by Zane Grey
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 today 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. Today 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 int
erest 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. Today 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.