The Man of the Forest

by Grey, Zane

  "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."

  H
elen 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.