Helen Rayner dropped her knitting into her lap and sat pensively gazing
out of the window over the bare yellow ranges of her uncle's ranch.
The winter day was bright, but steely, and the wind that whipped down
from the white-capped mountains had a keen, frosty edge. A scant snow
lay in protected places; cattle stood bunched in the lee of ridges; low
sheets of dust scurried across the flats.
The big living-room of the ranch-house was warm and comfortable with its
red adobe walls, its huge stone fireplace where cedar logs blazed, and
its many-colored blankets. Bo Rayner sat before the fire, curled up in
an armchair, absorbed in a book. On the floor lay the hound Pedro, his
racy, fine head stretched toward the warmth.
“Did uncle call?” asked Helen, with a start out of her reverie.
“I didn't hear him,” replied Bo.
Helen rose to tiptoe across the floor, and, softly parting some
curtains, she looked into the room where her uncle lay. He was asleep.
Sometimes he called out in his slumbers. For weeks now he had been
confined to his bed, slowly growing weaker. With a sigh Helen returned
to her window-seat and took up her work.
“Bo, the sun is bright,” she said. “The days are growing longer. I'm so
glad.”
“Nell, you're always wishing time away. For me it passes quickly
enough,” replied the sister.
“But I love spring and summer and fall--and I guess I hate winter,”
returned Helen, thoughtfully.
The yellow ranges rolled away up to the black ridges and they in turn
swept up to the cold, white mountains. Helen's gaze seemed to go beyond
that snowy barrier. And Bo's keen eyes studied her sister's earnest, sad
face.
“Nell, do you ever think of Dale?” she queried, suddenly.
The question startled Helen. A slow blush suffused neck and cheek.
“Of course,” she replied, as if surprised that Bo should ask such a
thing.
“I--I shouldn't have asked that,” said Bo, softly, and then bent again
over her book.
Helen gazed tenderly at that bright, bowed head. In this swift-flying,
eventful, busy winter, during which the management of the ranch had
devolved wholly upon Helen, the little sister had grown away from her.
Bo had insisted upon her own free will and she had followed it, to
the amusement of her uncle, to the concern of Helen, to the dismay and
bewilderment of the faithful Mexican housekeeper, and to the undoing of
all the young men on the ranch.
Helen had always been hoping and waiting for a favorable hour in which
she might find this wilful sister once more susceptible to wise and
loving influence. But while she hesitated to speak, slow footsteps and a
jingle of spurs sounded without, and then came a timid knock. Bo looked
up brightly and ran to open the door.
“Oh! It's only--YOU!” she uttered, in withering scorn, to the one who
knocked.
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 to-day
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. To-day 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 interest 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. To-day 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.
There were no Mormons in her employ, for the good reason that
Auchincloss would not hire them. But in one of his kindlier hours,
growing rare now, he had admitted that the Mormons were the best and the
most sober, faithful workers on the ranges, and that his sole objection
to them was just this fact of their superiority. Helen decided to hire
the four Beemans and any of their relatives or friends who would come;
and to do this, if possible, without letting her uncle know. His temper
now, as well as his judgment, was a hindrance to efficiency. This
decision regarding the Beemans; brought Helen back to Carmichael's
fervent wish for Dale, and then to her own.
Soon spring would be at hand, with its multiplicity of range tasks. Dale
had promised to come to Pine then, and Helen knew that promise would be
kept. Her heart beat a little faster, in spite of her business-centered
thoughts. Dale was there, over the black-sloped, snowy-tipped mountain,
shut away from the world. Helen almost envied him. No wonder he loved
loneliness, solitude, the sweet, wild silence and beauty of Paradise
Park! But he was selfish, and Helen meant to show him that. She needed
his help. When she recalled his physical prowess with animals, and
imagined what it must be in relation to men, she actually smiled at the
thought of Beasley forcing her off her property, if Dale were there.
Beasley would only force disaster upon himself. Then Helen experienced
a quick shock. Would Dale answer to this situation as Carmichael had
answered? It afforded her relief to assure herself to the contrary.
The cowboy was one of a blood-letting breed; the hunter was a man of
thought, gentleness, humanity. This situation was one of the kind that
had made him despise the littleness of men. Helen assured herself
that he was different from her uncle and from the cowboy, in all the
relations of life which she had observed while with him. But a doubt
lingered in her mind. She remembered his calm reference to Snake Anson,
and that caused a recurrence of the little shiver Carmichael had given
her. When the doubt augmented to a possibility that she might not be
able to control Dale, then she tried not to think of it any more. It
confused and perplexed her that into her mind should flash a thought
that, though it would be dreadful for Carmichael to kill Beasley, for
Dale to do it would be a calamity--a terrible thing. Helen did not
analyze that strange thought. She was as afraid of it as she was of the
stir in her blood when she visualized Dale.
Her meditation was interrupted by Bo, who entered the room,
rebellious-eyed and very lofty. Her manner changed, which apparently
owed its cause to the fact that Helen was alone.
“Is that--cowboy gone?” she asked.
“Yes. He left quite some time ago,” replied Helen.
“I wondered if he made your eyes shine--your color burn so. Nell, you're
just beautiful.”
“Is my face burning?” asked Helen, with a little laugh. “So it is.
Well, Bo, you've no cause for jealousy. Las Vegas can't be blamed for my
blushes.”
“Jealous! Me? Of that wild-eyed, soft-voiced, two-faced cow-puncher? I
guess not, Nell Rayner. What 'd he say about me?”
“Bo, he said a lot,” replied Helen, reflectively. “I'll tell you
presently. First I want to ask you--has Carmichael ever told you how
he's helped me?”
“No! When I see him--which hasn't been often lately--he--I--Well, we
fight. Nell, has he helped you?”
Helen smiled in faint amusement. She was going to be sincere, but she
meant to keep her word to the cowboy. The fact was that reflection had
acquainted her with her indebtedness to Carmichael.
“Bo, you've been so wild to ride half-broken mustangs--and carry on with
cowboys--and read--and sew--and keep your secrets that you've had no
time for your sister or her troubles.”
“Nell!” burst out Bo, in amaze and pain. She flew to Helen and seized
her hands. “What 're you saying?”
“It's all true,” replied Helen, thrilling and softening. This sweet
sister, once aroused, would be hard to resist. Helen imagined she should
hold to her tone of reproach and severity.
“Sure it's true,” cried Bo, fiercely. “But what's my fooling got to do
with the--the rest you said? Nell, are you keeping things from me?”
“My dear, I never get any encouragement to tell you my troubles.”
“But I've--I've nursed uncle--sat up with him--just the same as you,”
said Bo, with quivering lips.
“Yes, you've been good to him.”
“We've no other troubles, have we, Nell?”
“You haven't, but I have,” responded Helen, reproachfully.
“Why--why didn't you tell me?” cried Bo, passionately. “What are they?
Tell me now. You must think me a--a selfish, hateful cat.”
“Bo, I've had much to worry me--and the worst is yet to come,” replied
Helen. Then she told Bo how complicated and bewildering was the
management of a big ranch--when the owner was ill, testy, defective in
memory, and hard as steel--when he had hoards of gold and notes, but
could not or would not remember his obligations--when the neighbor
ranchers had just claims--when cowboys and sheep-herders were
discontented, and wrangled among themselves--when great herds of cattle
and flocks of sheep had to be fed in winter--when supplies had to be
continually freighted across a muddy desert and lastly, when an enemy
rancher was slowly winning away the best hands with the end in view of
deliberately taking over the property when the owner died. Then Helen
told how she had only that day realized the extent of Carmichael's
advice and help and labor--how, indeed, he had been a brother to
her--how--
But at this juncture Bo buried her face in Helen's breast and began to
cry wildly.
“I--I--don't want--to hear--any more,” she sobbed.
“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.”