The Man of the Forest

by Grey, Zane

  "Girls, there's no tellin' what a grizzly will do. If I yell, you climb up in this tree, an' do it quick."

  With that he leveled the rifle, resting his left elbow on his knee. The front end of the rifle, reaching out of the shade, shone silver in the moonlight. Man and weapon became still as stone. Helen held her breath. But Dale relaxed, lowering the barrel.

  "Can't see the sights very well," he whispered, shaking his head. "Remember, now—if I yell you climb!"

  Again he aimed and slowly grew rigid. Helen could not take her fascinated eyes off him. He knelt, bareheaded, and in the shadow she could make out the gleam of his clear-cut profile, stern and cold.

  A streak of fire and a heavy report startled her. Then she heard the bullet hit. Shifting her glance, she saw the bear lurch with convulsive action, rearing on his hind legs. Loud clicking snaps must have been a clashing of his jaws in rage. But there was no other sound. Then again Dale's heavy gun boomed. Helen heard again that singular spatting thud of striking lead. The bear went down with a flop as if he had been dealt a terrific blow. But just as quickly he was up on all-fours and began to whirl with hoarse, savage bawls of agony and fury. His action quickly carried him out of the moonlight into the shadow, where he disappeared. There the bawls gave place to gnashing snarls, and crashings in the brush, and snapping of branches, as he made his way into the forest.

  "Sure he's mad," said Dale, rising to his feet. "An' I reckon hard hit. But I won't follow him to-night."

  Both the girls got up, and Helen found she was shaky on her feet and very cold.

  "Oh-h, wasn't—it—won-wonder-ful!" cried Bo.

  "Are you scared? Your teeth are chatterin'," queried Dale.

  "I'm—cold."

  "Well, it sure is cold, all right," he responded. "Now the fun's over, you'll feel it.... Nell, you're froze, too?"

  Helen nodded. She was, indeed, as cold as she had ever been before. But that did not prevent a strange warmness along her veins and a quickened pulse, the cause of which she did not conjecture.

  "Let's rustle," said Dale, and led the way out of the wood and skirted its edge around to the slope. There they climbed to the flat, and went through the straggling line of trees to where the horses were tethered.

  Up here the wind began to blow, not hard through the forest, but still strong and steady out in the open, and bitterly cold. Dale helped Bo to mount, and then Helen.

  "I'm—numb," she said. "I'll fall off—sure."

  "No. You'll be warm in a jiffy," he replied, "because we'll ride some goin' back. Let Ranger pick the way an' you hang on."

  With Ranger's first jump Helen's blood began to run. Out he shot, his lean, dark head beside Dale's horse. The wild park lay clear and bright in the moonlight, with strange, silvery radiance on the grass. The patches of timber, like spired black islands in a moon-blanched lake, seemed to harbor shadows, and places for bears to hide, ready to spring out. As Helen neared each little grove her pulses shook and her heart beat. Half a mile of rapid riding burned out the cold. And all seemed glorious—the sailing moon, white in a dark-blue sky, the white, passionless stars, so solemn, so far away, the beckoning fringe of forest-land at once mysterious and friendly, and the fleet horses, running with soft, rhythmic thuds over the grass, leaping the ditches and the hollows, making the bitter wind sting and cut. Coming up that park the ride had been long; going back was as short as it was thrilling. In Helen, experiences gathered realization slowly, and it was this swift ride, the horses neck and neck, and all the wildness and beauty, that completed the slow, insidious work of years. The tears of excitement froze on her cheeks and her heart heaved full. All that pertained to this night got into her blood. It was only to feel, to live now, but it could be understood and remembered forever afterward.

  Dale's horse, a little in advance, sailed over a ditch. Ranger made a splendid leap, but he alighted among some grassy tufts and fell. Helen shot over his head. She struck lengthwise, her arms stretched, and slid hard to a shocking impact that stunned her.

  Bo's scream rang in her ears; she felt the wet grass under her face and then the strong hands that lifted her. Dale loomed over her, bending down to look into her face; Bo was clutching her with frantic hands. And Helen could only gasp. Her breast seemed caved in. The need to breathe was torture.

  "Nell!—you're not hurt. You fell light, like a feather. All grass here.... You can't be hurt!" said Dale, sharply.

  His anxious voice penetrated beyond her hearing, and his strong hands went swiftly over her arms and shoulders, feeling for broken bones.

  "Just had the wind knocked out of you," went on Dale. "It feels awful, but it's nothin'."

  Helen got a little air, that was like hot pin-points in her lungs, and then a deeper breath, and then full, gasping respiration.

  "I guess—I'm not hurt—not a bit," she choked out.

  "You sure had a header. Never saw a prettier spill. Ranger doesn't do that often. I reckon we were travelin' too fast. But it was fun, don't you think?"

  It was Bo who answered. "Oh, glorious!... But, gee! I was scared."

  Dale still held Helen's hands. She released them while looking up at him. The moment was realization for her of what for days had been a vague, sweet uncertainty, becoming near and strange, disturbing and present. This accident had been a sudden, violent end to the wonderful ride. But its effect, the knowledge of what had got into her blood, would never change. And inseparable from it was this man of the forest.

  CHAPTER XIV

  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 bante
ring, 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.