On the next morning Helen was awakened by what she imagined had been a
dream of some one shouting. With a start she sat up. The sunshine showed
pink and gold on the ragged spruce line of the mountain rims. Bo was on
her knees, braiding her hair with shaking hands, and at the same time
trying to peep out.
And the echoes of a ringing cry were cracking back from the cliffs. That
had been Dale's voice.
“Nell! Nell! Wake up!” called Bo, wildly. “Oh, some one's come! Horses
and men!”
Helen got to her knees and peered out over Bo's shoulder. Dale, standing
tall and striking beside the campfire, was waving his sombrero. Away
down the open edge of the park came a string of pack-burros with mounted
men behind. In the foremost rider Helen recognized Roy Beeman.
“That first one's Roy!” she exclaimed. “I'd never forget him on a
horse.... Bo, it must mean Uncle Al's come!”
“Sure! We're born lucky. Here we are safe and sound--and all this grand
camp trip.... Look at the cowboys.... LOOK! Oh, maybe this isn't great!”
babbled Bo.
Dale wheeled to see the girls peeping out.
“It's time you're up!” he called. “Your uncle Al is here.”
For an instant after Helen sank back out of Dale's sight she sat there
perfectly motionless, so struck was she by the singular tone of Dale's
voice. She imagined that he regretted what this visiting cavalcade of
horsemen meant--they had come to take her to her ranch in Pine. Helen's
heart suddenly began to beat fast, but thickly, as if muffled within her
breast.
“Hurry now, girls,” called Dale.
Bo was already out, kneeling on the flat stone at the little brook,
splashing water in a great hurry. Helen's hands trembled so that she
could scarcely lace her boots or brush her hair, and she was long behind
Bo in making herself presentable. When Helen stepped out, a short,
powerfully built man in coarse garb and heavy boots stood holding Bo's
hands.
“Wal, wal! You favor the Rayners,” he was saying, “I remember your dad,
an' a fine feller he was.”
Beside them stood Dale and Roy, and beyond was a group of horses and
riders.
“Uncle, here comes Nell,” said Bo, softly.
“Aw!” The old cattle-man breathed hard as he turned.
Helen hurried. She had not expected to remember this uncle, but one look
into the brown, beaming face, with the blue eyes flashing, yet sad, and
she recognized him, at the same instant recalling her mother.
He held out his arms to receive her.
“Nell Auchincloss all over again!” he exclaimed, in deep voice, as he
kissed her. “I'd have knowed you anywhere!”
“Uncle Al!” murmured Helen. “I remember you--though I was only four.”
“Wal, wal,--that's fine,” he replied. “I remember you straddled my knee
once, an' your hair was brighter--an' curly. It ain't neither now....
Sixteen years! An' you're twenty now? What a fine, broad-shouldered girl
you are! An', Nell, you're the handsomest Auchincloss I ever seen!”
Helen found herself blushing, and withdrew her hands from his as Roy
stepped forward to pay his respects. He stood bareheaded, lean and tall,
with neither his clear eyes nor his still face, nor the proffered hand
expressing anything of the proven quality of fidelity, of achievement,
that Helen sensed in him.
“Howdy, Miss Helen? Howdy, Bo?” he said. “You all both look fine an'
brown.... I reckon I was shore slow rustlin' your uncle Al up here. But
I was figgerin' you'd like Milt's camp for a while.”
“We sure did,” replied Bo, archly.
“Aw!” breathed Auchincloss, heavily. “Lemme set down.”
He drew the girls to the rustic seat Dale had built for them under the
big pine.
“Oh, you must be tired! How--how are you?” asked Helen, anxiously.
“Tired! Wal, if I am it's jest this here minit. When Joe Beeman rode
in on me with thet news of you--wal, I jest fergot I was a worn-out old
hoss. Haven't felt so good in years. Mebbe two such young an' pretty
nieces will make a new man of me.”
“Uncle Al, you look strong and well to me,” said Bo. “And young, too,
and--”
“Haw! Haw! Thet 'll do,” interrupted Al. “I see through you. What you'll
do to Uncle Al will be aplenty.... Yes, girls, I'm feelin' fine. But
strange--strange! Mebbe thet's my joy at seein' you safe--safe when I
feared so thet damned greaser Beasley--”
In Helen's grave gaze his face changed swiftly--and all the serried
years of toil and battle and privation showed, with something that was
not age, nor resignation, yet as tragic as both.
“Wal, never mind him--now,” he added, slowly, and the warmer light
returned to his face. “Dale--come here.”
The hunter stepped closer.
“I reckon I owe you more 'n I can ever pay,” said Auchincloss, with an
arm around each niece.
“No, Al, you don't owe me anythin',” returned Dale, thoughtfully, as he
looked away.
“A-huh!” grunted Al. “You hear him, girls.... Now listen, you wild
hunter. An' you girls listen.... Milt, I never thought you much good,
'cept for the wilds. But I reckon I'll have to swallow thet. I do.
Comin' to me as you did--an' after bein' druv off--keepin' your council
an' savin' my girls from thet hold-up, wal, it's the biggest deal any
man ever did for me.... An' I'm ashamed of my hard feelin's, an' here's
my hand.”
“Thanks, Al,” replied Dale, with his fleeting smile, and he met the
proffered hand. “Now, will you be makin' camp here?”
“Wal, no. I'll rest a little, an' you can pack the girls' outfit--then
we'll go. Sure you're goin' with us?”
“I'll call the girls to breakfast,” replied Dale, and he moved away
without answering Auchincloss's query.
Helen divined that Dale did not mean to go down to Pine with them, and
the knowledge gave her a blank feeling of surprise. Had she expected him
to go?
“Come here, Jeff,” called Al, to one of his men.
A short, bow-legged horseman with dusty garb and sun-bleached face
hobbled forth from the group. He was not young, but he had a boyish grin
and bright little eyes. Awkwardly he doffed his slouch sombrero.
“Jeff, shake hands with my nieces,” said Al. “This 's Helen, an' your
boss from now on. An' this 's Bo, fer short. Her name was Nancy, but
when she lay a baby in her cradle I called her Bo-Peep, an' the name's
stuck.... Girls, this here's my foreman, Jeff Mulvey, who's been with me
twenty years.”
The introduction caused embarrassment to all three principals,
particularly to Jeff.
“Jeff, throw the packs an' saddles fer a rest,” was Al's order to his
foreman.
“Nell, reckon you'll have fun bossin' thet outfit,” chuckled Al. “None
of 'em's got a wife. Lot of scalawags they are; no women would have
them!”
“Uncle, I hope I'll never have to be their boss,” replied Helen.
“Wal, you're goin' to be, right off,” declared Al. “They ain't a bad
lot, after all. An' I got a likely new man.”
With that he turned to Bo, and, after studying her pretty face,
he asked, in apparently severe tone, “Did you send a cowboy named
Carmichael to ask me for a job?”
Bo looked quite startled.
“Carmichael! Why, Uncle, I never heard that name before,” replied Bo,
bewilderedly.
“A-huh! Reckoned the young rascal was lyin',” said Auchincloss. “But I
liked the fellar's looks an' so let him stay.”
Then the rancher turned to the group of lounging riders.
“Las Vegas, come here,” he ordered, in a loud voice.
Helen thrilled at sight of a tall, superbly built cowboy reluctantly
detaching himself from the group. He had a red-bronze face, young like a
boy's. Helen recognized it, and the flowing red scarf, and the swinging
gun, and the slow, spur-clinking gait. No other than Bo's Las Vegas
cowboy admirer!
Then Helen flashed a look at Bo, which look gave her a delicious,
almost irresistible desire to laugh. That young lady also recognized the
reluctant individual approaching with flushed and downcast face. Helen
recorded her first experience of Bo's utter discomfiture. Bo turned
white then red as a rose.
“Say, my niece said she never heard of the name Carmichael,” declared
Al, severely, as the cowboy halted before him. Helen knew her uncle had
the repute of dealing hard with his men, but here she was reassured and
pleased at the twinkle in his eye.
“Shore, boss, I can't help thet,” drawled the cowboy. “It's good old
Texas stock.”
He did not appear shamefaced now, but just as cool, easy, clear-eyed,
and lazy as the day Helen had liked his warm young face and intent gaze.
“Texas! You fellars from the Pan Handle are always hollerin' Texas.
I never seen thet Texans had any one else beat--say from Missouri,”
returned Al, testily.
Carmichael maintained a discreet silence, and carefully avoided looking
at the girls.
“Wal, reckon we'll all call you Las Vegas, anyway,” continued the
rancher. “Didn't you say my niece sent you to me for a job?”
Whereupon Carmichael's easy manner vanished.
“Now, boss, shore my memory's pore,” he said. “I only says--”
“Don't tell me thet. My memory's not p-o-r-e,” replied Al, mimicking
the drawl. “What you said was thet my niece would speak a good word for
you.”
Here Carmichael stole a timid glance at Bo, the result of which was
to render him utterly crestfallen. Not improbably he had taken Bo's
expression to mean something it did not, for Helen read it as a mingling
of consternation and fright. Her eyes were big and blazing; a red spot
was growing in each cheek as she gathered strength from his confusion.
“Well, didn't you?” demanded Al.
From the glance the old rancher shot from the cowboy to the others of
his employ it seemed to Helen that they were having fun at Carmichael's
expense.
“Yes, sir, I did,” suddenly replied the cowboy.
“A-huh! All right, here's my niece. Now see thet she speaks the good
word.”
Carmichael looked at Bo and Bo looked at him. Their glances were
strange, wondering, and they grew shy. Bo dropped hers. The cowboy
apparently forgot what had been demanded of him.
Helen put a hand on the old rancher's arm.
“Uncle, what happened was my fault,” she said. “The train stopped at Las
Vegas. This young man saw us at the open window. He must have guessed we
were lonely, homesick girls, getting lost in the West. For he spoke to
us--nice and friendly. He knew of you. And he asked, in what I took
for fun, if we thought you would give him a job. And I replied, just to
tease Bo, that she would surely speak a good word for him.”
“Haw! Haw! So thet's it,” replied Al, and he turned to Bo with merry
eyes. “Wal, I kept this here Las Vegas Carmichael on his say-so. Come on
with your good word, unless you want to see him lose his job.”
Bo did not grasp her uncle's bantering, because she was seriously gazing
at the cowboy. But she had grasped something.
“He--he was the first person--out West--to speak kindly to us,” she
said, facing her uncle.
“Wal, thet's a pretty good word, but it ain't enough,” responded Al.
Subdued laughter came from the listening group. Carmichael shifted from
side to side.
“He--he looks as if he might ride a horse well,” ventured Bo.
“Best hossman I ever seen,” agreed Al, heartily.
“And--and shoot?” added Bo, hopefully.
“Bo, he packs thet gun low, like Jim Wilson an' all them Texas
gun-fighters. Reckon thet ain't no good word.”
“Then--I'll vouch for him,” said Bo, with finality.
“Thet settles it.” Auchincloss turned to the cowboy. “Las Vegas, you're
a stranger to us. But you're welcome to a place in the outfit an' I hope
you won't never disappoint us.”
Auchincloss's tone, passing from jest to earnest, betrayed to Helen the
old rancher's need of new and true men, and hinted of trying days to
come.
Carmichael stood before Bo, sombrero in hand, rolling it round and
round, manifestly bursting with words he could not speak. And the girl
looked very young and sweet with her flushed face and shining eyes.
Helen saw in the moment more than that little by-play of confusion.
“Miss--Miss Rayner--I shore--am obliged,” he stammered, presently.
“You're very welcome,” she replied, softly. “I--I got on the next
train,” he added.
When he said that Bo was looking straight at him, but she seemed not to
have heard.
“What's your name?” suddenly she asked.
“Carmichael.”
“I heard that. But didn't uncle call you Las Vegas?”
“Shore. But it wasn't my fault. Thet cow-punchin' outfit saddled it on
me, right off. They Don't know no better. Shore I jest won't answer to
thet handle.... Now--Miss Bo--my real name is Tom.”
“I simply could not call you--any name but Las Vegas,” replied Bo, very
sweetly.
“But--beggin' your pardon--I--I don't like thet,” blustered Carmichael.
“People often get called names--they don't like,” she said, with deep
intent.
The cowboy blushed scarlet. Helen as well as he got Bo's inference to
that last audacious epithet he had boldly called out as the train was
leaving Las Vegas. She also sensed something of the disaster in store
for Mr. Carmichael. Just then the embarrassed young man was saved by
Dale's call to the girls to come to breakfast.
That meal, the last for Helen in Paradise Park, gave rise to a strange
and inexplicable restraint. She had little to say. Bo was in the highest
spirits, teasing the pets, joking with her uncle and Roy, and even
poking fun at Dale. The hunter seemed somewhat somber. Roy was his usual
dry, genial self. And Auchincloss, who sat near by, was an interested
spectator. When Tom put in an appearance, lounging with his feline grace
into the camp, as if he knew he was a privileged pet, the rancher could
scarcely contain himself.
“Dale, it's thet damn cougar!” he ejaculated.
“Sure, that's Tom.”
“He ought to be corralled or chained. I've no use for cougars,”
protested Al.
“Tom is as tame an' safe as a kitten.”
“A-huh! Wal, you tell thet to the girls if you like. But not me! I'm an
old hoss, I am.”
“Uncle Al, Tom sleeps curled up at the foot of my bed,” said Bo.
“Aw--what?”
“Honest Injun,” she responded. “Well, isn't it so?”
Helen smilingly nodded her corroboration. Then Bo called Tom to her and
made him lie with his head on his stretched paws, right beside her, and
beg for bits to eat.
“Wal! I'd never have believed thet!” exclaimed Al, shaking his big head.
“Dale, it's one on me. I've had them big cats foller me on the trails,
through the woods, moonlight an' dark. An' I've heard 'em let out thet
awful cry. They ain't any wild sound on earth thet can beat a cougar's.
Does this Tom ever let out one of them wails?”
“Sometimes at night,” replied Dale.
“Wal, excuse me. Hope you don't fetch the yaller rascal down to Pine.”
“I won't.”
“What'll you do with this menagerie?”
Dale regarded the rancher attentively. “Reckon, Al, I'll take care of
them.”
“But you're goin' down to my ranch.”
“What for?”
Al scratched his head and gazed perplexedly at the hunter. “Wal, ain't
it customary to visit friends?”
“Thanks, Al. Next time I ride down Pine way--in the spring,
perhaps--I'll run over an' see how you are.”
“Spring!” ejaculated Auchincloss. Then he shook his head sadly and a
far-away look filmed his eyes. “Reckon you'd call some late.”
“Al, you'll get well now. These, girls--now--they'll cure you. Reckon I
never saw you look so good.”
Auchincloss did not press his point farther at that time, but after the
meal, when the other men came to see Dale's camp and pets, Helen's quick
ears caught the renewal of the subject.
“I'm askin' you--will you come?” Auchincloss said, low and eagerly.
“No. I wouldn't fit in down there,” replied Dale.
“Milt, talk sense. You can't go on forever huntin' bear an' tamin'
cats,” protested the old rancher.
“Why not?” asked the hunter, thoughtfully.
Auchincloss stood up and, shaking himself as if to ward off his testy
temper, he put a hand on Dale's arm.
“One reason is you're needed in Pine.”
“How? Who needs me?”
“I do. I'm playin' out fast. An' Beasley's my enemy. The ranch an' all I
got will go to Nell. Thet ranch will have to be run by a man an' HELD
by a man. Do you savvy? It's a big job. An' I'm offerin' to make you my
foreman right now.”
“Al, you sort of take my breath,” replied Dale. “An' I'm sure grateful.
But the fact is, even if I could handle the job, I--I don't believe I'd
want to.”
“Make yourself want to, then. Thet 'd soon come. You'd get interested.
This country will develop. I seen thet years ago. The government is
goin' to chase the Apaches out of here. Soon homesteaders will be
flockin' in. Big future, Dale. You want to get in now. An'--”
Here Auchincloss hesitated, then spoke lower:
“An' take your chance with the girl!... I'll be on your side.”
A slight vibrating start ran over Dale's stalwart form.
“Al--you're plumb dotty!” he exclaimed.
“Dotty! Me? Dotty!” ejaculated Auchincloss. Then he swore. “In a minit
I'll tell you what you are.”
“But, Al, that talk's so--so--like an old fool's.”
“Huh! An' why so?”
“Because that--wonderful girl would never look at me,” Dale replied,
simply.
“I seen her lookin' already,” declared Al, bluntly.
Dale shook his head as if arguing with the old rancher was hopeless.
“Never mind thet,” went on Al. “Mebbe I am a dotty old fool--'specially
for takin' a shine to you. But I say again--will you come down to Pine
and be my foreman?”
“No,” replied Dale.
“Milt, I've no son--an' I'm--afraid of Beasley.” This was uttered in an
agitated whisper.
“Al, you make me ashamed,” said Dale, hoarsely. “I can't come. I've no
nerve.”
“You've no what?”
“Al, I don't know what's wrong with me. But I'm afraid I'd find out if I
came down there.”
“A-huh! It's the girl!”
“I don't know, but I'm afraid so. An' I won't come.”
“Aw yes, you will--”
Helen rose with beating heart and tingling ears, and moved away out of
hearing. She had listened too long to what had not been intended for her
ears, yet she could not be sorry. She walked a few rods along the brook,
out from under the pines, and, standing in the open edge of the park,
she felt the beautiful scene still her agitation. The following
moments, then, were the happiest she had spent in Paradise Park, and the
profoundest of her whole life.
Presently her uncle called her.
“Nell, this here hunter wants to give you thet black hoss. An' I say you
take him.”
“Ranger deserves better care than I can give him,” said Dale. “He runs
free in the woods most of the time. I'd be obliged if she'd have him.
An' the hound, Pedro, too.”
Bo swept a saucy glance from Dale to her sister.
“Sure she'll have Ranger. Just offer him to ME!”
Dale stood there expectantly, holding a blanket in his hand, ready to
saddle the horse. Carmichael walked around Ranger with that appraising
eye so keen in cowboys.
“Las Vegas, do you know anything about horses?” asked Bo.
“Me! Wal, if you ever buy or trade a hoss you shore have me there,”
replied Carmichael.
“What do you think of Ranger?” went on Bo.
“Shore I'd buy him sudden, if I could.”
“Mr. Las Vegas, you're too late,” asserted Helen, as she advanced to lay
a hand on the horse.
“Ranger is mine.”
Dale smoothed out the blanket and, folding it, he threw it over the
horse; and then with one powerful swing he set the saddle in place.
“Thank you very much for him,” said Helen, softly.
“You're welcome, an' I'm sure glad,” responded Dale, and then, after a
few deft, strong pulls at the straps, he continued. “There, he's ready
for you.”
With that he laid an arm over the saddle, and faced Helen as she stood
patting and smoothing Ranger. Helen, strong and calm now, in feminine
possession of her secret and his, as well as her composure, looked
frankly and steadily at Dale. He seemed composed, too, yet the bronze of
his fine face was a trifle pale.
“But I can't thank you--I'll never be able to repay you--for your
service to me and my sister,” said Helen.
“I reckon you needn't try,” Dale returned. “An' my service, as you call
it, has been good for me.”
“Are you going down to Pine with us?”
“No.”
“But you will come soon?”
“Not very soon, I reckon,” he replied, and averted his gaze.
“When?”
“Hardly before spring.”
“Spring?... That is a long time. Won't you come to see me sooner than
that?”
“If I can get down to Pine.”
“You're the first friend I've made in the West,” said Helen, earnestly.
“You'll make many more--an' I reckon soon forget him you called the man
of the forest.”
“I never forget any of my friends. And you've been the--the biggest
friend I ever had.”
“I'll be proud to remember.”
“But will you remember--will you promise to come to Pine?”
“I reckon.”
“Thank you. All's well, then.... My friend, goodby.”
“Good-by,” he said, clasping her hand. His glance was clear, warm,
beautiful, yet it was sad.
Auchincloss's hearty voice broke the spell. Then Helen saw that the
others were mounted. Bo had ridden up close; her face was earnest
and happy and grieved all at once, as she bade good-by to Dale. The
pack-burros were hobbling along toward the green slope. Helen was the
last to mount, but Roy was the last to leave the hunter. Pedro came
reluctantly.
It was a merry, singing train which climbed that brown odorous trail,
under the dark spruces. Helen assuredly was happy, yet a pang abided in
her breast.
She remembered that half-way up the slope there was a turn in the trail
where it came out upon an open bluff. The time seemed long, but at last
she got there. And she checked Ranger so as to have a moment's gaze down
into the park.
It yawned there, a dark-green and bright-gold gulf, asleep under a
westering sun, exquisite, wild, lonesome. Then she saw Dale standing in
the open space between the pines and the spruces. He waved to her. And
she returned the salute.
Roy caught up with her then and halted his horse. He waved his sombrero
to Dale and let out a piercing yell that awoke the sleeping echoes,
splitting strangely from cliff to cliff.
“Shore Milt never knowed what it was to be lonesome,” said Roy, as if
thinking aloud. “But he'll know now.”
Ranger stepped out of his own accord and, turning off the ledge, entered
the spruce forest. Helen lost sight of Paradise Park. For hours then
she rode along a shady, fragrant trail, seeing the beauty of color and
wildness, hearing the murmur and rush and roar of water, but all the
while her mind revolved the sweet and momentous realization which had
thrilled her--that the hunter, this strange man of the forest, so deeply
versed in nature and so unfamiliar with emotion, aloof and simple and
strong like the elements which had developed him, had fallen in love
with her and did not know it.