-wet cheeksand the telltale blaze in the blue eyes.

  "I've been wild about that fellow. But I hate him, too," she said, withflashing spirit. "And I want to go on hating him. So don't tell me anymore."

  Whereupon Helen briefly and graphically related how Carmichael hadoffered 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 mingledrage 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. AndI'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 youhave been a sad little flirt."

  "I--I wasn't very bad till--till he got bossy. Why, Nell, heacted--right off--just as if he OWNED me. But he didn't.... And to showhim--I--I really did flirt with that Turner fellow. Then he--he insultedme.... Oh, I hate him!"

  "Nonsense, Bo. You can't hate any one while you love him," protestedHelen.

  "Much you know about that," flashed Bo. "You just can! Look here. Didyou 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 arelike 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 alady--did you ever have a cowboy dive at you with a terrible lunge--grabyou and hold you so you couldn't move or breathe or scream--hug youtill all your bones cracked--and kiss you so fierce and so hard that youwanted 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 toreply.

  "There! I see you never had that done to you," resumed Bo, withsatisfaction. "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 aboutthat--that bearish trick."

  "No. I think that rude and bold. But, Bo, I don't believe he meant tobe either rude or bold. From what he confessed to me I gather that hebelieved he'd lose you outright or win you outright by that violence. Itseems girls can't play at love out here in this wild West. He said therewould be blood shed over you. I begin to realize what he meant. He'snot sorry for what he did. Think how strange that is. For he has theinstincts of a gentleman. He's kind, gentle, chivalrous. Evidently hehad tried every way to win your favor except any familiar advance. Hedid that as a last resort. In my opinion his motives were to force youto accept or refuse him, and in case you refused him he'd always havethose forbidden stolen kisses to assuage his self-respect--when hethought 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'vegot to be honest with yourself. Did that act of his win or lose you? Inother 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 sickI hated him.... But now--the hate is all gone."