by Zane Grey
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 today. 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 tha
t 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 today—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 anyone 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 anyone 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 Ra
yner. 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.