by Zane Grey
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 anyone 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 anyone 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 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 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.
