by Zane Grey
“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 decisi
on 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 R
ayner, 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.”