by Zane Grey
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 Fourteen
When spring came at last and the willows drooped, green and fresh, over the brook and the range rang with brays of burro and whistles 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 2,000. The fine, old rambling ranch house, set like a fort on the last of the foothills, corrals and field and barn 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 mountain-ward, trying to see, with a folly she realized, if the sun 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.
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 rouse 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 the two young firebrands.
Bo reined in the mustang at the porch steps. She wore a buckskin riding suit that 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 a while 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 con fused.
“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, which fact might have been 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 that 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 someone’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 anywhere for all I care. 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.
“Mister Carmichael, may I ask how you are going to prevent me from riding where I like?”
“Wal, if you’re goin’ off locoed this way I’ll keep you offen 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 deadly venomous, “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 that a month back when you changed sudden-like to me. But nothin’ I say to you was 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 that 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 astounded 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 forming a hard line, “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 task 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 enclosure 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 that’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 who 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 that happen. Four or five years ago Beasley rode some greasers off their farms and no one ever knowed if he had a just claim.”
“Beasley has no claim on my property. My uncle solemnly swore that on his deathbed. 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 and effect, as Milt Dorn 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 Dorn an’ John get here in time, I reckon we can bluff that 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 Dorn 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 Dorn…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’ Dorn’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 Dorn’s pard, these many years. I care a powerful sight for you and 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 Dorn’s love had magnified her emotions 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. Men 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 Dorn loved her—to hear it spoken frankly, earnestly by Dorn’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 had been white. The snow was melting fast. Dorn 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, or 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 María, 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, that’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 serious today. Has anything 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 awful 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 that 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 and her sombrero was gone and her hair undone; there was 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.
“Nell, 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 hand, 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.